Disclaimer: I do not own Demonata or any of the original ideas, characters or setups, Darren Shan does. I do however own any original concepts which are featured in this fanfic, so please do not steal!
A/N: Oh my God, I am sorry I have been such a lazy bitch recently guys. School started again and I had a million tests chucked at me within a matter of weeks, one of my friends hasn't been well, I've had writers block, cousin had a baby, Christmas shopping too-it's all been a little too much for me to handle so I took a break sorry! I finally got off my ass today and finished it because I only had about 200 more words to go, but for ages I just couldn't find the right ones-finally, it was done. The hardest part to do was Linzer's flashback-because I've never been to a slaughterhouse, so I had to make up what I imagined based off research. And yep-this chapter isn't an Esther POV, it's her alternate counterpart, Lindsay 'Linzer' Hogan's. I did this so you could get to know her a little better. And besides, I made some funny little A Nightmare on Elm Street, references with my characters Rick and Debbie who I based off Part 4's characters-right down to their looks! For some reason, I ship Rick/Debbie, but hey, I've shipped weirder! Again, I am so sorry, but I hope you enjoy!
All the blood in my body had rushed to my head as I crouched behind one of the science classrooms bench-style desks; my knees knocked furiously together and my breath was coming out in unstable, tremendous gasps as I attempted to suck in too much air in a much too short time span. Sweat was beginning to form in large, sticky patches on my back; causing not only my bra, but my entire school shirt to stick to the clammy skin, the perspiration acting like a natural glue which caused the fabric to cling desperately to my back. Hugging my knees up to my chest, I numbed any possible sobs which could've leapt out of my dry throat. This was the end, I wasn't stupid and I could tell this was the end of my fifteen years on the planet; I wasn't sick or in an accident or even murdered, I was going to be eaten alive by zombies-the most painful way to go imaginable.
Maybe that counted as murder, but in the way the world had turned, I wasn't surprised that 'Death By Zombie' might be a regular occurrence on morgue records in the next matter of hours, days, weeks, maybe even months, possibly even years. Running off from my friends was a stupid idea-I knew it was, but I also knew I'd be cursing my way to Heaven-if He let me enter. The edges of my skirt had slid up, exposing some of my pale thigh to a non-existent audience; if today had been a normal day and that had happened, my response would've been furiously pulling my skirt down and hoping none of my mates noticed, but today wasn't a 'normal day' as I called it.
Zombies had fucking invaded the school, everyone was being picked off one by one, and now I'd practically offered myself up-like a lamb to the slaughter. As odd as it sounds, I can connect slightly with Clarice Starling, the main protagonist of Thomas Harris' critically acclaimed book. Growing up, I'd never lived with my parents since the age of two; they were marine biologists, who spent most of their time off the coastlines of Australia, and had decided that with all the venomous, hungry, dangerous animals which inhabit the continent, they'd deemed it unsuitable for me and my elder sister-especially because they'd be forced to leave me alone for prolonged periods of time. When I was two and Hazel, my elder sister by three years, was five; they'd sent us away to live with our maternal aunt and uncle who owned a farm on the outskirts of London-with the closest schools putting me in automatic contact with the likes of Becky 'B' Smith, Antony 'Kray' Kraven, Susan 'Suze' Asterby and Trevor 'Trev' Pate.
Every morning I'd have the forty-five minute drive from the farm to my secondary school, Allston Comprehensive, which was formerly taken with my Auntie Meredith; this was before my sister got her driving licence aged seventeen and began taking me, dropping me off before making her way down to Allston College where she was doing fashion. My sister didn't really want to do fashion, she'd have much rather been doing the modelling; but she often got modelling work courtesy of local photographers, which meant her dream might seem a little more real than just a hopeless fantasy. I could understand why my sister got modelling work though; taller than me, about 5'10", with a wonderful, swimsuit model figure, long dark brown curls and almost violet-grey eyes in such a beautiful, almost magical, sense. And her face was naturally perfect-totally beautiful with all even, matched features and a certain poise to her. People stared at Hazel when she went out, and she enjoyed the attention; she was beautiful, and she was completely aware of that.
