Thirteen Roses Book Two: After: A Paranormal Zombie Saga

by Cairns, Michael

  'What is it?' Alex asked.

  'A gemstone.' Alex gave him a look and he shrugged. 'What question are you asking?'

  'Fine. What does it do, what's the point of it?'

  'It was blessed, a long time ago, by a man considerably holier than me. It should be a direct route to the Father, if I can get the words right.'

  'Do you know the words?'

  'I do. I think.'

  'So who's the Father?'

  Luke looked at him, smiling wryly. 'Take a guess. I'll only give you one.'

  'You know I'm not going to say what you want me to say.'

  'Frankly, I don't give a toss what you say. All you need to decide is whether you're ready to have your opinions changed. If so, grab some lunch and let's get going.'

  He strolled off and Alex stayed where he was, watching the strange man get further away. What would happen? His curiosity alone was enough to get him moving. What if the stone was radioactive in some way? But if that was the case, it was probably too late already.

  He picked up his pace. 'What are you going to say to him?'

  'I'm going to call him a bastard and ask him why he lets his people scheme and connive under his nose without doing anything about it. Then I'm going to explain that we screwed up and ask for help.'

  'Would it perhaps be a good plan to ask for the help before you insult him? It's just a thought, I don't know, just seems a more logical way round.'

  'Possibly. But he is, first and foremost, a bastard and unless I say it straight out, he'll think I'm up to something.'

  Alex nodded, pretending he understood. Lunch came in a plastic bag, so with it in one hand, he strolled down the pavement next to a man who could be an angel, but was more likely a nutjob with impressive hypnosis skills.

  They were on their way to visit someone called the Father, who, if Luke was to be believed, was God. Or at least, the next best thing. This was going to be either very funny or very distressing. Or possibly both.

  Jackson

  Every blow was a strike for God. Every swing brought the blessing of Jesus and the Lord to the poor, hapless victims of the terrible plague. Righteous anger was all Jackson needed. It was all he'd ever needed, only before, it had sprung from a very different place.

  Before his rebirth, he'd believed first and foremost in himself. He'd believed in the free market and the right of all men, and a few women, to make a place for themselves in the world through whatever methods were necessary. And he had done well for himself as a result. The woman he'd once called a very bad name and now thought of as Tammy, as he always should have, had been good to him, even when she was bitching and moaning.

  He'd been rolling in cash and ridding London of a serious homeless issue at the same time. In many ways, he'd been doing the Lord's work even then. God didn't want people to be homeless any more than they did themselves. Jackson removed the problem and passed it over to China, which had been the English way for decades.

  He nodded absently, pleased he'd found the right frame through which to explore his past life. That was all life was, really, finding the correct way to explain what had happened. The biblical frame of plague was clearly the only explicable one here. There were too many sinners, and too many Arabs and Muslims, and all the others who didn't belong here. They'd all spent too much time worshipping false gods and stealing and lying, and this was their punishment.

  But God is great. He'd left Jackson here to begin again. There was a woman alive somewhere in London, his Eve, and when he found her they would rebuild and make the world great again.

  The body was finished. The pile of flesh-covered bones was growing larger at the bottom of the stairs. The smell of it was attracting more and more of them. He would be here forever, but perhaps that was the point. Perhaps his task was to be endless, to teach him the error of his ways.

  Except, hadn't he just decided they weren't erroneous ways?

  Misguided perhaps and clumsy, but not strictly wrong. Maybe he should look for a way out of here. A zombie shambled up the stairs towards him, swaying behind long curtains of hair. Blood and chunks of something indefinable were caught in it and the smell made him heave.

  He took a step down and swung the chair leg. It cracked her head open and he saw the greying-pink of brain show through the soup in which it swum. He flipped the chair leg in his hand and plunged it straight into the brain. The zombie stopped, one foot halfway between this step and the next. He punched her in the chest, feeling it cave in beneath his blow, and her body went tumbling to the bottom.

