Blood Crazy Read Online Free PDF

into the car nearly rocked me off as they fought for their share of the obliteration.
    That’s what it was. Like a jilted bride tearing up the photograph of her ex. They were shredding my best friend to the tiniest pieces they could.
    I jumped from the car and ran.
    I stopped when I could go no further. I’d reached the top of the multi-storey car park after running up the ramps that linked the concrete decks.
    Within twenty minutes my heart had slowed to near normal. I looked out over Doncaster. In the sunlight it looked pretty much like it always did. St George’s Church looking like a Gothic wedding cake beside the art college. Railway tracks gleamed like snail trails. No trains ran. North Bridge spanned tracks, canal and river completely deserted.
    From here I could see the streets, shops, shopping mall. The silent pattern of changing traffic lights. Red, amber, green.
    The place was normal. It wasn’t mad. No one was mad.
    That’s it. It was me who was mad. Me, Nick Aten.
    Or maybe Slatter – it had to be that twat Slatter – had spiked my beer last night with acid. I was hallucinating.
    For Chrissakes, Aten. Snap out of it. Get the stuff out of your system. Eat. Drink. Piss it from your body.
    The thoughts scrambled across the grooves of my brain. Nothing clear connected. I just hung onto the idea I’d been drugged. Taking a deep breath I walked down the ramps back into town.
    It was people-free.
    I walked the streets. Not knowing where I was going, just hoping the effects of whatever had been dropped in my drink would wear off. Once I saw kids sleeping in a doorway. Only I knew deep down they weren’t sleeping because of the way they lay, arms and legs stretched out.
    As I neared McDonald’s I slowed down. There was movement behind the counter. I passed the expanse of plate glass, trying not to appear too interested in what was happening.
    Normality was happening. Two teenage girls in uniform stacked burgers in the hot trays. One reached over to lift out a basket of fries and shake them onto the drain tray. I could smell heaven.
    I walked through the door.
    Inside it smelt even better. Mobiles advertising kids’ specials with a Ronald McDonald toy hung from the ceiling, turning slowly.
    â€˜Can I take your order, sir?’ The girl’s bright smile was a shot of pure antidote. The world was nice and normal again.
    â€˜Big Mac
, please.’ I pulled out the money.
    â€˜Would you like fries with that, sir?’
    â€˜Please.’
    â€˜Would you like a drink with your meal, sir?’
    â€˜A large coke … Thanks.’
    Then I didn’t look at her clean smile, I looked into her eyes.
    It was the worst mistake I could have made. Behind the smiling face were the eyes of a frightened little girl. In that one second of eye contact we communicated more deeply than if we’d sat round a table and talked for an hour.
    It was all true. The nightmare was reality. There was blood on the tarmac. Teenagers lay dead in their beds, chewed to pieces by mum and dad in the night. She’d seen it, too.
    She snapped off to punch the till presets. I handed her the money but kept my eyes down on the tray.
    â€˜Thank you – enjoy your meal.’
    The other girl watched me hard from behind the burger racks. She was waiting for me to say, ‘What the hell are we doing? There’s genocide out there. Why are we pretending nothing’s happened?’
    The only person you can really lie well to is you.
    McDonald’s was deserted apart from its two teenage staff. It seemed normal, civilized. I wanted it to stay that way. I took the tray upstairs to eat in what could have been a film set of heaven with its marble columns, flowers, vines and sense of tranquillity.
    After I’d finished I automatically dumped my rubbish in the bins and went to the toilet. The men’s door opened only a few inches. Something soft blocked it. I pushed hard and looked down.