Part One is Here

Jackson – Thursday: Plague Day

His belly hurt. It was like he’d eaten an entire carton of ice cream and one of the bitch’s dodgy curries. The thought of his girlfriend made his eyes water. He rolled onto his side and tears streamed down his face. He’d called her a bitch! He shouted at her and screamed and threatened. How had he done that? How had he done all those terrible things?

He rolled onto his front and pulled his knees up, forehead pressing into the concrete. His throat was like sandpaper and he coughed, retching and choking. He could feel them, their little hands clawing at his mouth, their feet shoving and kicking as they went down.

His throat was blocked for a moment and he wrapped his hands around it, gasping for breath. His vision began to blur and he rocked back and forth, trying to dislodge them. Some tiny part of his brain, the part not overwhelmed by terror, told him there was nothing there. It had to shout, but it was good at it and suddenly he could breathe again.

They were gone. Were they inside him? He lifted his head off the pavement and looked at his stomach. It wasn’t swollen or bloated. In fact, the only thing that remained was his aching belly and sore throat. How had he done that to all those children?

Tears came again and he sobbed and coughed. Finally he sat up and crossed himself. He hadn’t done that since he left home, since mam threw him out. She’d always crossed herself, often right before she took the belt to him.

‘My son, you’ve brought shame to us again. I pray to the lord for salvation for your soul. Now grab the door handle and keep your mouth shut.’

Wham wham wham and no sit down for the rest of the week. He hated mam. Had hated mam. He remembered the funeral well, the looks of disdain from his brothers and the warmth he felt as she was lowered into the ground. Now he thought of all the love she’d given him, the teachings and the faith. It took a minute or two before he ran out of memories and he crossed himself for the entire 120 seconds.

He stood and stretched, his sleeves sliding up his arms as he reached for the sky. His tattoos sprang into sight and he groaned and shook his head. What was he thinking? He’d scarred himself. He chuckled and shook his head. Scarring on the outside meant nothing compared to what was burned into his soul. What he had done could never be washed away.

His only hope was to balance up the scales and find some way to become useful to mankind. He would still go to hell, but perhaps he could buy himself onto the higher levels. Nodding righteously, he strolled into the park and took a deep breath. It was beautiful here, so beautiful tears sprang into his eyes.

It felt good to cry. It had been too long. To think he’d been ashamed of it before now. He needed to get home and see Maria. She deserved so much better than him and he needed to tell her that and help her understand how amazing she was. He bit his lip as it wobbled. How had he ever called her all those terrible things?

His belly ached, but it was nothing compared to the hurt in his heart.

He heard sirens and ducked his head. Instinct, driven so deep he wasn’t even aware of it, making him glance around for a good spot to hide. The sirens were numerous enough to make him more curious than scared so he jogged across to the entrance to the park to see what was happening. As he reached it, four pig cars went past at a serious lick. He flushed as he caught himself thinking of them as pigs. When had he ever believed that was an acceptable way to speak about the police?

They were followed by ambulances and he watched them past and out of sight. They were heading for Oxford Circus. Maybe something big was going on. Something stirred inside, an old habit of taking opportunities when they arose. He walked through the gate and set off at a steady jog after the police cars.

The sirens weren’t stopping and another two cars hammered past. They were going faster than they were supposed to in the city. In this second group, the ambulances out-numbered the police cars. He heard something else as well, the distant but unmistakable sound of screaming. His heart jumped. It was a sound that made him feel at once queasy and oddly excited. It stirred things he recognised all too well and shoved down as quickly as he could.

He stepped up the pace, pleased for the hours in the gym. It had nothing to do with staring at the gym-bunny’s tight arses and everything to do with keeping fit. He flushed and put his head down. His ears were burning as more memories flooded back. He tried to remember exactly where he’d been in the interim, but all he could picture were the children’s faces. That and the feel of boots against the inside of his throat. Which was ridiculous, of course, but he still put a hand against his neck each time the feeling grew strong.

His feet brought him to Trafalgar square and he stopped dead, bending over as he struggled for breath. It wasn’t the running that had him gasping, but what lay before him. The square was covered in bodies, tourists and suits alike. They were lying as though they’d been frozen in time, hands held out before them, grasping and eager.

