The Alpha Plague

by Michael Robertson

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  About the Author

  Authors Under the Shield of Phalanx Press

  The Alpha Plague

  By

  Michael Robertson

  Website and Newsletter:

  http://michaelrobertson.co.uk

  Email: subscribers@michaelrobertson.co.uk

  Edited by:

  Aaron Sikes - http://www.ajsikes.com

  Terri King - http://terri-king.wix.com/editing

  And

  Sara Jones - www.torchbeareredits.com

  Cover Design by Dusty Crosley

  The Alpha Plague

  Michael Robertson

  © 2015 Michael Robertson

  The Alpha Plague is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, situations, and all dialogue are entirely a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not in any way representative of real people, places or things.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  In the Name of Science started life as a five thousand–word short story. It kick-started my writing career when it was accepted by HarperCollins to appear in the back of their eBook version of Laurence Obrian’s The Jerusalem Puzzle. Having this work accepted gave me the confidence to put more of my writing out in the world.

  Since writing this story, I’ve often wanted to come back to it. I renamed it The Alpha Plague: Genesis because, although it started as a short story, I soon realised that it’s actually the beginning of a series of novels—book two is currently being edited.

  The book you have now is the first book growing out of my original short. If you’ve already read the short, you’ll find it interspersed through the first few chapters in this book. If you haven’t, there’s no need, this book stands on its own.

  Thank you for buying my book and I hope you like it.

  Michael Robertson

  June 2015

  Chapter One

  Alice pressed her fork down on her steak. The soft meat leaked a pool of blood that spread over her white plate. It soaked into the potatoes and broccoli.

  A slow heave lifted in her throat, and she gulped several times to combat the excess saliva that gushed into her mouth. She could almost taste the metallic tang of blood. “How was the–” another heave rose up and she cleared it with a cough that echoed through the sparse room. She tried again. “How was the lab today, John?”

  A thick frown furrowed John’s brow. This was his usual response to most questions. Everything was an irritation. Such banal conversations couldn’t hold a flame to his vast intellect. He ejected the word as if giving a reply was below him. “Stressful.”

  The rejection sent a sharp stab through Alice’s stomach. It didn’t matter how many times he knocked her down, she got back up and continued to look for his approval. Fire spread beneath her cheeks and she chewed on her bottom lip.

  John flashed a grin of wonky teeth. It took all of Alice’s strength not to flinch at the ghastly sight. “I must say though, it’s been made a little easier by Wilfred having to make me this meal.”

  A deep breath filled Alice’s sinuses with the smell of disinfectant; the smell she associated with John. Decades immersed in the study of bacteria and disease had driven his level of cleanliness to the point where it bordered on obsessive-compulsive. A frown darkened her view of the room. “What did you say the bet was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Alice looked into his sharp blue eyes and waited for him to say more.

  He didn’t.

  A look first at the man, dressed in his white lab coat, she then looked around at his white, minimalist penthouse apartment. Everything had a place, and everything was necessary. Beakers and test tubes littered the sides like ornaments. She hadn’t ever seen a photograph on display, despite this being his personal space… no room for sentimentality here.

  Alice squirmed in her seat as the silence swelled.

  John watched her.

  No matter how long she’d known the man for, John always made her itch in her own skin. As if pressured to break the overwhelming void between them, she said, “So, what was the bet about?”

  “An experiment. I predicted the correct result.”

  A machine would have been better company. Alice frowned at him again and sighed.

  “Oh, do pull yourself together, woman,” John said. “You’ve got to learn to stop being so bloody sensitive.”

  Despite his obnoxious behaviour, the man did have redeeming qualities. When he worked, his creativity and passion flowed from him. Science drove him like a heartbeat, but Alice couldn’t excuse him time and again. She couldn’t ignore every time he’d humiliated her during a lecture; every time he’d not let her finish her point; every time he’d selected her to clean the lab at the end of the day while he let his other students leave. “How about you learn to stop being so bloody insensitive?”

  A flick of his bony hand at her and he said, “This is what I mean. It’s these emotional fluctuations that take away your ability to be objective. That’s why men make better scientists.”

  “And terrible companions.”

  He lowered his head and peered over his glasses at her. “We can leave our baggage at the door,” he continued.

  For the second time, her face smouldered. “You left your baggage in the delivery ward, John. Maybe your sociopathic detachment serves you well in the world of science, but it doesn’t equip you to deal with the real world. Without science, you’d be stranded.” Her vision blurred. Great! Tears again. They only strengthened the man’s argument.

