Part One is Here

Jackson – Thursday: Plague Day

Jackson strode out over the bridge. He made sure the trucks were long gone of course. There was no point in tempting fate. The silence was lessened here by the swell of the Thames beneath his feet.

His mind reeled, from questions about himself to questions about what was happening. But the one he kept coming back to was why he was alive and no one else was. Why had he been chosen? Was this some kind of punishment for all those years of treating God like dirt? Was it payback after the years of crime? It was no less than he deserved, but perhaps there was more here than this. Perhaps he was being given a chance. A second chance to do something real with his life. To make a change.

He stared down into the water and his fists clenched as he nodded. He would make a change. He already had. Whatever was happening in London, he had been kept alive to fix it, to make it better and he would. If it was the only thing he ever did. It would be the one thing he did that was good and pure and not motivated by the dark needs that he could still feel inside, trying to claw their way up.

The children were keeping them down. Stamping and kicking at them, screaming all the while.

He turned back and headed to what he was already referring to as ground zero. The police had been heading for the Houses of Parliament, so that’s where he’d start. He stomped hard, revelling in the thud of the pavement beneath his feet. Every step took him further from the countless hours spent in the park.

He realised that he had no idea how long he’d been there. He had no way of knowing how long the children had been climbing inside him and tearing him apart. Tears sprung up in his eyes and he stumbled to a halt and fell to his knees. He had deserved nothing less but still it hurt. His punishment had been brutal, beyond brutal. Had he really deserved all that?

He climbed to his feet and resumed his walking, bringing every step down with a thump. His knees began to hurt but he couldn’t stop himself. An image flashed before his eyes, of a child’s face beneath his boot as he brought it down. He shouted and swung his arms as if to bat the image away but it was stuck firm in his mind.

He growled and kept walking. This was a test. It was all a test. What was happening here was a test to see if he was worthy, if he should be allowed into heaven. Just like mam had said, he had to work at it. Every day he had to work at it and eventually he’d be let in. This just made it easier, because he knew what he had to work at.

The streets were covered in bodies. They were stiff and twisted into strange positions. If he blurred his eyes he could imagine he was looking at mannequins, molten in the sun. A fog lay over the ground, thick enough that some of the corpses were obscured from view. A weak wind tried and failed to move it and he felt like he was floating through the city.

Buildings sprung from the fog, untethered and ready to float away at any moment. He sniffed. Enough of the romantic bullshit. He had to keep his eye on the prize, whatever it was. He didn’t really know what it was. He couldn’t save these people, they were already dead.

He stopped, squinting through the afternoon sunshine. A hand thrust up through the fog, like a flag on a ship far out to sea. Against the dirty brown of the mist it stood out stark, white and stiff. The closer he got, the more convinced he became that it was just an unfortunate pose, that the owner was just as dead as the others.

His feet scraped on the concrete and he hesitated. Ten feet and then five. He was about to turn away when the hand slowly opened and closed, the fingers twitching. He swallowed and took a step backward and a hand closed around his ankle.

He tumbled onto his arse, swearing as he went down. He landed on something soft and jumped up quicker than he’d gone down. The hand scraped against him again and he looked down, but the fog hid everything. He lashed out and hit something. He lashed out again, shouting this time, but missed and nearly went arse over tit.

Jackson ran. He didn’t think about where he was going. His feet caught against bodies and he went over, tearing his trousers and the knees beneath them. His hands were bleeding as well by the time he reached the bridge, but he couldn’t stop. It was quieter here and the fog hadn’t settled. It was appearing in wisps before being dragged off by the wind and drifting down the river.

He arrived on an island. On both sides of the river the dirty fog lay thick and heavy. There were no bodies in his small space, nothing but him and the railings and the water far below. The buildings hovered, floating on a sea that shifted and spun. He could stay here. He could stay here and be safe. Nothing could get to him, not if he stayed alert and focused.

He put his back to the railing and waited. It didn’t take long.

