The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks & The Squads First Three Weeks Omnibus [Books 1-10]

by Johnson, Glen

  Noah placed the photos back into the box and rested it under the man’s hands.

  Noah decided to check upstairs, just in case there was another victim.

  The upstairs was even sadder than the small room downstairs.

  The shopkeeper was a hoarder.

  There were four rooms on the first floor and two of them were filled to capacity.

  The front room had papers, magazines, books, boxes, plastic containers, toys, old machinery, old electrical goods, rolled-up carpets, stacks of picture frames, with a variety of object’s spilling out of cupboards and chests of drawers, and stacked on tables; all piled up to the ceiling.

  The bedroom was crammed full of cardboard boxes. The ones on the bottom of the piles were moldy and had collapsed under the weight of the ones above. A double bed was pushed into a corner, with boxes leaning precariously over it. The bed was covered in dark stains and had a pile of dirty army sleeping bags piled on it, with a collection of old pillows. Half of the bed was covered in soiled Styrofoam eating containers.

  In the bathroom, the floor was covered in plastic bags in all different stages of decomposition, with soiled toilet paper everywhere. The lid on the toilet was up, and the bowl was jet black with mold. There was a clear space just in front of the toilet were the old mans legs would rest. He did not want to check the room too closely.

  The kitchen was appalling. Rubbish bags filled the floor, with waste spilling everywhere. They were all waste high, with an almost clear, lower path leading to the cooker. Trash was piled on the stove, with just one ring visible. One corner was full of empty bottles of every description. The sink and the area around were stacked with every dish, cup, and bowl the kitchen held, all dirty and growing fungus.

  At least he kept downstairs clean and clear, Noah thought. For some reason, he felt like defending the old man.

  The smell was getting to him, so he had to return downstairs.

  Noah stood looking down at the figure under the blanket. He wondered how someone could become a hoarder. How someone’s life amounted to what they could stack and hide away.

  As he left the room, he closed the adjoining door. He did not know what would happen, and how the whole virus situation would play out, but he hoped the old man would be found and given a proper burial.

  The druggie was snoring.

  Noah wondered how he could have found the ornate box among all the accumulated junk.

  Noah stared down at the unconscious man.

  The man was a murderer; he had stabbed the shopkeeper over whatever was in the till and a few knives. He deserved to die. However, Noah was not judge, jury, and executioner.

  The belts were not too tight, with a little effort; he would be able to escape. He decided he would let karma deal with the druggie.

  Noah walked out of the shop and headed home.

  16

  Noah was drained physically and emotionally by the time he dragged a large bin over to reach the ladder and climb the fire escape to his flat.

  He dumped all the stuff on the small two-seater couch. He then spent half an hour under the shower, while scrubbing the old shopkeeper’s blood off his hands and face.

  After he downed a cup of strong coffee, and ate a couple of cold burgers and sausages, Noah set about sorting out the gear he found.

  By the time he finished his bug out bag was ready. It had the packaged food, sleeping bag, roll mat, tent, cooking gear, a waterproof jacket in a small pack, the two hunting knives, and everything else he would need if he had to get out quick. He went and filled the canteen with fresh water and hooked it to the front of the bag.

  He laid a pair of camouflaged trousers and a green tee shirt, with a dark-green jumper on the bed.

  In the street outside, he could hear people shouting and fighting. He did not bother to walk over to the window to see what was happening. It was becoming an hourly occurrence.

  It was only 11 AM. Even so, Noah stretched out on the bed and took a nap with the TV on in the background.

  Noah awoke to a quiet flat. The power was off. He did not know how long it had been off for. He checked his watch. It was 2:14 PM.

  He had a cold sausage sandwich. The bread was a little stale, but it would have to do.

  He stood at the window watching a teenage woman pushing a pram down the pedestrian precinct. Instead of a baby, it held a full black bin liner.

  Noah’s mind wandered back to when he was first called to Miss. Sung’s office. His daydreaming earlier had brought the whole incident back and opened raw wounds – wounds that had never truly healed.

  All the children, including Noah, were feeling much happier, they had better, varied meals, and the walls did not have peeling paint and dry rot. Activities were arranged, so they could get some exercise in the fields around Ash Leaf Children’s Home. They had a room full of paint supplies and games. It was as if Christmas had come early.

  However, there were rumours that the older boys were called to Miss. Sung’s office regularly. The older boys whispered between themselves and made rude gestures with their hands, and exaggerated hip movements. But Noah was naive and shy, and hardly talked to the older boys at the home.

  Then on a cold April night, on Noah’s fourteenth birthday, just after supper, Noah was sent for.

  It was 8 PM, and the other children were washing and preparing to retire to their rooms, where they could read until 9 PM, when the lights went out.

  He stood in his pajamas and nightgown, waiting in the long stark hallway.

  Miss. Sung looked rosy cheeked when she opened her office door for him to enter.