It was arguable that my sister and I were closer than most same gender siblings; we often got along, were into the same music, same fashion, and had similar friendship groups-just consisting of different people of different ages. Then again, there was the other thing which had bought us closer. Our Uncle Colin and Aunt Meredith owned a farm which mainly produced one thing: meat. That meat made everything about my life shaped differently-my life revolved around the deaths of animals, the bloodshed, and the countless slaughter just to feed the ever growing population. And then, of course, there was that day. The day which changed everything regarding my time on my maternal families' farm.
The earth had become dry and dusty over the hot summer which marked my turning between five and six, whilst my elder sister had finally begun to move on from her Barbie faze and into her hair, makeup and clothing faze which would later consume her life. I'd been shocked at the sudden change in temperature, totally unaware that somewhere as usually cold as England could get so hot-but I figured anything was capable these days. My uncle, being of 'farming stock' or whatever, had decided that today would be the day that I was to learn what our family farm did with most of its animals. Before that day, I'd simply assumed we shipped them all off to new farms-how naively wrong I was.
"Now Lindsay," I remember him telling me. "Your Aunt Merrie and I have decided your old enough to be shown what our farm does with 45% of the animals we don't need so I'm going to be taking you to the slaughter house."
At the time I'd had no idea what the word 'slaughter' meant, only hearing it mentioned by the likes of my parents whilst discussing creatures like saltwater crocodiles. They obviously hadn't told me what saltwater crocodiles enjoyed doing to human beings and I'd actually assumed it meant something like "communicating with" or "playing with"-as phenomenally retarded as that sounds. So, when my Uncle Colin told me that I was going to go and see the 'slaughter house' for the first time, I used that hypothesis and was surprisingly excited regarding this fact because I assumed I was going to the 'animals' playhouse' or whatever. Sometimes I really manage to surprise myself regarding how so-called "intelligent" I grew up to be.
So, aged almost six, I went trailing down the dusty track located in between walls of cornfields following my tall, broad shoulder uncle, with his thick thatch of golden blonde hair tied back into a ponytail. My aunt and uncle didn't want children of their own-but oddly enough they loved having me and Hazel round. Part of me's always figured it was because they knew we'd eventually be returned to our parents-and we were due on being so a couple of weeks after the fateful day the zombies attacked my school-incredibly ironic.
Another odd thing that was my aunt had originally been planning to become a university lecturer-specializing in the field of sociology. My aunt, Meredith McCoy, was the older sister to my mother-Lucinda 'Lucy' Hogan, who'd ironically been the one wishing to thrive out of life. My mum and aunt had actually grown up in New Zeeland, with my grandfather after my grandparents had divorced when mum was seven and Aunt Meredith was eleven. My granddad, Elton Lyle, remarried my step-grandmother, Catherine Lyle, producing my technical half-aunt-Aurora Campbell. Then, when she was sixteen and my mum was twelve, the family immigrated over to England, where my aunt met Colin McCoy. They went out for about four years before deciding to get married age twenty-resulting in the situation I was in on that burning hot day.
My older sister was busy doing her schoolwork back at the house, but I'd had nothing to do being in Year One at primary school, so I'd accepted the invite to venture out to the slaughter house. As we'd got closer, I'd noticed how the building seemed to be made out of corrugated metal and all of the windows were blacked out. I simply assumed the animals didn't like bright sunlight, and continued on, blissfully unaware. My aunt and uncles farm was about ten acres, meaning they had a lot of space to graze their animals and tend to all their crops-explaining why they were so mobile most days. Unlike the rest of the farm, this 'house' wasn't surrounded by metal fencing and I couldn't see any animals grazing on the lush masses of green grass outside. There was just a large truck located outside, although it was vacant and I could tell this was a transport van which drove outwards, even at my incredibly young age.
The outer shell of the slaughterhouse was practically bleached white, almost glowing in the sunlight which harshly beat down from the sky above. My long, dark hair had been twisted into a ponytail and it lightly slapped against my back as I walked; the floral patterns of my shirt which lay underneath my denim pinafore made me look almost like a 'traditional farm child', but I'd never be able to pass myself off as Uncle Colin and Aunt Meredith's daughter. My uncle was blonde, tall and burly-standing at an impressive 6'3", with muscles as broad as an oxes. His eyes were a slightly watered down blue, and his facial features were overall incredibly masculine, with stubble peppering his strong jawline. My Aunt Meredith was significantly smaller than him, the way my mum was smaller than my dad, but she was even shorter than mum at about 5'4"-almost an entire foot taller than my uncle. Slim figured and tanned-just like Uncle Colin-from spending lots of time in the sun, with her short-cut straight hazel coloured hair and warm green eyes-I didn't look like her either really.