The first thing he heard was the scraping, as though someone with a gammy leg was making their slow way across the bridge. When he spotted them, his teeth went straight through the lip he’d been worrying. He didn’t know whether it was the blood or just his scent, but as it trickled out his mouth and down his chin, the person he’d spotted – and he still used the word person then – jerked to a stop and stared at him.

He’d learn soon enough that the blood hadn’t helped. He’d learn all about the blood, but at that moment, all he knew were the eyes. They were dead, sunken and dry, yet still seemed to glare at him with a malevolence he’d have recognised had he been one of the children he’d taken in the last five years. The man’s hair was coming out, tufts and patches covering a blotchy scalp.

The person lurched back into motion. It didn’t move fast but it didn’t hesitate either and came with a purpose that suggested inexorability. As it reached the top of the bridge, he realised that it did indeed have a gammy leg. One foot was dragged along, twisted to one side. Jackson took a deep breath and then burst out coughing.

The thing smelled. There was rot, like meat left in the fridge too long and something else. A sort of wet mustiness like a wooden shed that’s got damp and started growing mould. It crept into his nostrils and throat and clogged him up and he furiously rubbed his nose in an attempt to dislodge it. It made no difference and he tried to take shallow breaths as it came nearer.

He’d say, when asked later, that at this point he weighed up the options. He thought about running and decided against it. But the truth was, his legs refused to move and it was all he could do not to fall to the floor and pray for something. The person didn’t stop. It raised its arms and that was the moment he was galvanised into action.

He shouted, barely recognising the high-pitched squeak that emerged, and grabbed the arms. They felt hot, not at all like the bodies he’d examined a few minutes earlier. And the moment he closed his hands around them, they jerked and yanked and almost pulled him off his feet. The creature was strong and unyielding and Jackson didn’t stop to think.

He pulled it toward him and past him and to the edge of the railing. Its chest struck the bar and a sound like wood striking metal echoed over the river. Then Jackson grabbed it by the legs and heaved. It went straight over the barrier and dropped like a stone in to the Thames.

It sunk in just the same way, but he kept watching, waiting for it to bob to the surface. It was the watching that nearly killed him. He smelled them first and spun around. Two of them stood no more than fifteen feet away and if he hadn’t been in full panic mode, he’d have said they were smiling.

He couldn’t throw them both over. He reached for the small of his back and pulled out his knife. It was a bowie knife, the kind he’d always wanted as a kid. With his first pay check from the Chinese men he’d gone and bought one and hadn’t left it at home since. Just thinking of the two men brought sweat to his brow, but he was glad for the knife.

The people came at him and his breathing sped up. They both stretched their hands out, like the old versions of Frankenstein and he hacked at them. The one to the right lost some fingers and he hacked a large chunk out of the other’s palm. Their blood was thin, like watered-down gravy with bits in and it went everywhere.

It struck his top and he jumped back, shrieking again. He half-expected it to start hissing and melting through the material, but it just clung there, carrying the same smell of mould. His attackers seemed oblivious to their new wounds, they just kept on coming. He gritted his teeth together and stepped forward.

With a shout he imagined was a battle cry, he buried the knife hilt deep in the one on the right’s eye. It made a squelching sound as it struck and he heaved. The other one grabbed his shoulder and he lashed out, fists swinging wildly. He caught it on the chin and it staggered back. He followed it with another blow to the face and it fell over.

He turned back to the one with the knife in its eye. It lay prone on the floor and the smell of rot grew suddenly stronger. His eyes widened as the skin began to slough away, layers of it crumbling to the floor. With nose wrinkled, he stepped closer and pulled his knife free. It was accompanied by another squelching sound that he did his best to ignore.

The second was getting up, no worse the wear for his punches and he readied the knife. He knew what he was fighting. He’d spent the last ten minutes pretending they were something else, or at least hoping they were, but his subconscious knew all too well. There were so many things wrong with it he wanted to scream. But at least he knew how to kill them.

The zombie came at him and he punched it in the face then jammed the knife into its ear. It went in easier than he expected and he lost his footing, falling over on top of the creature. As it struck the ground, the body beneath him gave way and his elbows sunk deep into its chest. The warmth of the lumpy blood soaked into his shirt and he groaned as bile filled the back of his throat.