  John sighed and shook his head.

  A glance down at her dinner, and Alice prodded the soft steak. Maybe a scalpel would be more appropriate than the wooden-handled knife in her hand. In the brigh
t glare of John’s scrutiny, Alice cut into the steak and lifted a piece to her mouth.

  The soft meat sat like jelly on her tongue. Unable to chew it, she took a deep gulp and tried to swallow. The piece of steak stuck in her throat like it was barbed. Her heart raced as a metallic rush of juices slithered down her oesophagus and clogged her throat.

  John watched on, his expression unchanged. The cold detachment of a scientist rather than the compassion of a human being stared through his beady eyes.

  Alice’s pulse boomed inside her skull. She held her neck and wheezed, “Help me.”

  He didn’t. He believed in natural selection. Sink or swim. How many cavemen had choked on their dinner? The ones who had been saved only weakened the gene pool. Weakness should never be rewarded.

  After several heavy gulps, Alice swallowed the meat, leaned on the table, and gasped. Adrenaline surged through her. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand to stop her mascara from running and looked up to see John watching her with his usual blank expression. A barrage of abuse rose and died on her tongue; there was no point.

  Alice retuned her focus to her dinner and flinched every time her cutlery hit the porcelain plate. The sharp chinks bounced around the quiet room. After she’d cut everything up, she stared at her food. A tightness remained in her throat from when she’d choked; another sip of warm red wine did little to ease her trepidation.

  When she looked back up, John still watched her.

  She cleared her throat. “So, when will you tell me about your work, John?”

  His dinner remained untouched; his scrawny frame and pallid skin served as a visual representation of his poor diet. Thirty years her senior at sixty-three, he looked fifty years older. He consulted his wristwatch as if their meal had a deadline and sighed. “I can’t. You know that.”

  While she watched him, she speared some potato and put it in her mouth, chewed, and took another sip of wine. The fluffy vegetable disintegrated and slid down her throat when she swallowed. Eating under John’s cold scrutiny seemed to increase the possibility that she’d choke again. Maybe he was right; maybe her tension was all in the mind.

  She ate a piece of purple sprouting broccoli. The bland vegetable had taken on the rich tang of blood from the steak.

  Despite the slow heave that turned through her stomach again, Alice focused hard on mastication. When the food had no taste left, she swallowed the weak mush.

  When she looked up again, the strip lighting sent electric shocks through her eyeballs. She shielded her brow as she looked at John. “Have the lights gotten brighter?”

  John didn’t respond.

  “The lights,” she repeated as she viewed the room through slits. “Have they been turned up?” Her world blurred, and the beginnings of a migraine stretched its poisonous roots through her brain.

  Alice changed the subject. “I know you can’t tell me about your work, John. It’s just, as my professor, I long to understand more. You’re here to teach me, after all.” Another sharp pain jabbed into her eyes, and she drew a short breath that echoed in the bare room. While she stared down at the white table, she pinched her forehead for relief.

  “Are you okay?” His tone showed no evidence of concern. It seemed more like someone on a scientific quest to collate information. She expected to look up and see him taking notes. John didn’t believe in downtime. The world should be viewed through objective eyes at all times. Emotions belonged to the irrational.

  Two hollow knocks sounded out when John dropped his pointy elbows on the table. Alice looked up to see his long and bony fingers entwine. His deep and languid voice rumbled, “Eat more, it will make you feel better. As for my work, you’ll have to keep wondering, I’m afraid. Since the Second Cold War started with The East, everything has been on a need-to-know basis.”

  “The Second Cold War? That’s always your excuse, John. Since the terrorist attacks in 2023–”

  “And the second wave a year later.” He spoke to her as if she didn’t know her history. He spoke to her as if she barely knew her own name.

  A deep breath helped her withhold her retort. “The point I was trying to make,” she said, “is that nothing’s happened for the last fifteen years. We’ve had the silent threat of war hanging over us like a thick fog. Sometimes I wonder whether it’s just a way for the government to take our civil liberties away. I wouldn’t be surprised if they put a Doomsday Clock in every city just to remind us of how much protection we need. Just so we obey their every wish.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Alice. You sound like one of those new-age paranoid types.”

  “As opposed to the old-age paranoid types? At least my beliefs don’t result in us stockpiling weapons of mass destruction.” Fire spread across her face and she trembled. Years of repressed arguments always rushed forward when things got tense between them. One day he’d get the lot, regardless of whether he labelled her irrational or not.