The nearest body provided no clues as to what had happened. He couldn’t find a pulse and his own heart rate sped up. The skin was dry and cold and the limbs were stiff. He backed away. Something terrible had afflicted them, something evil and rotten. He put his hands together and glanced heavenward.

But God wouldn’t help him. He was a sinner of the worst kind. Asking God for help now was an insult. It was up to him to help himself and others. He set off through the square. The screams were coming from the river and he looked down Charing Cross road to see crowds of people running, fleeing like rats from a burning building.

The road up to Leicester Square was just the same as here. The ground was littered with bodies and not a soul moved. The screams were growing fainter and he caught a glimpse of how it would be in a day or two. There was absolute silence, save the sound of his laboured breathing. London was doomed. So why was he still here?

He dashed for the river. He had to find someone else alive. He was half way down when he heard the rumble of trucks and glanced behind. They were coming his way and he split to the hotel that ran all the way down the right hand side. Jackson crouched in the doorway, hands shaking. He wasn’t a scaredy-cat but there was no way anyone driving that thing was here for fun and hugs.

The first truck roared past his hiding place, all armoured plating and wheels taller than he was. He caught sight of a gas-masked figure peering out the back, then the next one came and another. The fourth truck carried a container rather than people and smoke jetted from a nozzle on top of it.

So that’s what had happened. An invasion. Some goddamn terrorists had invaded and were poisoning them. How had they got into the capital? Was the Queen dead? His fists clenched and he stared at the truck, looking for some sort of marking. Surely those Al-kyeeda bastards would want everyone to know who done it?

But the trucks were blank, painted a city-war grey and bearing blacked-out windows. He waited till they’d gone past before he straightened and stretched. He still shook and broke into a walk in the hope it might stop it. He reached the river, still following the screams, in time to see the trucks go over Waterloo bridge.

All the way down the north side of the river, bodies were scattered like flowers after a funeral.

Next Installment Thursday 28th August

Part One is Here

Luke – Wednesday: 8 Days to Plague Day

He left Shitsville early next morning. The wasp man was still in the pub, face blemished with tiny red spots and pulse slow. Luke glanced at him as he walked out the front door. The place was empty, the barman having fled when his third local collapsed screaming. Luke spent the night lounging by the fire and flicking through the TV channels.

He stomped down the road far enough to find a car and knocked on the door of the house. An elderly gentleman opened it and, after a short discussion in which the words ‘snap’ and ‘neck’ were used liberally, he handed over his car keys with shaking hands. Luke slipped behind the wheel of the Micra, glanced with amusement at the small cross hanging from the rear view and pulled away.

He hadn’t driven in… he hadn’t ever driven, but he knew the theory. It took him until the first junction to get it sorted and from there he drove as fast as possible toward London. The inevitable blue lights led to a brief stop on the hard shoulder of the M3.

‘Excuse me, sir, are you aware of the speed limit on the motorway?’

‘Actually, no. This is my first time.’

‘First time on a motorway, sir?’

‘First time driving. How was I doing?’

‘Well, you were doing 120 in a 70, which means I’m afraid this is your first and also your last time driving. Could you step out of the vehicle please?’

Luke glanced at the wheel and then in the rear view at the BMW covered in blue and yellow signage. Their car would be even faster. And much classier. Actually, police cars weren’t classy, but certainly cooler than a Micra. Anything was cooler than a Micra. With a shrug he stepped out of the car.

The passing traffic pulled at his hair and he shifted from foot to foot. His wings itched horribly but the Father had been clear on that. No powers, no flying. Then again, he’d already disobeyed the first part. But there was something wonderful about doing things the human way. Everything here was rich and lush. Saving the human race felt like a small deal compared with the fun he’d already had. Speaking of which…

‘Officer, I’m sorry, but I’m going to need your car.’

The policeman raised an eyebrow and gestured. The man sat behind the steering wheel of their cruiser opened his door and moved to join them.

‘Hey, Steve, this gentleman needs our car.’ He said it with a smile on his face, the sort Luke had seen too often selling flowers. It was the sort of look that was accompanied by the belief that the smiler was in some way superior. It was perfect. Luke leaned closer, lowering his voice so it was almost stolen by the roar of the traffic.