He rolled off, flicking ineffectually at his shirt. He smelled of it and imagined he could taste the rot in his mouth. He yanked his shirt off, keeping it from touching his face. The body at his feet was going the same way as the first, skin rotting before his eyes. He pulled his knife clear of the mess and stood.

Jackson looked across the city. How many of them were there? Hundreds, thousands? More, so many more. But he was God’s soldier and he would fight them one by one. It was what he was supposed to do. He raised both hands above his head and roared and if it came out slightly squeaky, he didn’t care.

Next Installment Monday 15th September

Part One is Here

Bayleigh – Thursday: Plague Day

Someone was screaming. The sound was horrible, like the person’s throat was raw and all that came out was this animal howl. Something grabbed her shoulders and she shook it off and spun around and before she knew what she was doing he fist connected with Layla’s jaw.

Layla went flying, smacking off the wall of the alleyway and onto the floor. The screaming cut off and she put her hand to her throat, realising where the noise was coming from.

‘God, I’m so sorry, I’m so—’

‘It’s fine, it’s fine, just…’

Layla held her arms out and Bayleigh fell on her knees and they held one another until the tears came, like the shower after a hard day at work. Only they washed nothing away. But it felt better than the blankness that had got its claws in her before Layla grabbed her.

She pulled away and turned around. She didn’t want to look but she had to. She had to check. He was still there. His hands, so warm and loving, looked like something from a comic book, twisted and curled up and grotesque. She heaved and put her hand over her mouth. Vomit trickled from either side and she put her head down and let it come out.

Layla rubbed her back, murmuring something about it getting better. Bayleigh began to laugh. It started quiet but escalated until she couldn’t control it and she was scared of herself but couldn’t do anything about it. She was trying to say something though the gasps but she couldn’t form words.

Layla backed away and crouched against the wall. Her forehead was creased and she looked like a deer about to bolt. Bayleigh pushed her nails into her palms and stared at Ali’s body until the laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started.

‘It’s already got better. Hasn’t it? Wasn’t that what happened last week, with the flower seller? It got better, it all got better…’

She was crying again and she felt rather than saw Layla come back over and stand above her. When she looked up into her eyes, she saw something that surprised her. They were hard. Not bad-hard, just, resigned. Layla reached out a hand and pulled her up. Bayleigh rubbed the palms of her hands over her eyes and took a deep breath. They peeked out of the alleyway again.

The street was littered with bodies in all directions. People had fallen as they ran and were stretched out in all sorts of weird poses. Bayleigh’s gorge rose again and she took a deep breath. She looked sideways at Layla. He friend was staring at the bodies like they weren’t even there and she wondered if the hardness wasn’t something else.

They tiptoed out into the street as though at any moment something or someone was going to explode from somewhere. But the chaos of earlier had ended abruptly and now the silence was almost as unnerving. The city was dead. Why weren’t they?

‘Why are we here?’

‘Because we ran?’

Bayleigh sniffed. ‘No, I mean, why aren’t we, you know?’

‘Dead?’

‘Yeah?’

Layla shrugged and picked her way between the bodies toward the shop opposite. She flung her next words back over her shoulder. ‘I dunno, but I’ve wanted that jacket for ages and I don’t think anyone’s gonna mind if I borrow it.’

There was a boutique clothes shop on the far side of the road and Bayleigh watched open-mouthed as Layla wandered in and walked into the window display. She pulled the jacket off the model, checked the label and put it on. Happy with the fit, she strolled back out into the street.

‘Layla, that’s stealing.’

‘From who? Everyone’s dead in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I…’ She was struck dumb for all of two seconds then stepped forward and grabbed Layla by hew new lapels. Her words came out in a hiss she recognised no more than her screaming from earlier. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, my boyfriend’s lying on the floor over there. It’s still stealing. And when did you start stealing?’

Layla frowned, looking at her feet. Her voice was small. ‘What’s happening?’

