The Road to Ruin: A post-apocalyptic survival series (A World Torn Down Book 1)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Relieved that the sick man had boarded a different plane, Deacon pulls at the strap of his seat belt. It won’t fit.

  “Just make it bigger,” Jules suggests as she watches him struggle.

  Pulling at the strap, he releases a length more. “I got it,” he smiles back to her and leans his head against the rest then plants his hand across her thigh. His fingers stretch from one side to the other, the slim tautness of her well-toned muscles firm beneath his hand. He loves that about her, how she always takes care of herself. He turns his head to catch a glimpse of her profile as she settles down to read the paperback she saves for their business trips. Always the same one, ‘Pride and Prejudice’. How she could keep reading the same book again and again he’d never understand and if he had to watch one more clip of that Darcy bloke stepping out of a pond with his shirt dripping wet he’d … well he’d just lay his head on her lap, close his eyes and think of the next set of pipes he’d get for his bike. He smiles at her again and she looks up to him, her pixie face swamped by her reading glasses, blonde hair scraped back and out of the way for the flight, and his heart flips. He turns his head back to the window, blinking away the stupid tears that prick at his eyes. She’s going to die of happiness when he asks her. He just hopes the hotel staff have followed his instructions and set the room up the way he asked. Smiling, he looks through the small window down to the runway as the plane begins to taxi, then closes his eyes, breathing a little deeper as his heart starts to pound just a little harder and grips the arm rest. Cool, soft fingers lay a gentle pressure on his arm.

  “It’s OK, babe. We’ll be in the air in a few moments.”

  “Yeah,” he sighs quietly, foolishness creeping over him. What’s a big oaf like him doing getting scared of taking off in an aeroplane? “I’m fine, Jules. Really. Not scared at all. Go back to Mr Darcy.” She squeezes his arm and pushes her head against his shoulder then holds the book back up to her face.

  Cassie is done waiting for Dan. She slips into bed, reaches across to the mirrored bedside table and pulls open the drawer. If he’s not here she can relax at least—be herself. Reaching in, she takes out the reading glasses hidden there. He doesn’t need to know her sight isn’t perfect. Pressing the button of her e-reader she waits for it to come to life, squinting at the bright light, then scrolls through the library, settles on the book she’d bought last time he hadn’t been home on time and loses herself to another world. As the battery wanes, she drifts off to sleep and wakes to a warm hand sliding over her breast in the dark.

  “I missed you,” Dan murmurs pulling her to him.

  “You sure did,” she replies smiling, a tingle of desire stroking at her. “I was waiting with just a pair of gold stilettoes and a flute of champagne to keep me company.”

  “Mmmm! Sounds good. I’ll try harder tomorrow to get back in time,” he soothes. “You know my dad—the company always comes first.”

  She smiles as the smell of his sweat and intoxicating cologne wafts over her. “You work too hard, baby.”

  “I do it for you, Cas. Always for you,” he murmurs his hands clasping her ribcage. “Go back to sleep and I’ll give you my present in the morning.”

  “Love you, baby,” she sighs and strokes his hand as it presses against her naked torso then falls back into a deep and untroubled sleep.

  Chapter 6

  Flight A435 to Curacao

  The t-shirt under Garett’s sweater is sodden as sweat drips uncontrollably from his pores. He shivers in his seat next to the window. He’d watched through bleared eyes as the plane lifted off over the city, patches of bright light becoming smudges as the plane ascended ever higher until finally they disappeared to black. Now, his eyelids are so heavy they feel sealed together. The passengers next to him asked to move half an hour ago and he sits alone, stiff in his seat, barely able to move as the virus rips through him, multiplying and poisoning each cell. Hands held like claws on his knees, he shivers. The pain is excruciating. A sneeze erupts, rockets him forward, and bashes his forehead against the hard, plastic back of the seat in front. Another spray of a million droplets shoots out above him and rises unseen, riding the warm currents of circulating air, lifted along the swell, sucked into the air-conditioning, and regurgitated throughout the cabin.