‘Tell me, officers, what are your worst fears?’

The smiler went pale and his mouth dropped open. He screamed and ran. Unfortunately, he had forgotten where he was and dashed straight into the path of an oncoming HGV. The sound was somewhere between dropping a watermelon and squirting the last bit of ketchup out the bottle. Luke blinked as a spatter of blood caught his shoes.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. He grinned, ignoring the quiet voice, deep inside that cried out in distress. He just had to think, what would Az think about this? The smile widened. How about Seph? He shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line and turned to the other policeman.

He was naked, his clothes piled neatly on the tarmac. He was stood five feet away from the pile and firing a tazer repeatedly at them. Luke was tempted to go deeper and find out what was so scary about them. Instead, he took the long way around him and jumped into the cruiser. After the Micra, it felt like the cockpit to a space shuttle and he grinned as he flicked switches and played with things.

Not a great deal happened, so he pulled around the officer and put his foot down. The lorry had pulled into the hard shoulder, pieces of the policeman attached to the front bumper. Wincing, Luke pulled away. He needed to be careful. Or did he? He wasn’t sure. This felt natural, more natural than what he’d spent the last few centuries doing. This was the real him, wasn’t it?

Too many questions. Boring ones at that. He was enjoying the experience, but the sooner he could find Alex and convince him of the error of his ways, the sooner he could get back to the Flights and his cosy chamber and his flowers. Life was far simpler there, even if it wasn’t strictly life. And Sara was there.

The M3 cut through the M25 and soon he could see the landmarks that brought a sense of homecoming to him, far stronger than he’d expected. He drove right in until he hit the river. Then he parked the cruiser on Waterloo bridge and walked until he came to his spot. It was empty and he felt the absence of his stall in the eyes of the passers-by.

Many of them had no idea what had been there, but they felt it anyway. But some of them, the workers and regulars, knew what to expect and struggled with the space. Change is difficult, always so difficult, and it’s sometimes the little things, the things taken for granted that, when gone, have the biggest impact.

He needed to find Alex. He studied at the University of Westminster, but the lab in which he did his research was close by. The Universities in England had a remarkably unrecognised stranglehold over property, particularly here in the city. There were all these pockets and bolt holes owned by random educational establishments.

The one in which Alex worked was part of Temple, a place close to Luke’s heart. Anywhere that practiced secret and creepy belief systems was fine by him. Anything that stuck the finger up at the Father had to be a positive. He pushed through the gate and let the traffic sweep him along. It was quieter in here than out by the river, but there were enough people for him to fade until he reached the lab.

He slipped away, down a tiny alley and pushed through the door. The red brick and green lawns outside changed abruptly to the white tiles and linoleum of the laboratory. Alex was here, humming to himself as he bustled about. This was going to be easy. There was no way it would be this easy.

Alex glanced up, saw him and backed away, shaking his head. ‘It’s you. What are you doing here? I’ve made my decision, we’re keeping the baby, there won’t be any problems.’

‘See, it’s funny. Because you say that, but I have it on good authority that you’re still pushing ahead with your experiments.’

Alex shook his head, still backing away until he bumped against the wall. ‘I’m not, really. I’ve changed the thrust of my research. I’m working on a cure for chemical weapons. I sold it to the university this morning.’ He frowned. ‘Well, I sold the idea. They haven’t given me any money yet, but I’m sure they will.’

Luke stared at him. He couldn’t be telling the truth, because where would the problem be? Why was he here? Then again, the problem was thirty years away, so maybe nothing Alex did here made any difference. Perhaps a change of tack was needed.

‘You’re sure you want to keep the baby?’

‘Huh? I mean, what the hell? How can you ask me that? Of course I do, after what you showed me. I mean, I can’t really remember what you showed me, but I know I have to keep it, him.’

‘Even though you’ve changed your research. Don’t you think that will be enough?’

‘I don’t bloody know, this was your idea.’

Luke smiled as Alex’s voice rose. For a smart man, he was as unconfident as they came. He just wanted to be led around. Did his girlfriend know that yet? Luke smiled reassuringly. ‘Well, I think your change in study would probably be enough. You might want to have another chat to your girlfriend, just to be certain. You could do amazing things here, if you didn’t have a child.’