Hazel and I had inherited the tall gene from our dad-Jamie Hogan-but mum was pretty good sized considering how short our aunt had turned out. She was 5'8", an inch taller than myself, and four inches taller than her big sister. Both Hazel and I had inherited her dark brown, bistre brown I think the colour pallet says which she let grown out unlike my aunt but it was straight as a plank of wood. Hazel also got her violet-grey coloured eyes and heart-shaped face-with a slim jawline and rosebud lips. I'd only got her slim jawline and straight nose. Dad was tall, 6'2"-an inch smaller than Uncle Colin, with the pale skin Hazel and I got. Auburn brown hair which was corkscrew curled and a 'devils smile' as mum called it-he was attractive based off the photos I was privy to. Slender, although he did have some muscle, with glasses actually-laid over the hazel eyes with that hint of blue I'd always had.
Sometimes I liked to wonder what Aunt Meredith and Uncle Colin's kids would look like, but I never really settled on one particular model. I always decided they'd be tall and tanned though-that was the one thing which naturally stayed the same. Oddly enough, a little while before I'd begun Year 10, they had decided to have a child-despite being in their mid-thirties by that point. By the time I was cowering in that godforsaken classroom, assured of my own death; my younger cousin, Mollie, was born. She'd come out blonde and green eyed, so I figured she'd turn out a 'mix', unlike me and Hazel who apparently reminded people more of one specific parent. She took after mum, I took after dad.
Approaching the slaughter house, my uncle put on a pair of old, incredibly worn looking gloves which had the tiniest traces of blood splatter at the ends, which at the time I attributed to red paint. He handed me a pair of worn gloves, which scratched at my hands and I didn't really like them that much, but I didn't complain for reasons of being polite and all. Despite having not lived with my parents for over a year, I still treated my aunt and uncle with the upmost of respect regardless.
I was so wrapped up in my own hatred of the gloves causing irritating tickles to my skin every time they brushed it, even if I so much as twitched my pinkie finger; that I barely noticed the coppery smell which was leaking out of the 'house', like an overbearing, vile perfume. Maybe my five year old mind couldn't recognize the smell I'd barely come into contact with, or maybe I was just blocking it out with my incredible mind power-I'm still not sure-but all I know is, I didn't get the warning signs that should've rung. Everything in the atmosphere reeked of death once I look back, but at the time I just didn't understand. My parents weren't big fans of me knowing everything there was about death at the age of five, so I'd been somewhat more sheltered than a lot of my friends; it was probably a good thing I'd experienced the psychological scarring which took place that day though, or I'd have spiralled down into a full on mental breakdown the day the zombies attacked our school.
As my Uncle Colin pushed the door open, and I stepped inside, I stumbled slightly at the lack of lighting, courtesy of the blacked out windows. Thinking back, I would've been thankful if the lights were left turned off, but at the time I didn't know that and waited patiently for my uncle to flip the switch would illuminate the room in the blinding light which usually filled every corner. My uncle flipped the switch, the lights went on, and Hell was literally revealed to me.
After my eyes adjusted to the blinding white glint which had poured down from the lighting above, I stared about the room before me, obviously unaware of the horrors which I was about to see. The walls were plastered with white tiling which was gaudily stained red, the white laminated floor was stained red, but what was worse was the shiny metal hooks that hung down from the ceiling like hang men's nooses. Or…It was the things at the ends of the hooks which were the worst. Swinging gently in the breeze which had been let inside from the freshly opened door, were dozens of pig and sheep carcass' which dangled from the hooks like hanged men to go with the hook-nooses. They'd been slit from groin to throat, with their crimson insides exposed for me to see; the worn, slightly yellowed bones were on display for all to see and the organs had been removed. But it was their eyes that shook me to the core and caused me to freak out.
