The Alpha Plague 7

by Michael Robertson

  Although the guard grabbed his right bicep like he had before, this time he used much less force. He led Flynn away from where he currently stood.

  ***

  After about a minute and a few twists and turns, they came to a flight of stairs. The guard slowed down to allow Flynn to feel his way up without tripping.

  The metal stairs clocked beneath Flynn’s steps as they continued their climb. The cold had already left Flynn’s bones. Sweat itched all over his body from both the exertion and the change in temperature as they scaled higher. Although only faint at that moment, he could hear the sound of people—another fucking crowd.

  “Where are you taking me?” Flynn asked.

  The guard gripped harder and shoved Flynn forward. He caught his foot on the next step and he would have tripped were it not for the guard holding onto him.

  “Okay, okay, I get it. No more questions.”

  The grip eased and the guard slowed down again.

  ***

  After another few minutes of climbing, Flynn’s legs shook and he panted beneath his oppressive hood. The guard gave him a sharp tug to halt him and then walked past him.

  What sounded like a metal handle snapped down in front of them. A moment later the sounds of the crowd raised in volume. They’d clearly just opened a door separating them and the spectators. Although, what they’d come to spectate, Flynn couldn’t guess.

  Before Flynn could think on it any further, the guard tugged him forward through the open doorway.

  After several steps, a strong wind crashed into Flynn. Before he had time to think, the guard had walked around behind him again and ripped his hood away.

  Flynn’s stomach lurched and he instinctively stepped back a pace from the edge of the tall building. At least twenty storeys up, maybe more, he looked at the small people below. They all whooped and hollered at his arrival. It had to be the same crowd who’d watched him climb the hill.

  A derelict town much like the one close to Home, Flynn looked out over it from his vantage point on top of an old tower block.

  Now he’d stepped back from the edge, Flynn relaxed a little, the strong breeze cooling his sweating face. He looked to his right down the line of prisoners and saw what he assumed to be all of the ones who’d climbed the shitty hill successfully. They all wore the same clothes as him.

  It took Flynn a few seconds, but when he saw Rose, he relaxed a little and let go of a relieved sigh.

  When Flynn looked at the guard behind him who’d led him up the stairs, his blood ran cold. A wide smile on her wicked face, Mistress stared back at him. She then walked past him and stood on the edge of the building, about to address the crowd. Whatever she had to say to them at that point, it wouldn’t be good.

  Chapter Thirty

  Mistress paraded up and down in front of the line of prisoners and said nothing. Flynn’s sight had fully adjusted to the bright glare of the sun and he now saw the glisten of fresh blood on her leather apron. Again. So slick, it shimmered like oil riding the top of a wave.

  A wide and leering grin split Mistress’ gaunt face. Her black hair danced in the wind and she moved with sure-footed steps. She firmly planted her weight down with each stride forward, the gravel on the rooftop crunching beneath her strut.

  From the way Mistress looked at them, Flynn knew they existed on a knife edge. At any moment, she could send any one of them flying from the top of the building. They’d best recognise and respect that.

  Despite walking right on the lip of the building, Mistress didn’t seem in the least bit bothered about the fall. Clearly familiar with being up there, she owned the space. Flynn watched her and eased back a step. How many people had she launched from the top in the past?

  To look at the vicious woman sent chills through Flynn, so he looked at the abandoned town beyond instead. Like all of the other towns he’d visited, many of the buildings had fallen into disrepair. Maybe rats lived down there like in the town close to Home. Although probably not. He scanned the shadows regardless and looked for the movement of small bodies.

  At least one hundred people gathered around the bottom of the tower block and stared up. Flynn had to shield his eyes from the sun to see all their gawking faces. The hot June day pressed down on him, and despite the strong breeze, Flynn sweated in his T-shirt and joggers.

  The town didn’t look like home for the people, and no matter where Flynn looked, he couldn’t see any signs of either fortification or dwellings. Maybe he’d find out where they lived if he won the stupid competition.