  They fell on her and he had another moment to think. But before he did, he heard a sound that made his heart leap. The roar of an engine filtered through the slurping and licking from below, and he cocked his head to one side. There it was again and it was quite some engine. A sports car and a nice one, if he was any judge.

  That meant there was someone else on God's crusade. Someone else had been kept alive to help him drive away the plague. He had to reach them. He glanced back into the storeroom and saw what he expected, which was bars on all the windows. There had to be a fire escape, though.

  They were nearly finished with the body. He needed as much time as possible, and as if on cue, his prayers were answered. A huge zombie, rolling with fat, began to wobble up the stairs. He blocked the way for anyone else and was taking his sweet time, so Jackson stepped back and peeked into the second room. In one corner was a door with the fire escape light above it and he nodded.

  God was watching him. God would provide everything he needed, he just had to ask. He needed a better weapon, something to take with him into the street. He took a step towards the third door and pulled it open. Inside, a coiled hose was attached to the wall and an axe hung beside it. Stifling the laughter that threatened to burst from him, he lifted the axe reverentially off its hooks and cradled it.

  God's weapon, sent to him in his hour of need. He almost asked for a woman, but it was too soon. And there was no need, not yet. He needed to escape and get somewhere safe. The roar of the engine grew louder, then he heard a crunch and winced. The driver had just totalled a very beautiful piece of equipment. They would have words when they met.

  The fat zombie was almost at the top of the stairs, waddling and wobbling. He almost felt bad killing it. But it would have been unhappy when it was alive and probably felt even worse now. He was doing it a favour. With a nod that came from an undeniable sense of right, he readied himself. The axe he leant against the wall. This was his last shot with the chair leg and it deserved a final blow. It had served him well.

  He brought it down as hard as he could on the creature's head and felt the crack as it struck. But the zombie showed no signs of slowing. Growling, Jackson smacked the creature around the face. Its nose caved in and spilt, spilling blood down its cheeks. The next blow broke an eye socket and burst the eyeball inside. Still it kept coming.

  Jackson took a step back. If the thing got over the top of the stairs, he'd be lucky if he was able to roll it back down. He lashed out with his boot and kicked it high in the chest. It rocked but stayed upright, hands clawing and pawing at his leg.

  He dragged it free and shuffled sideways. The zombie lurched onto the top step and Jackson drew in a breath. It was huge, belly almost filling the corridor. It stood beside the axe, which, though so close, was now tantalisingly out of reach. Cursing himself for whatever random sentiment made him stick with the chair leg, he let out a shout and barrelled at the zombie.

  Running into it felt like hitting a wall, but it was a wall made of plastic that cracked and crumpled under the impact. His shoulder went deep into the zombie's chest and lodged there. The thing wrapped huge arms around him and bared its teeth. The smell emanating from its throat was a cross between dog food and rotting meat and his mouth filled with saliva.

  It was so close he could see the torn pieces of skin and blood caught between its teeth. Its jaws came closer, but everything the creature did was in slow motion, ponderous and lazy. His right arm was tr
apped in the zombie's embrace, but he wriggled the left free.

  Gritting his teeth together, he put his thumb against the thing's remaining eye and shoved as hard as he could. It was like putting his hand in warm runny custard, the sticky liquid flowing down his arm. The eye burst then his thumb plunged through. He shoved it deeper like he was stuffing a chicken and felt something firm beneath it.

  He had to angle his hand to get it deep enough, but his thumb dug into the firmness and the creature stiffened, mouth snapping shut inches from his face. He pushed further until he couldn't push anymore. The thing's arms were tight around him and it tottered back, dragging him with it.

  The stairs were inches away and he was about to be pulled down them, down into the waiting mouths below. He dug his feet in and twisted until the arms around him loosened.

  But it wasn't enough.

  They would eat him. The zombie tipped lazily backwards, just as it had done everything in its cursed life.