He almost felt bad as Alex’s face crumpled and he dumped his notepad on the table. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?’

‘My only interest is the safety of the human race.’

‘Yeah, well, my interest is my sanity, so go away. Please.’

It would have to do for now. He could work on him over time. He had plenty of it. He headed for the door and was about to leave when he spotted something written on a piece of paper by the door. He pulled it out and read the entire thing.

MOD/MI6 fhurng/rg/234 

Full gagging and secrecy order

Dear Alex

Thank you for your recent efforts in support of our nation’s continuing security. As discussed in our meeting, this is your copy of the secrecy agreement you signed. 

May I take this opportunity to remind you that any attempts to break this order, or share any information pertaining to the contribution you have made, will result in severe and immediate sanctions upon both yourself and any you hold dear.

Thank you again. 

Sincerely

There was no signature. Luke held it up and turned back to Alex. The man watched him, sickly smile on his face.

We’ve got a cover variant on this post. Once again, I’d really appreciate any thoughts you might have. Cheers.

Next Installment Monday 25th August

Part One is Here

Bayleigh – Thursday: Plague Day

It happened right outside. Of all the things she remembered from that day and all the dark ones that followed, the moment that it happened was stuck foremost in her memory. But seeing it happen to Layla was what woke her, for years afterward, from nightmares that remained when she opened her eyes.

Thursday morning and the early lunch time rush was in full swing. They were both worked off their feet, the easy back and forth of their morning conversation entirely absent. They’d been talking about dreams. Not the sleeping kind, but the things you looked forward to. She hadn’t talked about them to anyone, not for longer than she could remember.

It still felt like a betrayal of dad to even think about them, but she couldn’t help it. Every morning she woke up and set off for his room only to stop when she reached the landing and the open door. The room was empty, the bed no longer bearing bars and the corners bare of their rubber strips. And every morning she’d cry for a bit and go to breakfast with the biggest sense of confusion and a smile on her face.

But times like this were nice. This was why she’d opened the shop, for the easy banter over the counter and the methodical, caring making. Every sandwich was a miniature creation, put together with love and thought and every smile she received was payment that made it all worth while. She shook her head, handing over a mozzarella and tomato.

She thought too much. She always had. She needed to just enjoy herself, to relax and be in the moment. Layla nudged her in the back and nodded at the front door. Ali stood there, his flour-coated clothes absent. He strolled in, round the queue and to the end of the counter.

‘Morning.’

‘Hey, Ali.’ Layla’s bright, innuendo-ripe tones filled the shop and made Bayleigh wince.

‘Hi.’ She managed, blushing into a ploughmans with extra mayo. Ali gave her a grin and folded his arms, watching the coming and going like a local at a pub. He’d become a local now, appearing every day once his deliveries were done to chat and make his interest in her plain.

She loved it.

She handed over the ploughmans and glanced up. The queue was still out the door and she ran her eyes over the fresh stuff. They should have enough, but it always got close. It was the only way to turn a profit. She caught something out the corner of her eye and paused.

Two enormous trucks pulled up on the other side of the street, painted a uniform shade of slate grey and military-looking. They had stopped on the double yellows and were already causing chaos behind them. The back door of the rear one opened and a number of soldiers jumped out. She thought they were soldiers. They wore uniforms in the same dull colour of the trucks, but they had gas masks on and huge helmets covered in netting.

They were part-Vietnam war, part-Star Wars and they made her shiver. Goosebumps ran up and down her arms and her stomach turned over. Other people in the shop had noticed them as well and the entire queue turned to watch. She blinked and returned to her customer but his back was to her, staring with the rest.

She put her knife down and joined them, walking down the counter to peer out through the front window. Layla joined her.

‘What are they? Creep me out.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ Without knowing why, she slipped her hand into Layla’s. More soldiers poured from the other truck until twenty of them stood in a circle. Another truck pulled up, smaller and bearing a cylinder the size of a washing machine. The soldiers surrounded it, facing outward. They carried guns and it was that, more than anything, that made her take a step back away from the window.