  Two hours into the flight Chelsea Deakins sneezes. “Here sweetheart. Have a tissue.” Her mother, always prepared, picks at the plastic fold of a soft, oblong packet and pulls out a clean tissue prettily patterned with tendrils and flowers. Mrs Deakins always likes things to be pretty, particularly for Chelsea. Always the best for Chelsea.

  “I’m OK, Mum.” Chelsea returns.

  “Here take it. Let me see,” she says placing her cold palm against her daughter’s forehead, feeling for warmth. “Hah! You’ve got a temperature. That’s all we need at the beginning of our holiday. Don’t worry sweet-”

  “Mum! Stop fussing. I’m OK. I just sneezed. It’s just the air in this cabin—it’s so dry—that’s all.”

  “OK, sweetheart. I’ll keep an eye on you though,” she says smiling down at her.

  Garett tries to look up as a shadow falls across him, turbulence rocking the tall figure forwards. It loses balance and a huge hand lands on the empty aisle seat.

  “Oh! Sorry.”

  The voice sounds distant, muffled. Garett can’t quite understand the words. He hears them, but his brain can’t read them.

  “Oh, my good-. Someone get help! This man’s sick.”

  Again, the muffled sound he can’t get a hold of, but the shadow pulls back. A tightness squeezes at his chest and he gasps for breath.

  “Hey! Stewardess. I think this man needs a doctor.”

  A scream cuts through the mumbled words and Garett lolls his head towards the window, a haze of red mixing with the bleared colours of the cabin; red outlined by black. He strains to look up and through the haze he thinks he can see a head peering at him from the seat in front. He doesn’t care. Let them look. The pain in his frozen limbs is unbearable. He wants to scream about the pain, but the agony in his throat, in every muscle of his body, paralyses him.

  Bored, Jason twists the grubby cream peg that holds the fold-up table in place on the back of the seat and pulls it down. The plastic tray is just as boring unfolded as before. He sighs and slaps it back up, flipping the peg back into place.

  “Sit still,” his mother reprimands.

  Huh! She’s always on at him. He turns to the window, leaning across her knees to see outside. The glass reflects the cabin and his father’s elbow on the armrest, head in hand, behind him. Boring! He sags back into his seat as his mother reaches for her book. Why did she have to forget his console! She’s got her book. Always thinking about herself. Never about him. He crosses his arms and his eyebrows pull to a crease. The man groans again behind him and he twists in his seat to look through the gap to get a better look.

  “Gross out! Mummy, look at that man. He’s green.”

  “Don’t look, Jason,” his mother reprimands then shifts to look over the top of the seat. She gasps. “Come down. Now! Just turn around,” she scolds, the pitch of her voice a warning Jason doesn’t ignore. “Pete! Pete!” she calls across him to his dad, poking at his arm with her red talon.

  “What is it now, Sandy? I’m just trying to get some shut-eye.”

  “The guy behind us, I think he’s sick. Perhaps we should move.”

  Bloody woman! “For crying out loud Sandy!” Pete replies opening bleary eyes to look at his wife. She prods him again with that warning nod. He sighs with resignation and pushes at the armrests, lifting up, and turns. “If he’s sick, he’s sick nothing we ca-”

  Pete looks down at the man in the seat behind and his jaw drops as the sight assaults his senses. The bearded man looks truly horrifying and for a few dreadful seconds Pete is unable to break his stare or catch his breath. Rigid in his seat, hands claw-like on his knees, bulbous and mottled mounds of green and purple ring his neck like undulating, vibrant hillocks. Hi
s breath rattles in his chest and seeps out of blackening lips.

  “Sweet Jesus!” the stewardess cries as she responds to the call for help.

  “Do you think he’s dead, Daddy?”

  “No,” Pete replies, hoarse as he turns away from the diseased man, a cold dread sweeping through him.

  “Get back, Jason!”

  “I am!”

  “What if it’s contagious?”

  “Holy Mother of God! His eyes! Someone help!”

  Garett sits, frozen in pain, breath coming hard now, the red haze narrowing as the black edges of his vision deepen. “God, take me now,” he pleads.

  “He’s groaning. Dad he’s still alive.”