  He wasn't going to die. Not here. This wasn't how God wanted him to go. Jackson screamed and dropped to the floor. The arms slipped off over his head and he was free of the embrace.

  The body toppled and went down the stairs with a sickening thud that broke bones and flesh. Jackson teetered at the top, almost following his victim. At the last second, he threw himself backwards and landed on his arse. He lay on his back staring at the strip light above him, heaving and panting. He couldn't breathe, the light was too bright and the sounds from below, of tearing flesh and chewing teeth, brought the contents of his stomach into his mouth.

  He rolled onto his side and spat sick onto the floor, then reached for the axe. Wrapping his fingers around it made him somehow stronger and he rolled onto his front and pushed until he stood. The corpse was covered in zombies, like baby pigs around their mother, all desperate for a suckle. It should keep them for a while.

  He headed for the fire exit and shoved open the door. The alarm sounded like his ex-girlfriend on full whine mode and he covered his ears. Whether the zombies at the bottom of the stairwell heard he didn't know, he was too busy racing down the black iron fire escape to the alley below.

  The alley was miraculously empty of zombies and he crept down it in the direction of Whitehall. He peered out and saw the zombie nearest him was at least twenty feet away. He also saw a gorgeous yellow Lamborghini attached to the back of a bus. He could have wept for the front end, but there would be plenty more. When he got out of London, it would be in something like that.

  That was, of course, if it was God's plan. Mam had always taught him that God had a plan and arguing was pointless. She'd been right. He hadn't believed her, not for a second. Not even when he burned the house down with her in it. That wasn't part of the plan, was it, Mam? Turns out it was, because God definitely had a plan, and he was a huge part of it.

  He blinked, shaking his head as the street came back into focus. His throat was sore and he remembered the children. He must never forget the children, for they made him what he had become. He sneaked further from the end of the alley and looked up the street. Smoke billowed from a shop front a little way up and he stared.

  Someone else, another living person. He felt a pang of something that he thought might be jealousy. He couldn't be jealous, of course not, he was God's soldier. If God had a plan, then these people were part of it, too. Maybe one of them was a woman, the key to the rebirth of the human race. A smile crept across his face.

  He set off, jogging with the axe held loosely in one hand. He passed the nearest zombie and readied himself. The head came clean off the body and hit the ground with a satisfying thud. He kept moving, eager to face more of them. The street was quieter than some of the others and the fire had drawn many of them up ahead of him.

  He stopped and his mouth fell open as he watched a man charge towards the crowd of zombies before the shop, shouting and waving his hands. He was trying to distract them. There was someone in the shop as well, someone human. And he couldn't deny that the man was doing something heroic. Stupid, but heroic.

  He looked around for some way to help. And saw the bus. It had lurched onto the pavement but not hit anything, and he dashed over to it. A zombie sat in the driver's seat, thrashing at the window. Its hands had broken off long ago and the glass that surrounded it was painted red, but still it thrashed. He hefted the axe and climbed into the bus.

  Krystal

  Her heart hammered so loud she could barely hear herself saying over and over, 'why, why the bloody hell are you doing this, why?' It was probably fortunate, because if she had the chance to think properly, she'd stop long before she reached the front door. As it was, she yanked it open before she had a moment to breathe, and charged out.

  Ed was at the end of the path, opening the wrought iron gate like he was heading out to get the paper. She had a flash, for just a second, of what it must be like to live in a house and do those sorts of things. Normal things. But nothing was normal anymore. She'd thought it wasn't for the last few years, but living on the streets was nothing compared to what was heading towards the house, lurching from side to side with arms outstretched.

  She'd seen a movie, years ago, with Dad. Mum wouldn't have let her watch it, and to be fair, she'd had nightmares after. All she remembered of it now was all the people in a town being taken over by aliens and walking around in a sort of daze with these weird eyes. That's what it looked like in front of the house. Ed stepped out onto the pavement and the nearest zombie headed straight for him, growling in the back of its throat.