A man dressed in white, with a shaved head and sunglasses above his gas mask, stepped from the smaller truck. He strode around to the side of it and pressed buttons set into the cylinder. The hissing sound was audible inside the shop and she watched as thick dark smoke jetted up into the London sky. The man turned away from the truck, putting his hands behind his back as he joined the ranks of soldiers.

Bayleigh’s mouth filled with bile. She didn’t understand what she was watching, but still her stomach rebelled and her instinct screamed at her to run. Layla gripped her arm so hard she pulled it away, hissing.

‘Sorry, Bay, what are they doing?’

‘I don’t know. I think we should leave.’

‘Where we going?’

Bayleigh turned away from the window. ‘Don’t know, just away.’ She froze as the first scream reached her. She turned back to the window, not wanting to but unable to resist. A man had fallen over and lay face down on the ground before the soldiers. His body was tense, his arms holding him up as though he’d got rigour-mortis. But he wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead.

She realised she’d picked up the knife again and dropped it. The clang as it bounced off the counter was loud in the shop and everyone jumped and turned. Then chaos erupted. Customers streamed into the street, shouting and shoving and in moments the place was empty save the two of them and Ali.

His face was pale, his usual confident grin very much absent. Bayleigh couldn’t take her eyes off the street. More people were dropping now. Some ran and just looked like they tripped. Others were standing and didn’t fall over immediately, just wobbled until someone else caught them. Then they went down like broken statues.

Every person who fell was rigid, hands curled up like claws and arms crooked as though they were pretending to be velociraptors. She saw one of her regulars approach the truck and start speaking to the man with his hands behind his back. One of the soldiers stepped out of line and smashed the butt of his gun into her customer’s face.

He dropped to one knee and she watched dumbfounded as blood streamed from his mouth onto the floor. It was almost scarier than the smoke billowing up; the casual violence with no cause and no comeback was so abrupt. What followed was just as shocking. The soldier drove his boot into the man’s throat and he fell to the floor, gripping his shattered windpipe as his life fled.

Bayleigh clapped a hand over her mouth. Finally, she was galvanised into action and headed out the back followed closely by the other two. The back door opened onto a dark alleyway empty of people. They ran out and headed to the end. The street was in pandemonium; tourists, office workers, students and everyone else running in all directions. She stopped short at the exit of the alley.

A Chinese man raced past, camera jiggling about in one hand. He stopped as he drew level with her and put his free hand to his throat. He coughed, once, and hit the pavement face down. She saw his hands curl, as though he got angry as he lay there. She knelt beside him and put her hand on his shoulder

She pulled it away, gasping at the heat. He was burning up and she took a step away, blowing on her hand. Ali came to stand beside her and nudged the body with his foot. It was stiff, moving as though he’d pushed a piece of wood. She looked up at him, but the sight of his pale face and flushed cheeks was too unnerving and she looked quickly away.

As her gaze wandered back across the street, she heard Ali cough. Her hands grabbed his as they turned to stare at one another. He coughed again and doubled over and she screamed as he dragged her to the floor. His hands curled within hers, the nails digging into her palms. Her knees struck the concrete and the scream cut off abruptly.

Then Ali fell face first to the concrete, hard and unyielding.

You may have noticed a new picture on this blog post. This is the current idea for the book cover when 13 Roses is released. What do you think? Do you like it? Would you change anything? Any comments would be greatly appreciated. Thanks 🙂

Next Installment Thursday 21st August

Part One is Here

David – Thursday: Plague Day

Something was different. He could hear something. He rolled over, scratching at the side of his head. He scratched a lot these days, which probably came from not showering for a few weeks. He’d scratched his scalp raw and his fingers came away with blood and hair under the nails. It should probably hurt, but he felt nothing.

There it was again. A shuffling skritch skritch.

Sound.

It ran through him like he’d been dropped into an ice-cold bath and every hair on his body stood on end. Sound meant he wasn’t alone. Or it meant the wind was blowing. It wouldn’t be the first time since he came here he’d thought he heard someone.

But something was different. He could smell it, a scent new to his desolate corner of the city.

David pushed himself up from his bed of concrete and slouched out from under the bridge. The Thames was sluggish this morning, moving like children on the way to school. He stopped to stare at it, keeping his eyes from the empty streets and empty buildings that surrounded him.