  When Mistress shouted at the prisoners, it snapped Flynn from his musings and he jumped.

  “Right,” she screeched like a cawing bird, “we need to know your numbers. One by one, I’d like you to step forward and tell the good people down below what your number is. We need to make sure the people with skin in the game know who they’re rooting for.”

  A skinny girl with matted hair stepped forward. She looked to be barely out of her teens and her voice wobbled as she shook and said, “Hi—”

  “Louder!” Mistress yelled and stamped a black-booted foot against the gravel roof of the building.

  “Hi!” the girl shouted to the people below. “I’m Samantha—”

  In two steps, Mistress rushed at the girl and leaned into her face. She shouted so loud Samantha pulled back as if from the force of it. “I don’t give a fuck what your name is. What number are you, sweetheart?”

  Samantha flushed red and stammered for a few seconds. “N-number … number five. I’m number five.”

  When Mistress spun her finger at the girl, Samantha turned around. She lifted her T-shirt to show the crowd her number five over her right kidney. The angry red wound looked a long way from healed, the glisten of pus turning it shiny.

  If the permanent throb of his brand gave him any indication, Flynn’s probably looked as bad. Or would when it got as old and infected as Samantha’s had.

  A few seconds passed where neither Mistress nor Samantha spoke, but Mistress glared at the young girl as if she would cave her skull in at any moment.

  As much as Flynn wanted to tell the girl to step back, he wouldn’t put his neck on the line for her.

  Samantha finally got the hint and moved back into line with the others.

  It took a few more seconds for Mistress to move on and stare at Rose. Flynn’s heart beat faster and he balled his fists. Would he step in if he needed to?

  “Hi,” she called down to the people. “I’m number one.” Some of the crowd cheered as she spun around and showed them the brand over her left kidney. Clearly the people with a number one ticket. She promptly stepped back into line.

  “Quite the confident one, aren’t we?” Mistress said, but Rose didn’t respond.

  Each prisoner stepped forward at Mistress’ request, repeating the same routine Rose had laid down for them. Flynn paid extra attention when they came to the brute.

  Although overweight, the thickset ginger man wore strength in his heavy frame. Farmer strength rather than athlete strength, he looked like he could break bones. The wind tossed his fine ginger hair as he stepped forward and looked at the people down below. “I’m number seven.”

  A small section of the crowd responded to his number with cheers and shouts.

  The ego of the brute seemed to drive him and would no doubt get him into trouble. Unlike the other prisoners, he remained a step ahead of the line and glared at Mistress. Almost an open challenge to the woman, it took for her to tilt her head to one side in an avian twist for him to turn around, reveal the number seven over his right kidney, and step back.

  Mistress watched him like she’d peck his eyes out. If only she’d throw him off the roof. She then looked at the next prisoner, who stepped forward, introduced herself, and stepped back quicker than any of the others had as if to make up for the brute’s faux pas.

  By the time Mistress got to Flynn on the end of the line, he’d grown so nervous his stomach clamped and he felt nauseated. He stepped fo
rward and called down, “Sixteen,” to the people below before turning around and showing them his right kidney. He stepped back into line with the others.

  Like she had with the brute, Mistress stared at Flynn as if contemplating her next move. She then pointed at him and his legs shook. If he made a break for it, how far would he get before someone took him out? Surely there had to be guards waiting just behind the metal door to the stairs.

  “One,” Mistress said and moved onto the person next to him. “Two, three, four, five …” She paused, the strong wind rocking her where she stood, and stared at the brute. “Six, seven, eight, nine.”

  Samantha stood at the end of the line, skinny and still shaking. Mistress hadn’t counted her yet.

  Another twist of her head and Mistress said, “Well, well.”

  It happened so quickly, Flynn nearly missed it.

  In one fluid movement, the vicious woman lurched forward, grabbed Samantha’s forearm, dragged her towards the edge of the building and said, “Ten’s my unlucky number,” as she threw her off.