Bayleigh took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. But we need to stay who we are and not start acting like lunatics.’

‘Hey, it’s just a jacket.’

‘It doesn’t make any difference.’

‘Jeez, who died and made you the law?’

‘Everyone, actually.’

Her voice had changed again and become hard-edged and blunt. Layla’s eyebrows rose from their frown and she stared at her boss. Some of the hardness went and what lay behind it reflected what Bayleigh thought might be waiting in her own mind. It wasn’t just a reluctance to accept but a willingness to choose a different reality to escape this one.

She shook her head. ‘We’re together and we’re still alive, so whatever’s coming, we can handle it, right?’

The edge was replaced by shaking, but she sounded convincing to her own ears and Layla nodded, playing with her fingers. ‘Can I keep the jacket though?’

Bayleigh barked a close approximation of a laugh and crossed to peer into the shop window. ‘Don’t think anyone’s going to mind.’

She looked around. It was the stillness more than anything. When she was the only one moving it felt like everyone was looking at her, even though they lay face down for the most part. But when she stood still, the city might as well be empty. There were no pigeons and the wind was almost non-existent. Only a pennant hanging from one of the posh shops further down the street stirred occasionally.

She longed to shout and scream to fill the silence, but she could still picture the soldiers perfectly. She didn’t want them to know she and Layla were still alive. What had they done? Why had they done this? Who were they? And why the hell were the two of them still alive when everyone else wasn’t?

Layla gasped and Bayleigh watched her stand on tiptoes and wiggle like she was dancing.

‘What is it?’

Layla turned to her, face pale and Bayleigh felt her blood run cold. She tried to run to her friend but there were too many bodies and she stumbled on them. She caught herself before she fell and made it to Layla’s side. ‘What is it?’

Layla pointed at a spot where the road ran down into a deep gutter. ‘Rat.’

‘What?’

‘Rat. There was a rat, a big one.’

Bayleigh’s laughter was fuller this time and carried some genuine humour. ‘You’re really worried about a rat?’

‘It was chewing on his arm.’

Bayleigh swallowed the saliva that filled her mouth and crouched beside the body. His face was twisted in a grimace as though he’d hurt himself falling to the floor. Perhaps he had. Perhaps he wasn’t actually dead but trapped in some horrible stasis where he could feel everything but not move.

Her fingers shook as she pressed them against his wrist. There was nothing there; no pulse, no warmth, nothing. He was dead and the corner of his trousers bore little ratty teeth marks. On second inspection they weren’t that small. She pulled his trouser leg up and looked at skin beneath. There were marks, red indents, but the rat had stopped the moment it broke the skin. Presumably, Layla scared it away.

She had an image of a mountain of rats feeding on the corpses and turned to her friend. Layla had gone from pale to white and had one hand outstretched, pointing, shaking. Bayleigh followed the finger and her heart slammed in her chest like a hammer, ferocious and exhausting.

Someone was sitting up. In the centre of the street, one of the dead people was sitting straight up. She couldn’t see her face, but she was stiff and her head moved slowly as though she was trying to loosen it. Bayleigh wanted to go over and check she was alright. Another person, a little further down the street did the same and the chill thawed a little.

The smoke was obviously temporary. It didn’t explain why it had happened, but it did mean Ali would wake up. She drew nearer to the woman and stopped with distance still between them. There was something about the way she moved her head, something a bit Exorcisty, that made her skin crawl.

From the front, she got a better view of the woman’s face, but her long dark hair still covered too much to be sure. Then the woman flicked her head from side to side. It was a normal gesture, but it looked affected and strange and was even creepier than the original movement. It exposed her face and Bayleigh screamed.

Her skin was the colour of pale concrete and her eyes were red and sunken. Veins sprang like tributaries all over her face and as her mouth opened, she saw teeth that belonged to a ninety year old who’d never brushed. The woman fixed her eyes on Bayleigh and a sound somewhere between a growl and sandpaper against a metal wall emerged. Then she lurched to her feet and came at her.

