Blood Soaked Snow (eBook)

Keith Jarvis jr (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
446 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-113007-4 (ISBN)

Infos

Set in a rural mountain setting far from town, A hostipal has just lost power durning a blizzard. The danger isnt just the weather but outside of the hositpal and the inside. Jonesy a loner and the hositpal janitor has been hidding many sercrets. One of wich he is a vampire. But a very different kind. Through very cuel expirments Jonesy thrist isnt in the blood of man but in narcotics. For decades Jonesy's drug addiction has been at thr for front of everything but tonight is different. Tonight that deranged Doctor he escaped fom years ago has send a pack of monterous killer vampires who right as we speak are breaking into the hostipal for Jonesy.

Textauszug

Chapter 2: The Howling Pack

The first sign was not a sound, not a visual, but a sensation. A plummeting of temperature that had nothing to do with the blizzard raging outside. It was a cold that seeped into the bone, a visceral dread that prickled the skin and tightened the chest. Dr. Alice Sloane, hunched over her desk, felt it before she saw anything. The usual hum of the hospital seemed to falter, the steady rhythm of life support machines wavering as if caught in an invisible current. Outside, the wind howled with a new, unhinged ferocity, but the sound that now cut through the storm was something far more terrifying. It was a screech of tortured metal, a sound of immense force tearing through the reinforced structure of Remington Rehabilitations.

Her eyes snapped to the security monitor. The feed from the main entrance was a chaotic blur of white. Then, a dark mass, impossibly fast, slammed against the reinforced glass doors. The sound, when it came, was a sickening crunch, a violation of the building's integrity that echoed through the sterile halls. The glass, designed to withstand the fury of the elements, spiderwebbed, then imploded inwards with a deafening roar. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the snow. Something – or someone – was breaking in.

 

Through the swirling snow and flying shards of glass, figures emerged. They moved with an unnatural gait, a fluid, predatory grace that was utterly alien. They were cloaked, their forms obscured by the tempest, but it was their faces that sent a fresh wave of ice through Sloane’s veins. Each wore a mask. Not a surgical mask, or a disguise, but something more ancient, more terrifying. They were smooth, featureless, crafted from a material that seemed to absorb the light, rendering their wearers into horrifying specters. There was no individuality, no human expression, only the blank, impassive horror of a void. They were the embodiment of anonymity, of a fear that lacked a name, a face.

 

"What the hell is that?" Nurse Miller, her usual composure fraying, breathed from beside Sloane, her gaze fixed on the monitor. Her hand, steady moments before, now trembled as she reached for a nearby intercom.

 

But before she could speak, the intrusion escalated. The masked figures, moving with terrifying synchronicity, fanned out. Their movements were not clumsy or hesitant; they were swift, precise, like a pack of wolves scenting prey. The sounds of struggle began to erupt from the security desk. A choked cry, the thud of impact, the clatter of dropped equipment. The security guards, armed with standard-issue tasers and batons, were no match for this otherworldly assault.

 

One of the figures, impossibly tall and slender, moved with a speed that defied the eye. It was a blur of motion, a dark silhouette against the blizzard’s white glare. It reached the security desk in an instant, a long, dark object – a blade? – flashing in its hand. The sounds that followed were brutal, primal. A guttural snarl, quickly silenced. Sloane squeezed her eyes shut, a wave of nausea washing over her. This was no random act of violence. This was a deliberate, targeted invasion.

 

"Lockdown! Initiate lockdown protocol!" Sloane’s voice, though strained, cut through the rising panic. Her fingers flew across her console, hitting the emergency lockdown sequence. Heavy steel shutters began to descend, sealing off wings, isolating sections of the hospital. But it was too late. The ‘Pack,’ as the sickening realization dawned on her, had already breached the outer defenses.

 

The unnatural chill intensified, spreading like a contagion. The lights flickered violently, threatening to plunge the corridors into darkness. The comforting hum of the hospital was now a discordant thrum, a prelude to chaos. These weren't just intruders; they were predators. The masks, devoid of any human features, weren't just a disguise; they were a statement. They were stripping away their humanity, revealing something ancient and monstrous beneath. They were vampires. The whispered legends, the hushed tales of creatures that preyed in the night, had materialized in the sterile halls of Remington Rehabilitations.