  The poor girl screamed all the way down, and Flynn—like the others—stepped forward to watch her hit the ground. The crowd parted in time for her to connect with the concrete with a deep crack. Her body fell instantly limp and lay as a twisted approximation of a human form, her limbs bent and buckled in ways that shouldn’t be possible.

  As one, the prisoners all stepped back from the edge of the building again. They all moved a little farther away than they’d stood before and watched Mistress with wide, fearful eyes. When Flynn looked across, he saw shock even on the brute’s face.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Now,” Mistress called out as she walked along the edge of the building’s roof again. She stamped a foot down with each word. “Now, now, now, now, now.” When she reached the brute, she stopped.

  The thickset ginger man clenched his jaw, pulled his shoulders back, and raised his chin. Not quite as defiant since poor Samantha had been launched from the roof, but a clear show of strength nonetheless. It told Mistress he wouldn’t go down as easily as Samantha had.

  It felt like the longest time as Mistress said nothing; she simply stared at him. “You want to follow her, do you?” she finally said.

  The large red-headed man didn’t say no. He most certainly didn’t say yes either. It would have been much better if she’d thrown him off instead of Samantha—and she still could. The brute finally lowered his stare, subservient enough to appease her.

  A tittering laugh and Mistress moved away. As she spoke, she threw wide and flowing arm movements. Theatrics that probably had an effect for the people down below, but looked ridiculous to Flynn so close to her. She spoke for the benefit of the crowd. “The people down there need to know who you fuckers are.”

  Each footstep slammed down on the edge of the roof as if challenging the decrepit building’s stability. “You,” she said and stopped in front of a man no taller than about five feet seven inches. When she moved close to him, she dwarfed him. “Who are you, little fella?”

  Mistress stood aside so the man could step forward. Whilst wringing his hands, he looked down at the people and said, “I’m number two.”

  “Not your number, you moron. What’s your name?”

  “J—”

  Before he could get his name out, Mistress grabbed him by his T-shirt and pulled him to the very edge of the roof. She pointed down at the crowd. “Tell them.”

  “Jake,” he shouted, his eyes closed as he shook and cried. “My name’s Jake Schwartz.”

  “Anyone got number two?” Mistress called down to the people, her now familiar lear twisting her vicious face.

  A group in the crowd cheered in response like they had the first time each of the prisoners revealed their numbers.

  Mistress stepped away from the man, looked him up and down, and turned back to the people below, shouting as she said, “I don’t fancy yours much.”

  The crowd laughed. Although the small section who’d cheered didn’t. Their horse wouldn’t be coming in today.

  A strong pat on his back and Jake thrust his arms out to the sides to prevent himself from falling. “So, J-Jake Schwartz,” Mistress said, “tell us where you’re from. All the people with a number two may win extra food rations if you win, so tell them a little bit about yourself. Help them connect with you so at least it matters to someone when your pathetic life is snuffed out.”

  Still with his eyes closed, Jake spoke rapid words. “I left a community about twenty miles away. We only had a few people there and I wanted to meet someone. Thought I could maybe find love.”

  Mistress’ laugh boomed like thunder. “Wow.” She looked at Jake and laughed again, her face red, her eyes tearing up with her mirth. “How fucking romantic. Although it would seem—even at the end of the world—that the diminutive Jake Schwartz still can’t get laid.”

  The crowd laughed again.

  Before Jake could say anything else, Mistress shoved him backwards. He tripped and fell on his arse, some of the gravel kicking up around him.

  Because Flynn had his attention on the fallen Jake and watched him get to his feet, he only saw Mistress had gone to Rose when she said, “You! Step forward.”

  Flynn’s heart flipped to watch Rose move away from the line. Quick enough so she didn’t need Mistress’ help, she walked right to the edge of the building. A strong gust of wind and she’d fall.