Next Installment Thursday 11th September

A slightly different cover image this week. It’s far creepier, but I’m not sure whether I like it. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think.

Part One is Here

David – Thursday: Plague Day

The song came to an end and he noticed that the sounds outside had changed. The sirens were making weird noises like they were being sick and there was screaming too. He pressed pause and glanced over his shoulder.

His eyes widened as he saw the approaching hordes. People running toward him, hands in the air, mouths open wide and screaming. What was happening? The beginnings of curiosity stirred in his gut but they were drowned out by the need for peace and quiet.

He got off his bench and braced himself. The crowd surged past him so he was assailed by smells and sounds, all too close and too strong. Someone caught his arm and spun him round and straight into the path of someone else. She slammed into him and they hit the ground together. His elbows bashed against concrete and he howled in pain.

The woman screamed something at him but went before he could respond. All he could see were legs and feet flying past. All heading the same direction. The wrong direction. He got onto his hands and knees and began to crawl.

He caught a foot in the head and spent a minute or two curled up with his hands over it. Then he got up and went on. The crowd were thinning and the way was clear enough for him to get to his feet. He dashed the last part and got back under his arch. He sat against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest and stared out at the world.

He found some other music, Coldplay this time, and the man was singing something about London. The tune brushed his heart and made him shiver and shudder until he couldn’t stop shaking. The people were gone now. He could see them further down the river, still running and screaming.

Nearer, though, were the ones who hadn’t made it. Some had been trampled, faces smashed against the concrete. But some of them were just frozen, arms locked solid and hands curled into claws. He couldn’t see anything wrong with them, but they weren’t moving. He closed his eyes.

If he imagined hard enough, he could blank out the bodies. It wasn’t completely silent, but it was close enough. He was home.

Something rumbled overhead and he jumped and scrambled out from under the bridge. A train bashed and clattered past and he watched it head over the river and further out of sight. His eyes strayed to a lone figure on the edge of the foot bridge. He could see the shapes of bodies up there, but this one was standing.

It was frozen, no doubt of that, but somehow it had balanced and now stood lone sentry over the river. His eyes were drawn back to the railway tracks. Something flashed in the distance and the sound reached him, a low roar that grew and then faded. There were flames and smoke.

He turned up his ipod and stomped to Embankment station. It was empty save a man in the ticket booth leaning against the glass front, eyes still open and staring. David watched him for a while, waiting. The man didn’t move. David waved his hand before his eyes but still nothing.

He shrugged and strolled on, up the street to The Strand. There were more bodies up here and it reminded him of the movie Saving Private Ryan, when the beach was littered with dead soldiers. This had that same smokey, unreal thing going on. That was the first time he realised how foggy it was.

It clung to the ground like an early morning smog, dark and curling around his legs. It hadn’t been down at the river, but up here it was hard to escape. He had the strongest urge to jump up and down and try to get away from it, but there was nowhere to go. He dashed into the nearest shop and slammed the door.

There were bodies in here as well, people lying prone over their baskets and bags. A serving girl was slumped at the counter, her face in an open till. David carefully pulled her back and then laid her flat on the floor. She was cold and stiff. He bit his lip, but he neither dropped her on the floor nor ran screaming from the shop, so that was something.

He heard a sound and realised it was himself, muttering and giggling. The music was joyous and epic and he yanked his head phones out and tossed them across the store. Then he swore and raced after them, shoving them back into his pockets. He was hungry.

He left the shop and walked to Marks and Spencers. In the food court he cleared a space in the corner, pushing the bodies far enough that he could eat without having to look at them. Then he gorged himself, eating as much of everything as he could. He’d done the same when the place was empty, but it felt naughtier this time. He kept glancing around for the person who would come in and drag him away.

Stomach bloated and burping, he staggered back onto the Strand and ambled toward Trafalgar Square. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he wasn’t stiff and dead on the floor and didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because he’d been in the other city, the empty city, when it had all happened.

