Part One is Here

Krystal – Thursday: Plague Day

She was oddly warm. And she could smell something that wasn’t her. She woke and stared at the blackness, trying to work out what she was looking at. It was only when he stirred and his hair stirred with him that she realised it was Ed’s head. Her arm was wrapped around his waist and she could feel his body pressed against hers.

Her breathing quickened and she couldn’t decide why. They’d fallen asleep on different bunks, so nothing funny happened. Had she climbed in with him or vice versa? She was pretty confident he’d made the move and if she could just start breathing again, it probably wouldn’t be that bad, or that big a deal. They’d spent every second of the last two weeks together.

It was part of the deal. He didn’t kill his rapist and they hung out. And actually, it wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. Once he was over the whole ‘I want to die, I want my mummy’ thing, he became surprisingly good company. And having someone to talk to was better than she’d expected.

He smelled pretty good, now that he was washing. There was something faintly Indian about his scent but maybe that was just from the tint of his skin. His eyes reminded her of an Indian girl she’d gone to school with, big and brown and soulful. He had long lashes that guarded his thoughts and distracted her just as she was asking the important questions.

Not that there were any important questions. The big ones were ‘how are we going to eat’ and ‘where are we going to sleep?’ Beyond that it was all details. But now they were lying in the same bed and her boobs were crushed against his back and her nose was tickled by his long dark hair and she was far more comfortable than she should be. Or wanted to be. This was dangerous.

She extricated herself and climbed over him, thankful for once he was a deep sleeper. They were on the bottom bunk and she felt a strange flush of relief that he had climbed in with her. It was easier to push away when she’d not done anything. She sneaked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Krystal amused herself by making a list of the things they’d do today.

Quick trip to Harrods for some ice cream

Open-top bus back into the centre and then a ferry ride down the Thames.

Jump off at the London Eye and take a trip on that.

Into the Royal Festival Hall to see what was on.

She got bored pretty quick. There was too much to do. She was like one of those people who moved to London because of all the things they could do but never actually did them. They just replaced their home town local with the nearest one to them and went into Richmond or Ealing or Shoreditch once a year to remind themselves where they lived.

Maybe that came at the end of the list. Pub crawl down the river, grab a meal along the way. She sneered and poured herself a tea. She’d be happy with some money in her hat and another cup of tea before bed.

They were out before most, wandering in silence down Embankment. Ed had been blushy and mumbling when he came into the kitchen, but she’d laughed it off and warned him not to get any ideas. She hadn’t mentioned that she’d had some of her own and they felt like pretty good ones.

Now they seemed to have run out of things to say. She could vaguely remember talking to friends about TV shows and music and books and all sorts. Now there was nothing. They could compare detailed notes on the others in the hostel, guessing why they were there, but they’d already done that to death.

They contented themselves with finding a bench and commenting on the passers-by, creating stories for them. Ed was quick and funny and his stories were invariably better than hers. His was always more optimistic as well, at least at first. His men were going to find the woman of their dreams and marry them. Her men were angry and bitter and off to rob a bank or throw themselves from the top of The Shard.

That was when the idea got her and she couldn’t shake it off.

‘Let’s go to Canary Wharf.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s go to Canary Wharf. Let’s go there now and get in a lift and go to the top and look out over London. I want to go to the Shard, but they’ll never let us in. But the Wharf’s got a cafe and stuff at the top. And neither of us smell bad and you actually look pretty good—’

‘Thanks.’ He blushed.

‘Not like that. I mean, you don’t look totally homeless.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ His blush became a frown. ‘Why?’

‘Why? Because the sun’s out and I woke up next to you and didn’t slit your throat on reflex. I think my counsellor would have called that growth or something. Whatever, it’s reason to celebrate.’

He blushed again and examined the tips of his shoes until she nudged him with an elbow in the ribs. ‘C’mon.’

He shrugged and let her pull him off the bench. They stomped along the Thames, listening as the city woke, shook itself and came to life. The city changed as they walked. They reached the Tower of London and the Bridge and tried to imagine being locked up in the dungeons. Ed muttered something about the two of them being in close quarters not sounding that bad and she asked him what he thought he’d do if they were.

That led to more blushing and scuffing his feet which made her laugh. Laughing wasn’t something she remembered all that well. She’d certainly forgotten how good it felt. They moved on through Shadwell and the city got grubbier. She rarely came out this way, too much competition and no one she knew, no where she felt safe.