 

The masked figures flowed through the breached entrance like a viscous tide. Their movements were unnervingly silent, save for the whisper of their cloaks and the occasional, chilling click of something metallic. One of them, its masked face tilted upwards, seemed to inhale the air, a subtle tremor running through its cloaked form. It was the scent of blood, of fear, of the very life force that pulsed within the hospital walls.

 

Another figure, bulkier than the first, moved towards the emergency stairwell, its masked gaze scanning the hallway with an unnerving intensity. It carried no visible weapon, yet its presence was a palpable threat, a coiled spring of violence. Sloane watched, frozen, as it effortlessly kicked open a supply closet door, its movements precise and economical. The contents – bottles of saline, bandages, medical supplies – spilled onto the floor, a minor act of destruction that spoke volumes about their disregard for order, for life.

 

The masks. The masks were the most disturbing element. They erased the individual, transforming them into a unified, terrifying entity. Sloane found herself trying to discern features, to find a hint of recognition, a flicker of humanity behind the blank facades. But there was nothing. Only polished darkness, reflecting the sterile gleam of the hospital lights and the terror in the eyes of any unfortunate soul who caught their gaze. It was like looking into the eyes of death itself.

 

The chilling realization struck her with the force of a physical blow: they weren't just here to cause chaos. They were hunting. The blizzard outside, the lockdown protocols, the isolated nature of the hospital – it was all a perfect hunting ground. They had chosen this place, this night, with chilling precision. The symphony of the storm had been replaced by the overture of a massacre.

 

The masked figures began to converge, their movements no longer a chaotic breach but a coordinated sweep. They moved with a purpose that was terrifying in its clarity. They were not seeking escape, nor were they motivated by simple greed. They were here for something more primal, more sinister. They were here to feed. The hospital, designed as a sanctuary of healing, had become a slaughterhouse.

 

Sloane’s mind raced. The missing narcotics, Jonesy's increasingly erratic behavior – it all coalesced into a horrifying tapestry. Had this been planned? Had Jonesy, in his desperation, opened the door to this unimaginable horror? The thought was almost too much to bear. She looked at Nurse Miller, whose face was ashen. "We need to get to the secure ward," Sloane commanded, her voice regaining a sliver of its professional authority. "The patients in the East Wing… they're the most vulnerable."

 

But as she spoke, a chilling sound echoed from the East Wing corridor – a wet, tearing sound, followed by a stifled scream. It was a sound that would haunt Sloane’s nightmares for years to come. The masked predators were already at work. The psychological drama, the subtle unease that had permeated the hospital, had just erupted into a brutal, visceral fight for survival. The serene facade of Remington Rehabilitations had been shattered, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of a hunt. And they were the prey.

 

The chilling symphony of screams and the metallic scrape of claws against linoleum had become the new soundtrack to Remington Rehabilitations. Dr. Alice Sloane, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, felt the sterile air thicken with a palpable miasma of dread. The lockdown protocol, a futile gesture against such unholy invaders, had only served to partition the terror, trapping victims and hunters within discrete, terrifying zones. The masked figures, now referred to in her mind with the chilling moniker, "The Pack," moved with a disturbing fluidity, a synchronized ballet of death. They were not simply breaking in; they were performing, and the hospital was their stage.

Each masked face, a void of polished obsidian, seemed to absorb the scant emergency lighting, leaving only the impression of inhuman sentinels. They were the antithesis of the healers who usually walked these halls, their presence an inversion of everything Remington stood for. Their movements were impossibly quiet, the whisper of their dark cloaks the only indication of their passage. Yet, with each silent glide, a ripple of primal fear spread through the remaining staff and patients. It was the fear of the hunted, the primal awareness that one was no longer at the top of the food chain. Every shadowed alcove, every closed door, every unopened cabinet now held the potential for a monstrous revelation.

 

Nurse Miller, her knuckles white as she gripped Sloane's arm, pointed a trembling finger towards a security monitor that still flickered erratically. The feed, once a clear window into the hospital's arteries, was now a fractured mosaic of terror. In one frame, a figure – impossibly tall and gaunt, its masked head tilted at an unnatural angle – was cornering a terrified orderly down the South Wing corridor. The orderly, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated horror, scrambled backwards, his movements clumsy and desperate. The Pack member mirrored him, not with haste, but with a chilling, predatory patience. There was no chase, not in the human sense. It was more akin to a spider toying with its ensnared prey....

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 21.12.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-113007-2 / 0001130072
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-113007-4 / 9780001130074