  She was too far away, she wouldn't get there in time. She raced up the garden path and grabbed the gate that had swung shut. Ed had stopped to watch the zombie approach.

  'ED! Stop it, come back.'

  He didn't respond and she hauled on the gate, ignoring the catch and tugging pointlessly at it. Finally her brain kicked in and she lifted the latch and pulled it open. The zombie had one hand on Ed's shoulder and he still didn't move.

  'ED, PLEASE!'

  He jumped a tiny amount as though he'd only just heard her. He half turned before the zombie hauled him back around. She charged straight into them, knocking them both onto the floor. She dived at the zombie and found herself astride it, staring down at an open mouth and wild, staring, bloodshot eyes. What the hell happened now?

  One of its hands caught in her bob and the other clawed at her breasts. She heaved at the smell and leant forwards, clutching the sides of its head. She lifted it and slammed it back down, bashing the back of its skull against the pavement.

  There would be others coming. Any moment now, one would grab her and teeth would sink into her neck or shoulder or face. But all she could do was slam the head again and again. On the fifth blow it went a little lower than before and she heard a sound like a stick snapping. On the next blow she felt the back of its skull give way. She slammed again and the arms fell. One more for luck, and the chunk of skull she was holding broke away, leaving her gripping tightly to two pieces of bone complete with hair and ears.

  She whimpered, threw them away as hard as she could and scrambled to her feet. Ed was sitting where she'd knocked him over, staring at her and shaking his head. She grabbed his arm. 'Get the hell up just get up get up.'

  She tugged and tugged and something got through, because he got to his feet and allowed her to lead him back down the path. Another zombie entered the garden as she slammed the front door. They stopped just inside, Ed still static and staring, her panting and gasping for breath.

  Her breathing was just slowing when something smashed against the door, and she shrieked and threw herself backwards. Ed took a few steps down the hall but gave no other signs to suggest he was at all surprised or shocked. She ran into the kitchen and picked up her bag. She stuffed food into it and slung it over her back, then returned to the hallway.

  She found a jacket in the understairs cupboard. It wasn't quite the right size, but as it cost more money than she'd seen in the last three years combined, she decided it would do. Ed
was where she'd left him and she stopped, trying to slow everything down.

  What should she do? What could she do? What had happened to him? She thought maybe she knew that. She'd seen something like it in street kids. Ones who came to it too young, or had been there too long, got this stare. It wasn't anything specific, and if you asked, they'd smile and say everything was fine, but you knew anyway. They were waiting to die, because everything that made up the life they knew was gone. When you no longer recognise anything about yourself, it's difficult to believe there can be anything after it.

  She stood in front of him and stared into his eyes. He looked back but he wasn't looking at her. She slapped him hard across the face. He blinked and looked at her properly for a minute, but she saw the exact moment he drifted away.

  'What's wrong?'

  It was such a stupid pointless thing to say. As if she even needed to ask. But still. They were alive and healthy and they had free food. That was better than she'd had for the last three years, so why was he so lost? 'I understand why you're upset, but—'

  'Do you? I have a family. They're all dead. I had friends at school. They're all dead. I had… people I knew. I had people I knew on Facebook and they're all dead. Everyone's dead.'

  'No they aren't. Do your family even live in London?'

  He laughed and shook his head. 'Don't you get it? That broadcast? That wasn't coming from London and even if it was, there'd be somewhere else that would have taken over. It's not just London it's everywhere. Here, come on.'

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the lounge. The TV flashed into life to show the same clip again.

  'They're bound to have satellite, let's try somewhere else, America maybe.'

  He flicked through the channels, stabbing at the remote with stiff fingers, and everyone had the same thing. Some were completely gone, not working anymore, and others were showing news loops. He reached CNN and they watched the newscaster explain that strange trucks had been sighted in Washington, New York and San Francisco in the moments before the gas was released.