  She was a fifty-one-year-old short pudgy woman – not big enough to be called fat, and not thin enough to be called healthy. If she were a touch taller than her five foot four inches, then she would have looked average. As it was, she looked stumpy. In addition, she always wore bulky pastel coloured felt dress suits in yellows, pinks, and purples, with gaudy big jewellery and thick, colourful glasses on a dainty string. Her nails were longer than was practical, and her skin looked weathered and stained from her chain-smoking habit.

  Noah noticed half a bottle of red wine on her desk. He also noticed her grey hair, which was always in a tight bun, was loose and spilling down her back.

  “Noah Edward Morgan, isn’t it?” Her painted on eyebrows rose.

  “Yes Miss. Sung.”

  “Please take a seat. And please, call me Helen.”

  Noah went to sit on the straight-back chair facing the desk. He was trying to think of what he had done wrong.

  “Not there... here,” she announced, as she took a seat on a long leather studded couch next to a bookcase. She patted the leather next to her while kicking off her bright green high heel shoes. She gave a wide smile showing yellow teeth.

  Noah nervously took a seat; sitting ramrod straight, and as far away from Miss. Sung as physically possible.

  “Scoot on up, why are you sat so far over?” she purred, lowering her voice.

  Noah scuffled along. He felt uncomfortable. Everything felt wrong. The hair stood up on the nape of his neck.

  Miss. Sung put one arm around Noah’s shoulders.

  “There. We are both friends here, aren’t we?” She leaned in a little.

  Noah remembered her breath stunk of red wine and cigarettes, and her body stunk of makeup and sour sweat.

  An hour later, he was ushered from her office. She grabbed his arm and leaned in close and whispered in a threatening voice, “Nothing happened here tonight! You understand Morgan?”

  For some reason he vividly remembered that her lipstick was smudged.

  Noah simply nodded. He just wanted to crawl under his sheets and pretend nothing had happened.

  He was a teenager; he had daydreams and wet dreams about how his first encounter would be like and how it would feel.

  It was not until he was a little older that he truly understood what rape meant – what had truly happened to him.

  He was never called back to the o
ffice; obviously, he was not what she was looking for, there were older boys who willingly participated. She did not want to waste her time with someone like him.

  Four months later the police turned up and dragged a kicking and screaming Miss. Sung away. Everyone at the home was interviewed, but Noah stated he was never called into her office, and did not know what happened to those who were. Apparently, two other male care workers were also arrested. Noah was just glad he was never called to one of their offices as well.

  Noah shook his head. The people who were meant to be there for him, to raise and protect him were the ones who hurt him the most.

  Noah took a sip of coffee.

  Over the top of the buildings, there were many columns of thick grey smoke bent by the December wind.

  Across the street, a window smashed. A chav could be seen rummaging around in the room.

  The power came back on.

  Noah closed his curtains and sat in front of the TV.

  The BBC News announced that America had regulated all its outgoing news channels. They believed that the British government would soon follow suit, and within hours, all live news coverage would be halted. The reporter finished by asking what was the governments of the world trying to hide.

  Noah settled down to a day of channel surfing.

  17

  New Years Eve 2012

  Noah saw the New Year in when he made his way to the toilet after being woken up by fireworks. Noah checked his watch and realized it was a brand-new year. It then dawned on him, that with everything that was happening, there was at least one person out there celebrating the New Year.

  He went to the window and watched some lame fireworks fizzle out over the top of a few buildings in the distance. He wondered about the mentality of the person who lit them. Were they being optimistic, or were they a little crazy.

  The streetlights had not worked in weeks. There was a full moon, and few clouds.

  Something caught Noah’s attention. In the distance, there was a naked man running across the road at full pelt. It was hard to make out any details, and the man soon disappeared round the corner.

  Noah shrugged it off. It was either a drunk, or a religious fanatic. He saw clips about them on the news, new groups turning up, singing prayers, and lighting fires on the hilltops.

  It reminded Noah of the prophecy which was supposed to end the world on the 21st.

  On the other hand, maybe it did happen; Noah thought. Maybe the virus hit its high point on the 21st, and it became the point of no return for the human race.

  He scanned the dark street.

  Dogs started barking in the distance. He ignored them and returned to bed.

  18

  Thursday 4th January 2013

  Day 20

  Noah had not left the flat in over a week. The encounter with the druggie made him cautious of stepping back outside.

  He spent the rest of the week watching TV, surfing the web, playing computer games, and eating unhealthy amounts of fried food, while watching the world outside his window grow even more dangerous as gangs started to roam the streets.

  Everyone realized that they were on their own. There was no longer any police to defend the weak. It was everyone for themselves.

  Noah opened his window a fraction and practiced with the air rifle, hitting different targets across the road, and down the street.

  The TV was down to just a couple of channels, and they were showing mainly repeats. The news had dried up, with only a few new reports each day, and they seemed almost scripted as if the government was trying to keep something from the public.

  There was no news whatsoever regarding other countries. The only short clip regarding another country came on the fourteenth day, when the news reported that the World Health Organization had classed the virus as a pandemic.

  No shit Sherlock.