Trafalgar Square was filled with bodies. They weren’t all the horrible stiff corpses. The panic he’d seen earlier had happened here as well and there were people covered in blood, sprawled where they had been trampled to death. They were somehow so much worse than the others. It was like… what was it like? He didn’t know. He had known, just then, but it was gone now.

His eyes saw movement on Whitehall and he ran across the street to the corner. As he got there he saw a flash of dark uniform and stopped in his tracks. A million things were running through his brain, but the main one repeated over and over. Someone had done this. This whole thing wasn’t an accident. Someone had done it.

He backed away until he felt something approaching safe and crouched in a doorway. Then he stuck his head out until he could see what was happening. There were four trucks in the street, moving slowly away from him. They were travelling slow enough for soldiers to walk alongside. He wasn’t sure they were soldiers though. They had no marking, no… what was the word?

They wore grey and carried guns and were about the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen. He was sure of nothing anymore, but he was close to certain that if they saw him, his life was over. He almost stepped out and waved at them. Almost.

But they were here and alive. He looked behind him at the bodies and bile filled the back of his mouth. They were all dead.

They were all dead.

They were all dead.

They were all dead.

They were all dead.

Dammit. He slammed the palm of his hand against his temple and bit down hard on his tongue. He was alone again and he wanted peace but not this much, not like this. He took a step out from hiding. Then the soldier nearest him stopped. He was staring at something on the side of the road. Without any further warning, the gun slipped off his shoulder and he opened fire. He kept it up for a few seconds before stopping and shouldering the weapon.

The scariest thing was that not one of the other soldiers even registered the gun fire. They just kept right on walking. David slipped backwards and crept into Trafalgar square. He reached Nelson’s column and looked back down Whitehall. He could still see the trucks as they neared the end of the road.

One in the middle was different from the others and smoke poured from it into the sky. But the smoke didn’t rise into the blue. Instead it sunk, like it was heavy, until it pooled around the base of the trucks and moved like water as the soldiers waded through it.

David crouched closer to the column and watched until he could no longer see them. Then he turned and ran and didn’t stop till he was halfway through Soho.

Next Installment Monday 8th September

Part One is Here

Luke – Thursday: 7 Days to Plague Day

Alex pulled at the ropes and growled again. It was interesting, seeing a smart man like him reduced so quickly to someone so feral. Perhaps he still knew something he hadn’t owned up to, some secret that Luke needed to know.

The decision had been swift and simple. This stupid man had sold his discovery to the government and signed a secrecy order so he couldn’t tell anyone. Anyone except Luke of course. However, he’d still been unwilling to speak, so Luke had been forced to kidnap him, bring him to this empty warehouse and tie him up. It was purely for research purposes of course, solely in pursuit of the truth.

He’d kept it simple so far. He’d bought some cigarettes and applied them to some out-the-way places. Now he was trying water torture, pouring buckets of water over his head in quick succession. It would be far more effective with a hose pipe, but it was better than nothing.

Alex shook his head, scattering water across the floor.

‘I can’t tell you. They’ll kill me.’

‘They probably will. But they’ll do it humanely. I’ve been watching men kill one another for thousands of years, so trust me, I’ve got some great ideas of my own.’

He paced back and forth in front of Alex. ‘All I need to know is what you gave them and where they took it an—’

‘I don’t know. I don’t bloody know. My girlfriend will have called the police by now. I’m having a baby. You told me to have a baby, how can you do this?’

His growl became a sob and his head rocked forward onto his chest. Luke knelt before him, grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. ‘I didn’t tell you to have a child. I showed you the future and you ignored it.’

‘I didn’t ignore it. I’m having a child to stop it.’

‘Only you’ve just sold your future and that of every other person on this planet and your baby won’t be born for another seven months. Except it won’t be born at all, because your girlfriend’s going to be dead long before that ever happens.’

‘But you said he’d stop it.’

Luke shoved his head back and stormed away across the huge open space. He ground his teeth together. He couldn’t argue with that. He had said the child would stop it, because that’s what his list said. Only somehow the fates had changed. And he knew exactly who to blame for that.

The Father.

