The Rot (Post Apocalyptic Thriller)

by Paul Kane

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  THE ROT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THANK YOU FOR READING

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO FROM HORRIFIC TALES PUBLISHING

  The Rot by Paul Kane

  First published in 2016 by

  Horrific Tales Publishing

  http://www.horrifictales.co.uk

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  Copyright © 2016 Paul Kane

  The moral right of Paul Kane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  eBook Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  INTRODUCTION

  BY

  TIM LEBBON

  There is a fine tradition amongst writers for destroying the world. You can’t blame us. It’s a fun thing to do, and sometimes the world feels like it needs destroying. Just to see what comes next. Just to see how those few who manage to survive move on into whatever brave new world might evolve out of humanity’s decline and eventual extinction.

  And to see how little effect our passing will really have on Planet Earth.

  I’ve always been fascinated with the End of All Things. I’ve destroyed the world a lot of times in my fiction – too many to bother counting – and I’ve killed literally billions of people, often in pretty horrible ways. I’ve nuked them, poisoned them, had them eaten by nasty beasties, served them up as a zombie feast, frozen them to death, drowned them, burned them, and melted them down into a haze of nano-techy things. I’m often asked why I write so much apocalyptic fiction (to be fair, probably only 5% of what I’ve written has been apocalyptic, if that…but people tend to remember the world being destroyed). I always take a stab at answering, but in truth it never feels quite right. I don’t know for sure what the fascination is…but I suspect it’s to do with the final death.

  Lots of horror fiction is about death – confronting it, experiencing it, dealing with it, or not. Apocalyptic fiction is about the death of Us, not just the death of One. One day Humanity will go, whether it’s in a brief blaze of cosmic fire, or a whimper of burned or diseased bodies. Writing about that is a way of exploring not only what it is to be human, but what it is to be humanity. We’re barely a flicker in universal memory. Cold, dark infinity doesn’t care about us. As Richard Dawkins said, “Nature is neither kind nor cruel, but pitilessly indifferent.” It doesn’t matter at all to the universe whether we as a species live or die.

  Which leaves it up to us to make the choice.

  Apocalyptic fiction is about our struggle for survival against universal indifference. Whether it’s individual survival or survival as a species, we’re fighting against that cold dark infinity as it tries to swallow us up.

  What would you do to survive? What wouldn’t you do? How far would you go?

  I can’t remember the first apocalyptic novel I read. I suspect it was The Day of the Triffids (Wyndham’s novels are still among the best). It quickly led on to many more, and sometime in my mid-teens I read the novel which remains one of my favourites to this day. The Stand by Stephen King is a mighty work (both in scope and physical heft!), and it set the benchmark for the many apocalyptic novels to follow. Other favourites of mine include The Death of Grass by John Christopher, World War Z by Max Brooks, Swan Song by Robert McCammon, The Purple Cloud by M. P. Shiel, War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells, and many, many more.

  In The Rot, Paul Kane takes the apocalypse and makes it all his own, adding to the roster of splendid horrors we all love to fear. This novella really is a grim slice of horror. I guess you could call it science fiction, but really it’s so bloody, gritty, and meaty, that edging it towards the SF realm would probably be misleading. There are a couple of original sciency ideas that are interesting, but make no mistake – this is a horror story.

  It’s difficult writing an introduction to a work like this without giving away some of what makes it such a compelling read. But one of the aspects I liked so much – and which I think is an idea that could easily be visited again by Paul – was the SKIN. The concept of this futuristic creation is both neat and simple. The SKIN is a high-tech body covering that helps protect and maintain the wearer for an indefinite amount of time. It’ll recycle body waste, from the obvious examples, to shed hair and skin, blood, and all the other nasties you can imagine. It’ll filter out any dangers from outside, such as viruses and bacteria. It will even seal and treat minor wounds suffered by the wearer.

  In effect, the SKIN is a barrier between the protagonist and the rest of the world, both physical and, more importantly, psychological. He’s one step removed from the world around him – cut off, effectively, from everything he has always known – even though he still exists within it. This is the idea I found most interesting. He wanders through the slowly degenerating world like a ghost, interacting yet still protected (to some extent) from the decline that has settled into the world he knows and loves. He’s suffered loss, and is destined to suffer more, but as the novella progresses he tries to shake the idea that he’s simply an observer, and become part of the world once again.