  “I’m Rose,” she said to the crowd. “I’m number one and I used to belong to a community that got taken down a month or two back.”

  Not a lie, but she didn’t blame the Queen. The wind picked up and Flynn’s heart fluttered to watch Rose rock on the edge of the building.

  For a short while, Mistress said nothing. She moved close to Rose and stared at her as if contemplating her fate. She then turned to the crowd. “Who has number one?”

  The cheer for Rose rang louder than it had for Jake. It didn’t look like she had any more people in her crowd than he had in his. The louder noise simply showed more confidence in their champion.

  “Quite the fan club, it would seem,” Mistress said. After she’d looked Rose up and down, she added, “I can see why.” Instead of shoving her, she shooed her back by waving her hand at her.

  Rose glanced at Flynn on her way back into line.

  The thud of Mistress’ steps hit the roof again as she walked down the edge of it. Each step drew closer to Flynn. A fierce scowl as she looked at each prisoner until she finally stopped in front of him. “And here he is, the survivor. The one who should have died, but somehow made it up shit hill. Step forward, honey.”

  Flynn didn’t challenge her, his pulse racing as he stepped to the edge of the roof. To look down at the people far below made his stomach lurch and his already weak legs wobbled. “My name’s Flynn,” he called out, loud enough to make his dry throat itch. Sweat rose on his brow and ran down his face. “I’m number sixteen.”

  In what seemed to be her theatrical fashion, Mistress held the bottom of her chin and watched Flynn. “And tell us where you’re from, sweetheart.”

  “Biggin Hill.”

  “The what now?”

  “Biggin Hill,” Flynn said and looked down at the dead Samantha. He lost his words for a second before he said, “I went there with my parents and their friend when the plague started. We found high ground and waited it out.”

  “And where are the others now?”

  Flynn sighed as he said it. “Dead.”

  “Wow, I should start calling you lucky from now on.”

  The crowd laughed, but Flynn didn’t respond as the pain of Vicky’s death burned through him. He’d dealt with his parents’ passing, but since Serj had told him how Vicky had died, it had pulled up what he’d previously believed to be processed emotions.

  At that moment, Mistress placed a hand in between Flynn’s shoulder blades. A firm enough pressure to show him his life belonged to her now. One shove and he’d fall. “Who has number sixteen?”r />
  The loudest cheer yet.

  “They like you, sweetheart.”

  Flynn looked down at the people as they continued to shout and cheer.

  “I suppose they saw what you did on poo hill. No one’s fallen that far and still made it. Maybe there is something about you.” Mistress then applied a little more pressure to Flynn’s back.

  Flynn pushed his toes into the roof against her gentle shove, her press getting harder with each passing second and the gravel slipping beneath his feet.

  When the pressure got to the point just before Flynn could fall, Mistress let go and he stumbled backwards.

  Once Flynn had pulled far enough away from the edge, he let a relieved sigh go. He could feel Rose looking at him, but he didn’t look back. Instead, he watched Mistress turn to the crowd and bow, leaning out over the edge of the roof as if she had no fear of falling. Of course he wanted to push her off at that point, but it wouldn’t serve any purpose. They wouldn’t get through the metal door behind them before they were overwhelmed by guards.

  As if reading his thoughts, the sound of footsteps approached from behind. Before Flynn could look around, someone pulled yet another hood over his head. It turned his already sweating face hotter. The thick fabric and the heat of the day combined to turn the air in his dark space so heavy he struggled to breathe.

  When the guard behind Flynn pulled him back towards the stairs, some of the tension left his body. Fuck knew where they planned on taking them next, but at least they weren’t throwing him off the roof like poor Samantha.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The rattle of metal against metal clattered through the prison. It took a hold of Flynn’s already frayed nerves and electrocuted them, waking him from his uncomfortable sleep.

  Not only did Flynn have a headache and a backache, but he had such sore muscles he doubted if he’d be able to travel far. It took slow and tentative movements, but he unfurled himself from Rose.