  The internet was next to useless. Google was working again, but only spasmodically. Ninety-five percent of all links were broken. Sometimes the internet connection didn’t even work.

  His mobile reception was just as bad, and only worked half the time.

  On Wednesday morning, a group of about forty naked people, of all ages, covered only in ash and mud, walked down the road, all carrying makeshift crosses, while singing hymns about redemption. From his window, Noah could see that a few of them even had blood running down their faces from crowns pushed down on their heads made of thorns. In addition, some of them had what looked like raw whip marks down their backs.

  During the day, there were more columns of smoke rising over the buildings. Either more buildings were burning, or people were lighting large bonfires just as the news had described.

  Noah spent hours watching Doomsday Preppers over and over. When he eventually had to leave the flat, he decided he would head towards Dartmoor. There were plenty of rivers and streams and vast amounts of sheep, cows, and horses wandering the hills. Meat would not be a problem. He would become a survivalist hermit, living off the land.

  I have been on my own, for as long as I can remember, never counting on anyone else, why change now.

  He settled down to sleep thinking that tomorrow he might leave the flat again. Maybe go and look for some more food, while there were still some to find.

  What will tomorrow hold for me?

  When he eventually dropped off to sleep, he dreamt of a future where he was not alone. Where he had someone to love and hold. Someone to share his dreams and fears with. Someone he could grow old with.

  He dreamt of the colour red.

  RED’S STORY

  Nicola Arusha Breslan

  Nineteen-year-old female

  317 Barton Drive

  Newton Abbot

  South Devon

  England

  Works at Newton Abbot Specsavers, as an Optical Technician.

  1

  Saturday 15th December 2012

  The Day of the Outbreak

  Nicola Breslan’s hand swung in an arc and whacked the alarm clock. It read 6:15 AM.

  “Just ten more minutes!” she muttered as she rolled over and buried herself under the thick duvet.

  Work was a fairly new concept to her. Going from being a lazy student of leisure, to the main breadwinner of the household was a shock to her system.

  In addition – along with the shock to her system with having to support her sister and stepfather – was anger. It smoldered inside her. Each early morning, each long day at work, each bill that dropped through the letterbox stoked the flame.

  She couldn’t understand how adults didn’t go crazy with all the responsibilities – working, bills, cleaning the house, shopping, and a thousand other small things that all built up into one huge heavy cloud that hangs over their heads. The fact she was only nineteen did not help.

  She decided she should be enjoying herself.

  Before the devastating news of her mothers’ illness, she was a student, studying BEd (Hons) Primary Education with QTS in Plymouths University of St Mark & St John. She always wanted to become a primary school teacher. She was on her third and final year before she was given special permission to pause her education due to her mother’s illness. The window for her to resume her studies in the university was fast approaching, and she saw no way of being able to return.

  She loved it at university. Living on campus, going out with friends, getting drunk, sleeping in, dating, making mistakes, and arguing with her mum over how much money she was wasting.

  Whereas she was the one earning the money now, doing the overtime, adding up the bills, and watching someone who was meant to be looking after her, waste all the funds.

  Nicola’s mother died two months ago. She was diagnosed with lung cancer, and she slowly watched her mother battle the disease until it took her from them, over a lingering five-month period. She was diagnosed too late; she already had stage-four cancer. They tried chemotherapy, but it was simply going through the motions. There would be only one outcome.

  It was ba
d enough that she had lost her mother, with the devastating realization that she was not around anymore – sometimes it didn’t seem real. However, she knew it was. She stood at the front row of the funeral service with her arm around her twelve-year-old sister’s shoulders.

  Her stepfather Colin was the cause for her building problems and smoldering anger. Colin completely broke down after the funeral. He stopped working. He was an electrician, and used to work hard, providing for them all. Now he was a drain. When he wasn’t sleeping, he sat drunk in front of the TV.

  Colin was forty-six and short with tuffs of hair to either side of a bald head, with a large paunch, which was getting bigger each week due to his binge drinking. He was now so unfit, that just getting up and stumbling to the toilet made him break out in a sweat.

  Nicola took the first job she was offered, an Optical Technician for Specsavers. The work was repetitive, doing the same thing all day long. She stood in front of the fining and polishing machines, padding up tools with different fining pads, depending upon the type of lens, and positioned them in the large machines. As the outdated piece of equipment ground down the lens to its particular thickness, she was changing the pads on another set of tools. She swapped the jobs from one machine to another, a conveyor belt of work, continuous and mind-numbingly boring.

  Even so, she could not let her mind wander too much, because she had to keep her eyes on the tools. There were thousands of different metal tools, each a particular curvature, and she had to check each one against the job sheet, to make sure that the man, whose job it was to place them in the tray, had picked the right ones.

  The job was messy and cold. The fining machine poured cold water over the tools as they fined, and the polishing machine poured a thick white polishing cream over them after. She had to wear rubber gloves to protect her skin. In addition, the optical laboratory had to be kept cold – very cold, to keep the lens stuck to the metal blocks with the blue wax.