Then it suddenly got new again and the pavements and tattered buildings were replaced with glass and elevated roads and lots of bored people in suits. There were docks as well, water stolen from the Thames and hemmed in for the sake of people with too much money. She stopped herself spitting and made an effort to stand up straight and look deliberate. It was odd, trying to hide her homelessness. She hadn’t bothered in a long time, not since her pride about that sort of thing slunk off with her first night outside.

Canary Wharf loomed high above them, surrounded by confusing roadways, but they made it to the front door. She grabbed his hand on impulse and they made it to the lift and up to the cafe. She had cash, enough to buy a cup of tea, so they shared it and stared out over the city.

Dad brought her here, way back when. Not the Wharf, but the city. It was why she’d headed here instead of Reading or one of the other places closer to her home. She’d always dreamed about London and what she’d do when she grew up. Then Dad stopped wanting to just hold her hand and mum had gone away with the fairies and she’d stopped having dreams.

She shook her head and refocused her eyes on the steam rising from the cup. Ed watched her.

‘What?’

‘You looked thoughtful for a minute. I mean, more than usual.’

‘Is that a compliment or an insult?’

‘Um, don’t know. What were you thinking about?’

She sniffed and glanced around. The cafe was quiet on a Thursday morning and no one was staring at them. It made a pleasant change.

‘Thinking ‘bout what London used to mean. I used to dream of coming here and making my fortune.’

Ed grinned. ‘Didn’t we all? This was, like, my Mecca—’

‘Your bingo hall?’

He burst out laughing. ‘Mecca’s like another name for a holy place. The bingo people stole it.’

‘Oh yeah, of course.’ Her face heated up. She’d known that. Ed seemed oblivious to her squirming.

‘I mean, I was gonna come here and study art and become this famous artist and stuff. Now I’m…’

He looked out the window and she noticed how his hands gripped his knees. His fingers were thin and she’d thought of them as bony and spider-like. But now she wondered whether they weren’t artist’s fingers. She reached over the table and squeezed his arm.

‘Now you’re my friend. And hey, we made it.’

She swept her arm wide to encompass the whole city, spread out below a crisply blue sky. He managed a laugh. ‘Yeah we did. How long do you think we can stay here?’

‘You got money for another tea?’

He shoved his hands in his pockets and she watched his forehead crease. Finally he shrugged and hauled his cash out of his pocket. As he laid it out on the table, she flushed. He’d learned quick about keeping your money to yourself. Showing it to her was a big deal. They counted it and without knowing why, she pulled hers out and added it to the pile until she no longer knew whose was whose.

They had enough between them for a couple of cups of tea and maybe even a sandwich at lunch. The sun was shining in from the far side of the tower and they were warm and had somewhere to sit. They settled in, naming landmarks and sharing more stories about what they had planned to do. Always what they had planned, never what was actually happening.

It was close to lunchtime when Ed spotted the police cars. It was like a procession and they both searched for the black car that meant visiting dignitaries, or maybe the queen. Then they realised the cars were going way too fast for that. Ambulances came too, from three different parts of the city, snaking their way in from the main hospitals.

It was like a map with all the police cars acting as arrows, pointing toward a central point, Big Ben. She’d heard somewhere that the tower wasn’t actually called Big Ben. That was the name of the bell inside it, but the tower was called the Elizabeth tower. Whatever it was called, something was happening there.

Smoke rose from between the buildings, thick and sticky and she grabbed Ed’s arm. ‘There’s been a bomb. Has to have been, what else?’

‘We didn’t hear anything though.’

‘We’re bloody miles away, why would we?’

He rocked his head from side to side. ‘Don’t know. I’m sure we would though. D—’

He cut off as they both gasped. One of the police cars, visible for a moment as it sped along the river, careened off to the side, struck the barrier and flipped over into the Thames. It landed with an almighty splash, sending murky water up onto Embankment. Someone else looking out the window saw it as well and Krystal shared a wide-eyed look with them.

When she turned back, she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. The next police car had also swerved, but gone the other way and disappeared from sight. The cars behind kept going but it was clear the drivers had lost control. They slammed into parked cars and buildings, bounced off street lamps and rolled into the garden behind Cleopatra’s needle. She watched, hands covering her mouth as someone on the pavement was tossed across the road, limp and unresisting as one of the cars took them out.

The people were tiny dots, but she could imagine the screams as they scattered. Many of them were just throwing themselves to the ground, lying still in the hope they wouldn’t get hit. In fact, everyone was doing that. The streets were covered in prone figures, spreadeagled and still.

They heard nothing. It was like watching TV with the sound off, some horrible disaster movie filming before their eyes. She looked elsewhere and saw the same thing. A row of ambulances got halfway across Westminster bridge before losing control. The first two went straight into the river, taking pedestrians with them. The others piled into other traffic until the entire bridge was consumed with burning cars.

