The Death in a Northern Town Trilogy (Books 1-3): Welcome To Dead Town

by Peter Mckeirnon

  Welcome to Dead Town

  By Peter Mckeirnon

  The work in this book is fiction. Although place names may be real, characters and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events and characters are entirely coincidental. The reproduction of this work in full or part is forbidden without written consent from the author.

  Copyright @ 2016 Peter Mckeirnon

  Kindle Edition

  Acknowledgements

  Cover design by Ian Hewitt – Wise Owl Imagery

  Proof read by Kathryn Begley

  For my beautiful wife, Kay, and my amazing children, Alex and Rowan.

  You are my world x

  The Beginning

  In the early morning of Friday 15th February, reports began to circulate of a meteor resembling a large yellow fireball being spotted in the Russian skies, streaking over the city of Yekaterinburg.

  At 09:20 (03:20 GMT), reports confirmed that the meteor had crashed in Russia's Ural Mountains, injuring at least 100 people with much of the impact felt in the city of Chelyabinsk, 200km south of Yekaterinburg.

  Reports inform that there were no fatalities and the majority of those affected suffered minor cuts and bruises, with only a few receiving head injuries, and all were being treated at hospital. The proceeding shockwave, caused by the meteors impact, blew out windows and rocked buildings to their core in the neighbouring Chelyabinsk region.

  Russian President, Vladimir Putin, told reporters that he thanked God that no big fragments had fallen in any populated areas, promising immediate aid for those affected by the incident.

  The Russian Emergencies Ministry released a statement informing that thousands of rescue workers had been dispatched to the area to provide help to the injured and to assist with any of the damage caused by the impact.

  Russian officials had informed reporters that a large meteor had partially burned up in the planet’s lower atmosphere, resulting in the fragments falling to earth.

  What they failed to declare to the press was that a large fragment landed in a lake near Chebarkul, a town in the neighbouring Chelyabinsk region, which is home to many factories, a nuclear power plant and more importantly the Mayak atomic waste storage and treatment centre. The lake in question was Lake Karachay, which is, according to the Washington DC based Worldwatch Institute on Atomic Waste, the most polluted place on the planet.

  Since 1951, the Russian Government has been using Lake Karachay to discard nuclear waste produced at the nearby Mayak Atomic Waste Storage and Treatment Centre.

  The Natural Resources Defense Council produced a report stating that the radiation level of Lake Karachay and its surrounding region has been measured as 600 roentgens per hour. This level of radiation is more than enough to kill a man within 60 minutes of contamination.

  Following a drought in the 1960s, Lake Karachay started to dry out and winds carried radioactive dust away from the area, killing a reported half a million people. To prevent such a thing from happening again, the Russian Government filled the lake with over 10,000 hollow concrete blocks in an effort to stop radioactive sediments from shifting. Until now, this had proven to be an effective method and there had been no further incidents.

  Until now…

  Journal entry 1

  My name is John Diant. Tortured father to a missing teenage girl, friend to a retro 1980s music obsessed Scouse smart arse and brother to Runcorn’s answer to Chuck Norris, only with less hair and a shitter beard. This is my journal and if you are reading this then hopefully hell is over and order has been restored. If that is the case and zombies are no more then do me a favour and raise a glass so you can join me in a toast.

  To the fallen. To everyone we have loved and lost. To the people that touched our lives along the way and to those we will never know. Here’s to you. I hope that death has brought you peace.

  If of course hell isn’t over and you have stumbled across my journal by accident then in all likelihood it means I’m dead or I’ve misplaced it. If I have lost it then keep an eye out for a dishevelled thirty something accompanied by a man carrying a large plastic spoon and a guy with porno mags strapped to his arms. Please be kind and give it back, I promise we won’t bite, unlike the rest of this zombie infested town.

  Well it’s been almost a week since the life I knew was replaced with the nightmare I’ve often talked about. The apocalypse and the many forms of how it may arrive had been a favourite topic of mine when the world was a normal place with no fear of it ever actually happening. Growing up, my brother, Butty (I’ll get to why he’s called that another time - make sure you’re not eating anything when I tell you) and I would spend hours discussing what could happen, what we would do, what weapons we would need, who we would save and where we would go. If I’m honest, it was my brother that would do most of the talking. The guy was, and still is, apocalypse obsessed. A real doom monger. But thinking about it, if it wasn’t for all the meticulous doomsday planning over the years, I wouldn’t be here now, writing this journal.

  So I bet you’re wondering how this all began? How I went from being John Diant, father, brother and all around average Joe, to John Diant, father, brother and slayer of the living dead? Well, I’ll tell you…

  The end of the world began on Monday February 25th and it was my first day back at work after spending a quiet week at home with my daughter Emily for half term. We had a pact that every half term when her school broke up, we would block out the outside world and spend the whole week with each other. No phones, emails, Twitter or Facebook. Just the two of us enjoying some quality father and daughter time. They were the happiest times of my life.