  “Get back Jason!” Pete shouts, and pulls the boy back behind the seat. “The man’s ill. Got to give him room.”

  “Why are his eyes bleeding?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What if it’s contagious?” Sandy repeats, her voice loud and shrill.

  “Shut up!” Pete hisses, his stomach queasy as Jason shuffles again in his seat, pulling against the hand gripping the back of his jacket.

  A groan escapes from the frigid body. Blood runs in rivulets down into its beard and drops, like a dripping tap, from the lowest point.

  “His beard’s bleeding, Daddy.”

  The black edges make the red haze a pinprick and then finally, as the pain subsides, close him in. The pain stops and the blackness takes him.

  Lucy sneezes, spraying the nylon hair of her doll with minute, infected droplets.

  Melissa screws up her eyes as she swallows. She strokes her hand over the smooth silk of her self-tanned neck and finds a lump. Frowning, she presses it. The pain is immediate and deep. Tonsillitis again! She reaches into her flight bag and fumbles for her pain killers. She won’t put up with a damned infection spoiling yet another holiday.

  Chapter 7

  09:08. Morgan Tower. 1 Day After Infection

  Cassie bends to place the cup of strong black coffee down onto the huge glass-topped table and tightens the belt of her dressing gown. The way its fitted bodice hugs her waist comforts her. She sits, the dove-grey silk of the gown’s skirt flaring out, parting over her tanned legs, and sinks down into the huge velvet sofa, blonde hair curling on her shoulders. Leaning out for the remote, breast bare as the silk gapes, she turns the television on to her favourite news channel. The huge screen opens immediately and Cassie’s eyes widen as she tries to comprehend the image that confronts her. She wishes they wouldn’t always be so insistent on showing the carnage of these accidents. On the screen is a horrifying scene. The nose tip of an enormous plane lies skewed across a suburban road, its nose jutting out of what was a row of houses. The presenter is talking, but her words sit at the periphery of Cassie’s hearing as she stares at the screen: ‘Captain had requested an emergency landing’, ‘passenger on board had died’, ‘black box’. Cassie watches the graphics showing the route the plane took and the screen cuts back to the studio as the presenter sneezes. She apologises and smiles, but the thick, camera-ready makeup doesn’t disguise the woman’s unhealthy pallor beneath. Finally, the last recording of the captain’s conversation with the air tower is played and an expert suggests a possible cause for the devastating crash. ‘No survivors … children are among the dead … people in the houses didn’t stand a chance’.

  Cassie clicks the red button on the remote and replaces it on the glass top as the screen blackens. Dust has settled overnight but not to worry, Bella will be here to make it perfect again. She lies out on the sofa and crosses her legs, feeling the ache of Dan’s morning love-making and smiles at the memory. As she looks down the length of her tanned leg to her toes she notices a chip on the nail, her brow furrows. Making an appointment for a pedicure is the first job Bella can take care of when she arrives. She lifts her arm and looks at the face of the gold watch strapped to her wrist, its diamonds marking the hours, and her frown deepens. Where is Bella? She’s not usually this late. She sighs and gets up to walk to the kitchen. She’d just have to make her own breakfast.

  08:45. Fenbeck General Hospital, Main Entrance

  Dr Kendrick pushes his way through the heaving mass of people standing outside the hospital doors. It’s taken him twice as long as usual to answer the emergency call. Sanderson will be pissed when he finally gets to A&E. Can’t be helped though; the traffic this morning has been truly horrendous.

  “Excuse me,” he sighs as the broad back of a man at least six feet tall finally halts his progress. The man staggers a little then steps to the side. “Thank you,” Kendrick responds looking up to the man’s face. His eyes widen as he takes in the huge growth protruding above his collar. It isn’t the first he’s seen this morning and a dull ache clenches at his belly. Brandrick had better be waiting for him when he gets through, if he gets through, this lot. “Sorry,” he says, pushing closer to the door, a touch of irritation creeps into his voice as he waits for yet another body to move. A slender, red-haired woman turns to look at him, freckles dotted across green-tinged skin, but her eyes, red-rimmed, are unfocused. In the few seconds it takes to pass, he scans her, mentally taking notes: skin is clammy with the typical yellowing of the skin; a small bubo, tinged with purple at its base, protrudes beneath her jaw, making her face oddly fat on her skinny frame and her hair is wet though the day is warm and dry. Whatever this virus is, if it’s what he thinks it is, then it’s already a level 6 epidemic. How the hell has this happened? No hint of a rogue virus yesterday and today everyone dropping like flies!