Those glassy, still open, unblinking, soulless eyes which looked right through me were pleading in my opinion, begging to be given a second chance at life, wishing they weren't born as animals and were instead the humans which killed, gutted, cooked and ate them. My eyes widened like a children's cartoon, bulging out of my sockets, my hands ascended to the sides of my face and I could literally feel the blood rush out of my skin, letting my skin pale even further and my mouth flew open. It was dry as wheat toast, but I couldn't stop the sound from rushing out like a fire alarm going off. My scream echoed around the slaughterhouse and my uncle had to pick me up as I screamed and fought like a demon had possessed me.
I wriggled and writhed hopelessly in his arms, squirming and shrieking, trying to prize his grip off me so I could expel the horrific image of the poor, helpless animals swaying like tried criminals in the summer wind out of my brain. My hands and arms flew in all directions as I closed my eyes and screamed; my hair flew out around my face, the ponytail slapping against anything it came into contact with in my terrified rage. I scrunched my eyes so tight my lids were burning with the amount of pressure I was attempting to force upon them to close. My mouth was in a round 'o' shape as I screeched like a cat whose tail had just been trod on and my throat burned for five days after the event.
Yanking the door open and pulling me outside as I fought back violently, the sun burst onto my skin as my uncle hauled me down the road, slamming the door shut behind us. I screamed just until we'd almost reached the house before suddenly falling unnaturally silent and simply keeping my eyes scrunched shut, not wanting to open them; fearing that horrific stench of blood, the sound of the chains rattling gently in the light breeze, the sight of the dead animals swaying to the breeze like synchronized dancers. According to my sister, I kept my eyes shut for an extra two hours that day, curled underneath my covers, wishing the horrific imagery of dead animals out of my head.
I never dared venture near my aunt and uncles slaughterhouse after that day, deliberately avoiding it at all costs, desperately wishing it out of existence. My memory jogged the incident when I heard mum and dad were returning to England, thinking back to the fact if I'd gone with them, I would've never seen that horrific image. Of course, it's childish, immature and ridiculous; blaming my parents on the fact I had to be educated on one of life's natural facts, but I needed someone or something to blame, and my parents were in the natural firing line of my fury and shame-not being able to handle the true implications of seeing those bodies hanging there.
Only one of my friends would ever know the true reason why I'd been a vegetarian or 'veggie', as long as they'd known me. Trev. Oddly enough, Trev was the most understanding member of our gang if you thought about it, despite being a guy and not supposed to understand 'those feeling things' as Elephant had once called them. B, despite being a girl, would probably have given me a 'you're so pathetic look'; Suze would've over-sympathized to the point of being patronizing; La Lips wouldn't have got it; and the likes of Kray were well out of the question-he'd never let me live it down ('scared of a few pre-packaged pork chops, Linz?'). Then again, he had a thing for a psychic girl with no sense of humour, so he couldn't talk weird.
Wrapping myself up in my past made me relax regarding my own upcoming death, ignoring the fact I'd condemned myself to what I assumed was certain 'doom' as all the cliché movies loved to say. Part of me wondered whether I could attempt to make a run for it but I shot the idea down as quickly as I conjured it up; the hallways would be packed to the brim with zombies, meaning I'd just end up running into one…Although part of me wondered why they hadn't burst through the door yet. I'd been crouched behind the desk for at least six or seven minutes, so why hadn't they converted or ate me yet? Not like I wanted it, but I wanted my life to end quickly.
Ironically, I might add, that was when the door slammed open and I screamed, jumping instinctively to my feet, but there was nowhere to run after a quick survey of the room…Not like I needed to once I looked at the doorway.
And I thought the 80's was dead, was the first thought which came into my mind. Clearly not. I noted, staring at the girl standing in the open doorway. Her hair wasn't poofed out around her head like you'd expect; ironically it was quite the opposite. It was dirty blonde coloured, although could look light brown in particular lighting, and hung down straightened and silky just below her chest; her eyes were a bright blue colour, like misty skies, but they were a little faded. Her skin was peachy with a slightly pink tinge around her lips, and her face was beautiful, if not slightly rounded-although her snubbed nose and naturally champagne lips evened that out. Her outfit on the other hand, was straight up eighties time warp. Heavy black leather jacket, black cropped top which exposed her flat, toned stomach, and a black skirt with hot pink sides came down just past her thighs. She had a black pair of combat boots on her feet and she grinned when she saw me.