  I worked in the quality assurance laboratory of a mayonnaise production factory. Day in, day out, I did nothing but taste cold, thick mayonnaise for eight hours a day. Even if you like mayonnaise (I don’t by the way, I hate the stuff), a full working day spooning samples of white eggy emulsion into your mouth is too much for anyone.

  Why would anybody want to taint their food with that muck anyway? Imagine you’ve got in front of you a freshly made honey roast ham, cheddar cheese and salad sandwich. Not the pre-packaged rubbish you get from supermarkets but homemade. Perfection on a plate. Who in their right mind thinks:

  “I know what this delicious sandwich needs. A big fat dollop of salt, egg yolk, oil and vinegar!”

  Sorry about that. I just really despise mayonnaise. But I’ll try and keep my loathing of the white condiment of the damned to myself from now on!

  The factory was located on a once thriving industrial estate which over the years had become home to mostly derelict buildings. It was a sign of the times unfortunately, as businesses on the estate either went bust or moved to more affordable premises.

  Work had become incredibly quiet and management had responded by letting go a large majority of the workforce so I had anticipated work would be quiet when I came back but something wasn’t right. We only had one cook on the shop floor and we didn’t have enough staff to run the packaging lines. That meant only one thing.

  NO MAYONNAISE TASTING FOR ME!

  Normally, I would have been overjoyed to be told we were closing early but this, this was different. There was an eerie silence on the factory floor. It wasn’t just down to the missing staff either. Deliveries were not arriving and the surrounding offices and warehouses that were still operational were quiet too.

  Only one manager had made it in to work and that was Simon, but he really shouldn’t have, as his profuse sweating, vile smell, coughing and vomiting were violating mo
re health and safety rules than I care to remember. To be honest, take away the coughing and vomiting and I have described his appearance on any given day.

  Have you ever seen the movie Big Trouble in Little China? If you haven’t then I apologise as this description will mean nothing to you but there is a guy in the movie that makes himself combust. To do this, he holds his breath and begins to inflate until he explodes. Right before the point of explosion, the man’s face is huge and expanded to breaking point. This is what Simon looked like on a daily basis. Like a giant blistered tomato.

  Now, before you start thinking how horrible I am for talking about my manager this way, I must point out that this guy was a complete dick. His attitude stank just as much as his breath did. I’d known this guy to purposely pay people less than they’ve earned just because they had rubbed him up the wrong way or disagreed with him about something. Not to mention the tonnes of mayonnaise that had failed quality checks, only to be later approved by this walking puss bag. This is mayo that left our factory, was placed on supermarket shelves and then ultimately, ended up in your fridges. So like I said, a complete dick!

  Stinky puss face could not give any explanation as to why work was so quiet or to where everyone was. But still, an early finish from work was not to be sniffed at and neither was he, so I didn’t hesitate for a second in getting out of there. After two hours in the tasting room I was ready for some fresh air.

  I left the tasting room and made my way across the empty factory floor. On a normal day, work would be so full of noise generated from packing production lines you could barely hear yourself think. Not on this day. On this day the only sound you could hear was the wind whistling through the holes in the roof. I’m really selling this place to you aren’t I? Well don’t you worry, should the day come when normality is restored and society has rebuilt, there will always be plenty of jobs available at the mayonnaise factory.

  I reached the locker room which unsurprisingly was also empty, except for one person. Stood, placing his work clothes into his locker, wearing sunglasses, listening to music through headphones connected to an original Sony Walkman cassette player (I think he was listening to ‘I ran’ by A Flock of Seagulls) and with an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth was 80s Dave.

  Now 80s Dave is the same age as me and where I share a nostalgic love for the 1980s, it being the decade of my childhood, Dave is obsessed. 80s movies, 80s music, 80s clothing, 80s gaming - if it happened in the 80s, Dave loves it, and he wants everyone he knows to love it too. I currently have several 80s electro pop mix tapes in my locker that Dave made for me. This is all well and good as I like electro pop as much as the next guy but these mix tapes have been compiled on TDK C90 cassettes. Like most people living in the present, I don’t own a cassette player and haven’t for many years. Telling him this gets you nowhere however. He simply doesn’t understand why a person wouldn’t own one.

  Physically, 80s Dave is quite intimidating and with his thick Liverpool accent, he can come across as being abrupt and unapproachable. But if he decides he likes you, he’s a good friend and will do anything for you, which is something I’ve been extremely grateful for this last few days!

  “Alright kidda, you walking up?” he said, placing the last of his work gear into his locker.

  Dave was born and raised in Liverpool, which is no more than a thirty minute drive from Runcorn. Now if you are not familiar with the ‘Scouse’ accent it is heavily influenced by the large number of immigrants that settled in Liverpool over the years. Some from Scotland and the Isle of Man but mostly from Ireland. The accent is fast paced and unlike any other dialect you will find in the UK due to its unique speech patterns. As a quick guide, you may find the following ‘Scouse’ slang interpretations useful.

  “Lar” – often used to start or end a sentence when referring to or having a conversation with a friend. “Lad,” may also be used.

  “Kidda,” “Kid,” or “Ace” – also used to refer to a friend but more often than not, saved for a close friend.