  His long features twisted, but he remained silent.

  “Besides, when you’re connected to those in power, I’m sure it does seem preposterous. You’ll be okay, John; you have a space in their fallout shelters when you want it. Ironic really.”

  “What is?”

  She gasped when her stomach lurched. She coughed several times before she said, “The fact that the wealthy and privileged will survive if it all goes to hell, left to remake the world in their own greedy image. I mean,”—she forced a laugh that fell dead in the sparse room—”that’s what got us in this state in the first place. It would seem that humanity is destined to repeat itself if they’re the people who will crawl out of the ground after this planet has been ravaged by a nuclear war.” A huge gulp of wine, and she slammed the glass back down on the table. When she pulled her hair from her face, the light in the room hit her like sharp needles fired into her eyeballs.

  A gentle slur dampened her words, and the warm liquid that she’d tried to drink dribbled down her chin. “Anyway, maybe we’ll work together when I graduate.”

  When she looked back up, she saw regret in his cold eyes. The flicker of emotion sat awkwardly on his stony face. “Maybe,” he allowed. “How’s your food? Wilfred is quite the chef, don’t you think?”

  If Wilfred never cooked again it would be too soon. Alice didn’t reply.

  John maintained the silence.

  No matter how much she wriggled, Alice found no comfort on the hard plastic chair. Sweat dampened her back. Before she spoke, she paused. The words had abandoned her, so she fished in her increasingly foggy mind for them. The first three words came out as a slur, “Yes, he is. However, the steak is a little rare for my liking.” A hard throb surged through her temples. She drew a sharp breath through her clenched teeth and slapped her hands to her face. When she pushed against her eyeballs, it did nothing to ease her pain; they felt ready to burst.

  John showed little concern. After he’d regarded his watch again, he lifted a small black box and pressed a button on it. “I agree. Wilfred likes his meat bloody.” He said the word like a vampire with a thirst. “This is well done by his standards.”

  A gentle whir sounded, and darkness fell over the room.

  When Alice twisted her head, she saw heavy metal shutters close over the windows. “When were they fitted?” she asked. Her own words echoed through her mind.

  A half smile twisted John’s face. “Earlier today.”

  Every beat of her pulse kicked her brain. Her stomach tensed. She stammered, “W… why are you… um, why are you locking us in?”

  His laugh echoed through her skull and her world spun. “I’m not locking us in, dear. I’m locking them out. We’ve had information that suggests the Cold War may heat up tonight. We believe that China and Korea have mastered biological warfare. This apartment is already well fortified; I’ve just added the shutters to prevent an airborne virus from entering.” As if in afterthought, he added, “I’m sure that nothing will happen, but it’s better to be safe.”


  Fire barrelled through her guts. Sweat gushed from her brow, and the thick black bars of tunnel vision shut off her peripheral sight. Everything fell into soft focus. She felt disconnected from the words as she said them. “Oh, so we have to stay here?” Several blinks did nothing to clear her vision.

  With a sombre nod, John said, “Yes. We have plenty of rations though.”

  Where? The apartment had seemed empty—not that she could see much now; maybe she’d missed a stash of supplies.

  Another rush of heat forced sweat from every pore. John vanished from her view as his white coat blended into the surroundings.

  Alice wheezed. “Is that why you’re checking your watch? You know when it’s supposed to happen?”

  Before John replied, everything went dark and she fell sideways. Sharp pain exploded across her cheek as she hit the table. The smell of bleach slithered up her nostrils.

  “It won’t be long now, dear.”

  She heard his chair scrape across the floor.

  “Would you excuse me while I go and use the bathroom? I want to make the most of that luxury because we’ll need to stay in this room from here on out. It’ll be a bucket in the corner after thissssssssss…”

  His words faded as her vision failed her.

  ***

  The sun shone directly into Rhys’ eyes when he pulled up outside Dave’s house. On the first attempt, he flapped at the sun visor and missed it, the glare so strong it blinded him. The thing creaked when he flipped it down on the second attempt. The car was a relic, but it wasn’t like he could afford anything else. When the custody battle for his boy was finally over with, he’d get one of the latest models. The Audi Aurore had automatic sun visors as standard from the 2035 model onwards. It may be a few years old, but something like that would be much nicer than the twenty-year-old Peugeot piece of shit he had to drive.