"Hey Rick, I think I've found her!" The eighties' girl announced, and the sound of feet pounding on the corridors floor made me release this girl probably had something to do with the fact no zombies had eaten me. A couple of seconds after she'd shouted, a boy appeared at the door, gently pushing past her. His getup was similarly eighties themed and they made a matching couple.
His black hair was gelled to the extreme, making his hair positively bullet proof by my standards; his skin was paler than his possible girlfriend's, making the darkness of his black hair and almost ebony colouring of his eyes clash with the papery whiteness his skin seemed to practically glow off. He was tall and slender, about 5'11", whilst the girl seemed about 5'9", meaning she looked tall next to him; his figure was all lanky and wiry, meaning he lacked muscle tone, but he had an air of power about him. He wore a long, black overcoat although it wasn't made out of leather, with a red check shirt and white t-shirt underneath it; a pair of black pants and black converses to finish off his eighties based outfit. "Looks like you have," he grinned, kissing the girl's cheek-a definite boyfriend-girlfriend situation. The boy must be Rick I figured. "Any questions?" The boy asked, directing the question at me, not his girlfriend.
"Why are you both so eighties themed?" Was the first thing I asked them. No big, dramatic, ground breaking style questioning from me, just asking them about their outfit choices.
"Because we're from the eighties," Rick said, shrugging as if that was normal but my eyes must've bulged again like they did on my trip to my aunt and uncle's slaughterhouse, because neither of them could've been any older than seventeen. "I'm Rick Johnson," he gestured to himself. "And this is my girlfriend, Debbie Stevens." Pink and black dressed Debbie gave me a little wave before glaring at her boyfriend.
"Idiot!" She snapped. "Don't you remember she isn't from our universe?" Debbie gently smacked Rick on the side of the head before walking over to me, and I knew I must've been looking totally bewildered. What did she mean 'not from our universe'? "Look," Debbie said quickly, holding up her hands as if she was trying to make a peaceful gesture. "I know this is probably majorly confusing for you, but now isn't the time for either Rick or myself to be answering your questions. And most importantly, no, we cannot save any of your friends from their fates or else we'll be in so much trouble you won't be able to comprehend it. Now come on!" She said confidently, grabbing hold of my wrist and dragging me out of the classroom.
Each and every corridor Rick walked past, whilst I was dragged past via Debbie, was painted with large, ugly splodges of unfortunate victims' blood. "Ignore it," Rick said, as if he knew what my response would be. "Now isn't the time to panic either." I tried to remain calm, and managed it the best I could, blocking out the blood and gore like I had the days after my slaughterhouse trauma had ceased. I didn't talk to either of them, because Debbie and Rick both seemed consumed in keeping watch for zombies, and it wasn't long until we came across a group.
A gaggle of students, Year 9's I estimated, were huddled at the end of a hallway, glowering moodily, keeping their wild, paranoid eyes on us and snarling hungrily. But before they'd even took three paces forwards, Rick's hand shot out and without even speaking a word, a large bolt of searingly hot blue flame flew from his palm like he'd chucked a tennis ball or something, and hit the boy in the lead. The fire spread hungrily, consuming each of the zombified children as if it were literally eating them, curling over their bodies and spreading from one to the next as they flailed around madly. The horrid stench of burning flesh filled my nostrils and I was lucky not to faint on the spot; Debbie yanked me on and I was surprised I didn't pull her down as my legs were like blocks of concrete beneath me, but she was stronger than she looked.
"How do you do it?" I managed to croak as she powered on, kicking each set of double doors open with her foot as Rick raced ahead, probably to burn more of the zombies in our paths.
"I weight lift," she said simply; for a few brief seconds I thought she was joking, but I quickly realised she wasn't by the sudden seriousness of her tone. "Keeps me strong and means I'm not constantly relying on magic all of the time," after seeing Rick play human barbeque with zombie teenagers, I didn't question Debbie's declaration of her own magical abilities. "But Rick's more into the whole magic side, I prefer straight up normal fighting. Y'know what I mean?"