  “Ad Off” – used when someone has ripped you off or stolen something from you. “He ad off with my bike!” Also used when losing an argument.

  “Go ed” – “Go ahead” or “Go on.”

  “Arl Arse” - when someone has done something cruel or mean spirited. “Stop being such an arl arse!”

  Those are the basics and the words 80s Dave likes to use most commonly. He’s also heavily into swearing, so please accept my apologies for any language used in this journal that might offend. In fact, no, fuck it. It’s the end of the world. If ever there was a time for swearing then that twatting time, is now!

  “Hiya Dave,” I responded. “Yes mate I’m walking up. Let’s hurry up and get out of here before Simon changes his mind and keeps the place open.”

  “Doubt it lar, have you seen the kip of him? He looks like the world is about to fall out of his arse. Fucking hilarious. Speaking of which, I’m just going for a quick dumpski. Saves using my own bog paper when I get home. I only ever take a crap on work time. I’m so good at it now I haven’t bought any toilet paper for six months. I can even hold one in all weekend. Two days straight lar. My sphincter is the strongest muscle in my body kidda. Wait for me outside daddy ‘O’.”

  “Gladly Dave,” I grimaced, “I might even start walking up on my own. The further away from you and that toilet I am the better.”

  “There’s no need for that lar. My shit smells like I look. Fucking sweet! I’ll see you outside Ace,” and with that, Dave left the locker room.

  I finished up in the locker room, clocked out and left the factory. It was a cool and crisp winter morning. The sky was clear and the sun was shining but it was cold, most definitely below zero, and I was eager to go home.

  I took out my phone to text Emily to let her know I had finished early and I was going to be home when she got in from school.

  No signal.

  Now it wasn’t uncommon for mobile phone signals in Runcorn to be erratic. I’ve often surmised that the reason for the terrible reception in this town was because of the chemical manufacturing plant situated at the heart. I’ve stated on many occasions that the surrounding thick smog of chemicals that encase the town is responsible for stopping any signal from getting in or out. I also think it’s the reason every other person here needed an inhaler but hey, I’m no doctor so what do I know?

  I decided to walk around to see if it would help to gain a phone signal. Knowing how long it normally takes Dave when he visits the lavatory, I knew I’d have plenty of time before he made an appearance.

  There was a small path at the side of the factory that takes you through to the back entrance and to where the staff car park was situated. As I walked along the path, phone in hand with my arm raised in the air (because when you can’t get a phone signal, holding it aloft with your arm outstretched will surely resolve the problem) I noticed a lone starling flying into my line of sight. Now, I’m no Twitcher, but I do know that starlings are highly social birds and are often seen flying in flocks called a murmuration, so seeing one on its own was not common place.

  Hang on, how the hell do I know that? Maybe I am a secret bird watcher after all. Well who would have thought it? Even after the end of the world you can learn something new about yourself. It’s typical that I’ve just found out I could have a new hobby and it is now practically obsolete. I don’t fancy the chances of anyone nuts enough to venture outside hoping to catch a rare glimpse of the once common chaffinch. Bird watching would be classed as an extreme sport these days and you’d have to be a great tit to try it (see what I did there?).

  Starlings are common in this town. Normally I wouldn’t give one of the little fellas a second glance but something about this bird and how it was flying caught my attention. Its flight was irregular and without direction. It looked increasingly like the starling was struggling to fly and it kept dropping in height. It would flap its wings, fall, flap its wings and fall again. This continued and I wat
ched as the bird flew towards my location, continuing to drop until it ceased flying all together, landing not 10ft away from me.

  As I walked towards the starling, my heart began to pound so fast and so hard I could feel it through my chest. Seeing this bird fall from the sky had really spooked me and I became overwhelmed with feelings of unease. Saliva filled my mouth and my stomach began to churn. For me, this is a precursor to vomiting and as you’ll learn, I don’t have the best gag reflex in the world. Just the thought of what I was possibly going to see was enough to make me feel sick.

  I reached the bird and hesitantly checked over it. It was still alive but only barely. The fall had broken one of the starling’s legs which had snapped so severely, it resembled a broken twig. Its left wing was almost torn completely from its body and it lay, quietly twitching, in a bed of feathers and blood. As I watched the bird take its last laboured breath, I swear that it was looking at me, and with resignation in its eyes, I watched it die.

  Thud!

  “What the fuck was that?” I jumped, as I heard the sound of something hitting the ground.

  Thud!

  There it was again, only this time closer than the last. I looked behind me to see that lying dead on the ground was another starling and beyond that was another.

  I reached again for my phone, with the only thought in my mind being to contact Emily. I couldn’t quite place it but I had a feeling that something was seriously wrong and all I wanted to do was to speak to my daughter.

  Still no signal.

  With phone in hand, I raised my arm in the air once again. In the sky directly in front of me was a small murmuration of starlings. One by one I watched as they fell from the sky. For one surreal moment I imagined my life had become a Hitchcock movie because as terrifying as this was, nothing about what I was witnessing seemed real. How could it?