It wasn’t just a set up in the list and subjects. This wasn’t just a ruse to get him out of the Flights. It was about screwing him up as much as possible and killing the human race along with it. But why? What did the Father have to gain by killing his people?

Unless this part wasn’t the Father. Unless someone had been watching it all and found a way to tweak things just enough. Or maybe it was all a coincidence. Maybe someone was messing with Alex and had no idea Luke would be here at all. If that was the case, he might have an advantage. He stomped back to the scientist.

‘What about a cure? You don’t have to say anything, but how quickly could you make a cure?’

Alex looked up at him, eyes sharper now. ‘I don’t know. I could make one, but it could take a while. I need to get back to my lab.’

Luke hissed and turned away. He needed to get it back from the government. It didn’t matter how quickly he made a cure, they could kill thousands of people before they even realised what was happening.

Why did he care so much? He’d have cared before he came here, but everything had changed the moment he became human. He hadn’t felt this way for hundreds of years and it felt good. But there was something gnawing at him, chewing away inside. A cancer that made him want to make this work and want to save humanity. And he didn’t know what it was or where it came from.

If he could ignore it, he could stop worrying. But the world would be awfully boring without anyone in it. And he had no idea how it would affect him. Perhaps this whole thing was about making him human then putting him here to die. Was this the Father’s way of finally getting rid of him without being blamed? He stopped short in his pacing, goosebumps running up his arms.

Could he die? He was mortal now, in a way. What would happen if this body died? Would he return to the Flights or was this it? He hadn’t entertained the notion for even a second but why should he? The Father had sent him here, body and all. There was nothing of him left above, so why would he return?

The cure was a dead end. He could be dead a hundred times over before it was created or useful. He spun around and went for Alex. His arm slammed into his chest and knocked him over. The chair and man slammed into the concrete and the air rushed from his body.

Luke crouched beside him and put his thumb against Alex’s eye. He pushed just hard enough for him to feel the pressure. ‘Tell me or I put your eye out. Time’s up and my patience is gone.’

Alex squirmed and whimpered, shaking his head from side to side, but getting nowhere. Luke pushed harder. He had a second when he thought he was going to have to go through with his threat and shuddered at the thought of having eyeball all over his finger with nothing to wipe it on. Then Alex coughed up.

‘Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. God, who are you? It was the M.O.D. They came in these trucks, two big armoured trucks in brown and green with these soldiers with gas masks and guns. Real guns in bloody England. They took the formula and my test vial.’

‘So you don’t know how to make it now?’

‘They didn’t take my board. That has the new equation.’

Luke grunted. ‘What were you doing, leaving that sort of equation on a board?’

‘It wasn’t me. Well, it was, but not that one. That one just appeared. I think I did it in my sleep or something, or had some kind of blackout.’

Luke chuckled quietly and took his hand off Alex’s eye. ‘It wasn’t you. You aren’t that smart, not yet. Someone’s been screwing with me and using you to do it. Where did they take it?’

Alex looked at him with his chin jutting out as though he didn’t want to accept the truth about his amazing discovery. Luke brought his thumb back and Alex shook his head, whimpering. ‘I don’t know. They said something about Yorkshire, some place up there.’

Luke sat back on his haunches, groaning. Not only could he die but he had to go to the back of sodding beyond to deal with a bunch of hicks and peasants. Someone was laughing. And the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that it wasn’t the Father. He didn’t have the imagination for this. And as much of a bastard as he was, he wouldn’t kill the entire human race just to get rid of him.

But someone else would. The question was who. The answer wouldn’t matter though, if he didn’t get hold of the damned plague and hide it somewhere no one was ever going to find it. Perhaps he could combine the two things. He needed to speak to Az, which meant a summoning.

Plague first, then summoning. One thing at a time. Speaking of which…

‘You’re coming with me.’

The man groaned and closed his eyes and Luke patted his cheek. ‘You’ll be fine. It’ll be fun.’

Two hours later they left Alex’s room and headed for Paddington.

 Next Installment Thursday 4th September