"Yes." I knew all too well; years of seeing B, Kray and Vinyl get into fights whilst I somewhat cringed in embarrassment had educated me in the art of fighting-at least being a spectator. Having tough friends was good for the better half of life, but sometimes their abilities to pick random fights and flat out bully people made me ashamed internally. Kray could be somewhat excused due to his mother's alcoholism and drug addiction, as for B and her racist dad, and Vinyl for taking slack for being a black guy, but the others didn't really have an excuse; that was why I commonly went off with Trev and Elephant who weren't interested in picking petty fights, but weren't totally boy obsessed like Suze and La Lips.
Don't get me wrong, I like boys just as much as the next heterosexual girl does, I just don't always understand how some women seem to shape their lives around finding, attracting and keeping a man. Besides, I'm not 'up for anything' like La Lips; I'm not a badass like B; and I don't have a to-die-for-boob-size-yet-staying-slim figure like Suze, so I'm kind of bland compared to my female pals. The only distinction I possess is my intelligence, but at a dump school like this, who values brains?
Thinking of my friends made me turn my head backwards, but a sharp tug on my hand pulled me back around on the account of Debbie. "Don't think about running back now," she said sharply-bitterly honest, although there was an empathic undertone to her voice. "You know running back now would be suicide, so don't bother risking it for a bunch of people who are probably dead."
Although eighties Debbie was being brutally honest to the point of making me want to cry, I knew she was right; if I ran and tried to save my probably dead friends, I'd have not only stopped my chances of life, but also screwed up all the effort and work Debbie and Rick must've put into saving me from zombies. And judging by the amount of fuss they were making, I seemed oddly important to the grand scale of whoever they were working for. As I headed down several flights of stairs, I noticed there was a lack of bodies, and simply gaudy crimson stains smeared across the blue carpet. "We burned the bodies," Debbie said, like she could read my mind, which I didn't doubt. "To stop any of them coming back as zombies."
"Makes sense…" I muttered as I was hauled downstairs by a girl who only stood two inches taller than me, but had a serious amount of hidden muscle. Looking down at my wrist, I realised the slight plastic feeling digging into my wrist were Debbie's flamingo pink acrylic false nails, which complemented the hot pink sides of her tight skirt. "Uh…I know you said not to ask, but did you and Rick really mean it when you said you were born in the eighties…Or were you kidding?" I asked, uncharacteristically worried she'd snap at me. Normally I wouldn't be frightened, but there was something so commandingly powerful about Debbie, I couldn't help it.
"We mean it," she said as she led me down the final flight of stairs and pushed her way through the set of double doors which led to the ground floor. "Where we're from…Time works differently," she told me. "I was born on the 9th of February 1971; so I'd be forty two if I were still aging." She said it airily, like this was normal as Rick raced down the corridor, in front of Debbie and her power walking. "But I've been fighting demons, zombies, werewolves and god knows what else for twenty five years!" She turned around and grinned at me as we came to the doors which lead outside.
"Twenty five years?" I asked, partially astonished, but partially accepting of this. "Don't you have kids or anything then?"
"Yes," Debbie told me, and I found that even stranger; Debbie looked no older than seventeen and she probably had children who were older than me. "Daniel's eight and Rose's six." She told me, like this was a normal thing to tell someone, and I figured it was for her. "They don't do this though!" She added, almost sounding nervous at that note-like I'd assume she was a bad mother or something along those lines. "I'd never let them do something this dangerous till they were at least sixteen." She told me and I nodded, as she pushed open the doors and led me outside.
A large, glowing portal stood before us, shimmering like a glassy mirror in the bright sunlight. I could hear shrieking in the distance but I was zoning out, eyes transfixed on the glittering, rounded object which pulsated and shimmered before us. "What about Ned and Quinn?" Rick asked from his position standing next to it.
"Quinn said she, Ned and their lot had some stuff to do first," Debbie answered. "She told us to go straight through once we'd found Lindsay Hogan," she grinned at me as I felt myself stare, still slightly in disbelief they'd been sent to collect me in particular. "Now come on!" Eighties Debbie grinned, leading me towards the…There was no other word for it-dimension portal-before us, still holding onto my wrist but she'd gently placed on hand on my shoulder as we stopped before it. "Go on through then!" She laughed slightly, "I promise I won't just vanish the second you step through like it's some weirdass dream! Come on then!" She practically yelled, as she dragged me closer towards the portal. "Let's go!"