The Amsterdam Chronicles
DEF-CON CITY
Part 1
Copyright 2017 Brian Christopher
First published in 2013
Acknowledgements
About the author
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Chapter One
The mid-July temperature had dropped to one more associated with February or March. Summer had skipped Amsterdam this year; it rained almost every other day. Travel companies were doing brisk business for those looking for a sun tan and an ozone layer that still held up. They would be the lucky ones. Some who remained in the city would regret it for the rest of their lives, or at least the short amount of time they had left to live.
?Monday 2:15 AM.
Frank Brandsma lay asleep when suddenly he grabbed his chest. Rosie, his wife, who lay next to him, awoke instantly. She turned to see him gasping for breath and recognized the problem immediately; his heart. This was not the first time, although the doctor had assured her after the latest check-up his health had improved tremendously. Since his last birthday, when he turned sixty-eight Frank had cut down on fats and had been exercising. There was panic in his eyes as he lay staring up at the ceiling. Rosie tried to help him into a sitting position, but it was impossible. Even though he had lost weight, he was still far too heavy.
Frank clutched his left arm.
"Are you all right dear? Do you want me to call a doctor?"
He gasped for breath - a second surge of pain cut across his chest. "Doctor?" He grimaced through clenched teeth. "Call a goddamn ambulance, and quick."
"I'll call right away." She turned towards the telephone on the nightstand, and punched in the emergency number. Frank jerked from a terrific jolt of pain, which shifted him close to the edge of the bed.
"Oh my God." Rosie screamed. "Please answer quickly. Hello? Yes, ambulance service please. It's my husband. He's not feeling very well. I think he's having another heart attack. Oh, thank you very much? Five minutes, yes I'm sure he can wait that long. Thank you."
Another jolt of pain caught Frank so hard it flipped him out of the bed and onto the floor with a heavy thump - the ancient bedside lamps rocked from side to side. Rosie shrieked. From the other side of the bed, she could just see his hand clutch the edge of the sheet.
His eyes were wide open. Frank was dead.
Two hundred meters away Carola Munk turned restlessly in her bed. A bead of sweat on her forehead gently rolled across her light blond eyebrow and dropped on to the yellow cotton cover of her feathered pillow. For the umpteenth time, she reached out with long red painted fingernails to push away the nightmare. Pain and terror filled her face. Her arms swung wild, powerless in her effort to catch the horrifying images that taunted her. She stiffened, clutched the sheets with a firm grasp, two nails snapped in the process.
Carola awoke in a panic, she gasped for breath. The unrestrained aggression she had for the beast that terrorized her sleep, stopped. Not daring to move, she lay in her sweat-soaked white cotton sheets, hoping the pounding in her head would cease.
There were hangovers and hangovers, but never as bad as this. Her stomach felt sick and her chest hurt like hell. Four hours ago the Spanish wine had tasted like someone had left a rusty nail in the bottom of the bottle. Why her friends had turned it into a trend was beyond her. They even brought their own Rioja to nearly every party. She found it too acidic. The bitter metallic tang did not agree with her palate, and unlike most bad wines that tasted better after the first sip or second or third glass, that one never improved. Carola turned to the left towards the clock, her head throbbed. The beat of her heart seemed to magnify the pain at every pulse. Three-thirty four in the morning; it was going to be a long night.
?Ten minutes later the pounding in her head had increased to a near unbearable measure, and the bellyache refused to die down. Time to stick two fingers down her throat to flush out the remnants of wine and gut acid that made her so nauseous. Paracetamol immediately after should dampen the headache and with any luck she would feel better within half an hour. Then, back to sleep; her brain and body needed it badly.
With more effort than usual Carola pulled the covers back, sat up on the edge of the bed, and moaned. Never was she so devastated after a night out with the girls - she had to get to the bathroom.
Carefully, while trying to correct her balance, she left her bed and staggered towards the door. Every move heightened the agony, drained her strength, and left her gasping for breath.
Finally, she made it, and flicked the light switch. The brilliance of the new LED light pierced her retina and hit the back of her head where the thumping pain originated. Hangovers were an accepted part of a night out with the girls, but nothing was ever like this. She wondered if she had developed migraine, no, it was definitely that fucking wine. Never again, she thought.
Grasping the cold tap, the effort of trying to turn it on surprised her, her head spun, her legs nearly buckled. Quickly, Carola sat on the edge of the bath, a moment of dizziness caught her off guard. In desperation, she grabbed the sink to prevent herself from collapsing. Her head dipped from exhaustion. Trying to steady herself she finally managed to pull herself high enough to see her reflection in the mirror. The image staring back at her made her gasp.
A week ago she turned twenty-five. Compliments didn't go higher than eighteen or nineteen. The lines under her bloodshot eyes were deeper, darker, her face was haggard and pale; she now looked a deathly fifty-five.
Chapter Two
The Amsterdam Chronicles: Def-Con City Trilogy Part 1 Page 1