As he had done every morning, he tried to remember. He remembered finding a rose on his bedside table. He remembered looking down at Amber and shaking his head, then sneaking from the house and off to work. He met up with Steph at lunch and they banged like bunny rabbits. She loved the rose. Apparently one red rose was romantic, where twelve were cheesy and thoughtless. Eleven days of complete isolation still hadn’t given him the answer to why that was, but it didn’t matter, he’d got it right.

After that, he remembered nothing. He’d left her flat and the world had gone, or at least, the world that included other people. He’d rushed back to hers but she was gone along with everyone else.

He tried to kill himself in the first few days. He’d stood on the railing of the millennium bridge and readied himself to jump. But he couldn’t. He’d headed into Boots and filled his hand with painkillers and all sorts from the pharmacy. But he couldn’t put them in his mouth.

After the first few attempts he’d given up. Things… slipped. His mind didn’t work like it used to and he struggled to remember anything. His name was Dave, not David. He worked making greetings cards for… the company name was gone. Along with his mother’s face and his first girlfriend. Holes appearing like loose threads on his favourite t-shirt.

Sleeping outside had just happened. The trains weren’t running and he couldn’t sleep in a deserted building anyway. He felt less alone outside, for all the sense that made. He wondered how long it would be before he went mad.

Now though, he wondered what the sound was and where it was coming from. Because he’d just heard it again and it wasn’t the wind. He turned from the Thames and the world clicked back into focus. It was like being at the opticians when he was trying out different lenses. ‘Now, is it better with this, or with this.’ The optician had just slipped a different lense in and placed a layer over the world, a layer with people.

He screamed, the sound thin and unrecognisable to his desperately starved ears. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the looks he got from people passing by.

He wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t alone.

He stopped the loop by biting his tongue. He bit a little too hard and blood filled his mouth. He wasn’t alone. His filthy hands clutched the jacket of a woman rushing past. From the way she stared, he looked even worse than he felt, but she had seen him. And he could see her. He smiled, tears streaming clean tracks through the filth caked on his cheeks.

He got to his feet and stumbled away down Embankment. He got more looks and people stepped from his path. As well they should. He’d seen hell and returned. He was grinning like a madman by the time he reached the quay. He would take a ride on the ferry and drink in the city.

He had a hand on the gate when he stopped. What if they all went away? What if he was out there on the water and they all went away again? He’d be stranded. He turned away from the gate, shoving his shaking hands into his pockets.

What if they all went away?

What if they all went away?

What if they all went away?

What if they all went away?

Enough. He thumped his head with the palm of his hand and found a bench. He sat, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. The sounds washed over him and he struggled to breath. It was like the sea, soft but relentless. He needed peace and quiet and instead the noise came from everywhere, beating and beating at him.

He put his hands over his ears and moaned in his chest. Then another sound, one far louder than the murmuring of humanity cut through. Sirens. And not just one, but many. He joined the flock in turning this way and that in an attempt to be less ignorant.

Blue flashing lights appeared over by… what was the name of the bridge? He’d known them all, not so long ago. They drew closer, powering down the side of the river until they reached him. The noise was terrible, piercing his soul as they stuck and stabbed at him.

They flashed past one at a time and he counted them. He stumbled when he reached seven. Was it nine next? It felt wrong but he couldn’t remember what it was supposed to be. He did remember that nine or more police cars all heading for the same event was a pretty big deal though. He watched them down to the Houses of Parliament until the lights faded from sight.

A few minutes later, ambulances followed the path made by the police and there were just as many. He was half tempted to follow them. He wasn’t the only one. Here and there people wearing frowns that only half-masked their curiosity were heading in that direction with that half-run, half-walk that was supposed to look both dignified and sporty and failed at both.

With a shrug, he returned to his bench and stared out over the river. He knew what he could do. He dug through his pockets. He’d forgotten he got this a few days ago, but deep in one of his jacket pockets he found headphones wrapped around an ipod. Slipping them into his ears, he thumbed the play button and the scream of Thursday singing Rapture drowned out the incessant battering of the rest of the world.

Next Installment Monday 18th August