  He reaches the front of the crowd and pushes against the aluminium handle of the glass door of the hospital’s front entrance. Locked. His frown deepens and his hands shake as more adrenaline pumps around his body. If the infection is spreading this rapidly! He raps at the glass door, anxious to get access to the antibiotics he knows he’ll need—if there are any left. The glass judders as he hammers again. Across the lobby, through the locked doors, he can see the security guard, his face pinched, body held stiff, eyes flitting above the heads of a jostling crowd in the foyer.

  “Stan!” he shouts and bangs on the glass. It vibrates and behind him the crowd surges. A woman staggers against him then crumples to the floor. She needs help now and if he doesn’t get to those antibiotics!

  “Stan!” he bangs again on the door. This time the security officer sees him, raises his hand then shakes his head. “Stan! Open the door!” Kendrick shouts louder this time, pulling at the handle, rattling the aluminium frame. A body knocks against his back and his cheek cracks against the hard glass. “Ugh!” the pain shoots through his skull and he swallows, pushing down the soreness in his throat. He shrugs his shoulders back, pushing against the body leaning into him and turns around as the man slides to the floor. Kendrick catches his breath as he looks into his bloodshot eyes. From each tear duct blood seeps. Behind him the crowd surges and his ribs squash against the barrier of glass.

  Chapter 8

  10:00. Golden Mile: 21 Days After Infection

  Rick Carter shifts uneasy as he waits at the corner of the street, the butt of his rifle gripped expertly in his right hand, his left holding the stock, the safety clicked to off. With his free hand, he wipes at the greasy sweat on his forehead and drags in a shallow breath. The stench is something he’ll never get used to and seems to cling to every inch of his skin. He checks left then right. Nothing moves, but he makes a mental note of the sound of breaking glass further along the road. Another looter. No. That’s unfair. They’re survivors now. He checks the street a final time then takes a step onto the wide, empty path of the dead city centre street. A dog howls in the distance, a long, low, heart-breaking wail that strikes a chord in Rick’s heart. He takes a breath to ease his discomfort and waits. Another dog barks in return, its voice tinny, trapped somewhere behind glass. At least the men and women died quickly. How long does it take a dog to starve anyhow? He shudders as his thoughts wander to the tinny dog trapped in its apartment, perhaps alone, perhaps
without food, perhaps with what remains of its owner. Squinting against the brightness of the sun, a flicker of movement catches his eye, and he pulls in against the hard, cold marble of the city high-rise. Stock-still he watches as a dog, it’s nose pointed downward, tail between its legs, ribs already defined beneath its coat, plods across the street, and waits for it to disappear.

  The way clear, his belly growling, he continues down the street, checking for the tell-tale façade of a supermarket. They must have one, even on a street like this. There are always places to buy food. He catches his reflection in the huge plate glass window of a small, upmarket cafe as he passes under its awning. Broad shoulders, arms strong and waist still trim under the tightly belted army issue fatigues, but he looks haggard, the strain of the past weeks telling on his face. Hah! Can’t take it like you used to. A hand waves to him. He steps back startled, confusion creasing his brow, then peers hard into the room behind the glass. Sitting at the table are a man and woman, both, he thinks, in their late forties by the look of the man’s greying hair and beard and the sagging breasts of the woman. She waves at him again as she takes a gulp from a wine glass. The man pours more wine into his own over-large glass and throws the empty bottle to the corner. It shatters as Rick stands staring at the couple, struggling to comprehend the scene before him. The woman smiles as she puts her glass down on the table and beckons him inside. Obediently, he steps up to the door and pulls the curved brass handle.