She turned away and stared across the restaurant. If she looked out the other window, the world would be normal and there’d be nothing wrong. She shook her head and bit her lip. The world had ceased being normal three years ago. Looking out a different window would do nothing to change that.

Ed was still watching, vein in his temple pulsing. His eyes were wet and she shook her head. He was so young. He wasn’t that much younger than her, but he’d been on the streets all of six months and she thought he maybe still dreamed of being rescued. She put her hand on his shoulder and his eyes met hers. They were wide and tear-filled and disbelieving.

Back in the centre of town, she saw something far worse. All the cars were doing the same thing. They weren’t moving as fast as the police so mostly they just slammed into walls or lamp posts, but within a few minutes there wasn’t a single vehicle moving all the way from the Houses of Parliament to Waterloo Bridge.

Next Installment Monday 1st September

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

Part One is Here

Alex – 9 Days To Plague Day

Something was different. He knew the contents of this white board like nothing else. He knew every stroke of the pen, every figure and symbol. But something had changed since yesterday and it took him a few seconds to spot it. A difference in one of the equations. Stranger still, was that it looked like his handwriting.

He grabbed his notebook and scribbled down the new formula, trying to figure out why it would work. Had he done this before it all happened and just forgotten it? It wouldn’t be surprising. He could have cracked the cure for cancer and what happened on Saturday would have knocked it straight out his brain.

He was struggling to fit the events of the weekend into his mind and his world. He was having a child. They were having a child. In a way, that was easier to handle than the faded images he had of a future world. It had felt so real, yet now the pictures were like smoke, flitting away when he reached for them. They had been true though, he knew that.

He checked his watch. He had a lecture this morning and despite the strong urge, he wouldn’t skip it. This stuff wasn’t going anywhere and there was a large part of him that longed to junk it and toss it in the bin. He dumped the notepad back on the desk and headed for the door, smiling wryly.

He could never give up on it. He was the youngest student to be awarded a research grant in fifteen years. He was doing something no one else in the world was doing. This was his future. He just had to change it a little, move from creating a weapon to creating the cure for other weapons. He woke up thinking about it, which made a pleasant change from thinking about babies.

Chemical warfare was prevalent across the world. It was what had drawn him to it in the first place. Make the one ring to rule them all. But now he knew where that led, he could change the formula and create immunity. The shift wasn’t that great. His disease was based around changing the levels of chemicals within the brain. It would create the ultimate fight or flight response so the reptile brain took over. It would have to carry immune-suppressants to remove the body’s natural fight back.

This new formula would focus on the physical alone… he stopped, one hand pushing the door closed. Who was he kidding? This was entirely different. The only part of two years research he would be using was the basic chemistry of turning the solution into gas. Everything would change. He would be starting again.

The door clicked shut and he shrugged. If he had to start again, maybe he could finish this one first anyway. Whatever happened, when his son came along he would stop him doing anything stupid with it. He’d thought about that a lot last night. Perhaps just seeing his baby, a new person brought into the world, would stop him.

He drifted to class and made notes that would make no sense when he looked back at them. He’d only look back at them once and by then, they would have ceased to matter.

The formula changed again the following night and the figures he programmed into the machine were quite different from what he’d been working on before Saturday. He understood the changes, though he still doubted where they came from. They had to be him. There was no one else who understood what he was doing.

He realised when he stepped in to the lab on Tuesday that sometime between yesterday and today, he’d made his mind up. He would make it, he knew he could crack it. He would make it and put it somewhere no one could find it. But he had to finish it.

He watched as a series of chemicals were combined into a test tube that hung from a machine the uni had given him quite a considerable amount of money to buy. In some small way, finishing his project was the least he could do for the faith they had put in him.

He lifted the test tube gently and placed it in the centrifuge. He pressed the button and stepped away to look at the formula where he’d scribbled it down. It was right. He knew that without even testing it. His hand shook as he thought what that meant. He’d given himself five years at the least, though he’d told the uni four at most. But he’d cracked it in under two. He was a genius. He grinned as the shaking slowed.

Alex sat in his chair, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back. New Scientist was the first place to g— No. He couldn’t tell anyone. He knew where this would lead if it got out into the world. This was the greatest secret he would ever hold. But the University would be pissed if he turned around and said they’d wasted their money. That was fine, he would just have to make the immunity gas as well.

He turned to a fresh page in his notebook and began to write, lulled by the gentle whirring of the centrifuge.

Next Installment Thursday 14th August