  The story is told in a very conversational style. It’s informal and comfortable, and even quite light-hearted during the opening paragraphs, and that’s misleading, because The Rot is far from that. It’s like listening to someone chatting over a pint about cutting off your head and gouging out your heart. That’s intentional, because the whole story is written as the protagonist’s recorded version of events. I’ll be honest, it took a few pages for me to get used to this style. But once it hit home what it meant – a first-person, last person’s testimony – I think it worked extremely well. I like first person narratives anyway (as a writer as much as a reader) because it often makes a story more immediate, and more satisfying when you’re trying to get inside a character’s head. It works exceptionally well here, and as a reader you start to feel just as trapped as the protagonist, in his head, in his SKIN.

  Then there’s the idea itself. I don’t want to say too much about it, because it grows and expands in clever and shocking ways throughout the novella (although the title will give you a pretty good idea of what you’re letting yourself in for). But it’s a good one, and I don’t remember reading a concept exactly like this before in horror fiction. There’s a hopelessness to the protagonist’s plight, a grimness hanging over his every word all the way through the story. Sometimes such grimness can be overly cloying, but that’s not the case here. His striving to move on, to discover more, to find a way back, is even more traumatic in the face of what he’s facing.

  Besides, I like grim stories. They can get down to the deep, dark depths of a character’s soul, and strip them bare. In The Rot, confusion leads to stunned understanding, hope is presented and then ripped away again, and grim inevitabi
lity sings through behind the protagonist’s conversational tone. I loved it from beginning to end.

  Tim Lebbon

  Goytre, South Wales

  August 2016.

  THE ROT

  Paul Kane

  For Jon, David and all at Abaddon/Rebellion – feeding my post-apocalyptic writing habit for almost a decade.

  ‘Change and decay in all around I see.’

  Abide with Me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Record:

  Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3. Mary had a little… Okay, enough of that shit.

  Pause. Playback.

  Resume recording:

  Right, seems to be working. Captain’s Log, Stardate… No, not even funny. Not now we won’t even get to it, won’t see that future since the world’s gone to… Have to stay positive, there’s always hope; that’s what Mum always used to say, before… Might be a way to reverse all this, I just have to find it. Getting off topic, need to start from the beginning. In the beginning, there was the word – and that word was fucked. Again, not funny. Need to set all this down for someone – even if it’s just me. Can’t use paper and pen, can’t use computers – this is the only way. To be honest, I’d totally forgotten the SKIN had this facility. Yeah, I mean, I read the handbook, sort of, listened to the lectures – though a lot of it went over my head, I’ll admit. But given more time, I’d have got a handle on it. I did remember eventually, so that’s got to count for something, right? It’s not like I haven’t been busy, but I prefer to be active, y’know? Always have. Act, then look back on things later – so I guess it’s pretty apt that I haven’t started to use this until a couple of months after everything…

  Jesus, has it really only been two months? All right, closer to three. It’s like being a kid again, holidays with all those weeks stretching out ahead of you. Seemed to last a lifetime, playing outside in the sun, trips to parks and the seaside. Then when you grow up everything goes by so much quicker; you work, you don’t stop to smell the roses – you take it all for granted. Not like when you’re little, everything’s an exploration, everything’s wondrous. The simplest of things, like kicking a ball around on a patch of wasteland becomes magical. Time, since it all happened, has slowed down, like the summer holidays when I was small. There’s been nothing wondrous about any of this, though, nothing to marvel at. Only a longing for how things were before. But you can’t go back. I don’t think I even… No, I didn’t appreciate what was left when it still was there. When things were whole. Like I say, I was too busy.

  Busy trying to stay alive mostly.

  I shouldn’t really be alive anyway – I mean, I haven’t eaten anything in all that time or had anything to drink. Not really. The SKIN’s kept me going, but I feel like a ghost drifting through this new world sometimes. Like I don’t really exist… until something happens and I realise that actually, yes, I do – and there are so many dangers, so many things that could happen to me that would turn me into the real thing. A ghost… or worse, one of them. Right, I know what you’re thinking, how can I be talking to you now when I haven’t eaten a scrap of food or taken a drink in so, so long. I know the facts and figures: you can manage about three weeks without food. Without water, you’ll only last three days. And I can’t help thinking about Mum when I think about all this, surviving on that drip because she’d forgotten how to eat – fucking dementia – until they pulled the plug, that was. “It’s cruel to keep her alive like this,” the doctors told us, “it’s artificial.” So they’d disconnected her. We’d tried to feed her, spoon-fed her yoghurts, but she wouldn’t have any of it – and in the end she just shrivelled up, a tiny husk like a mummy in that hospital bed. We spent three days just waiting, me, my Dad and Aunty Pat – three days waiting and holding her hand, saying prayers that were never answered. But I tell you what, she fought – good Christ did she fight to hold on to life, to hope, right up to the last breath.

  I take after her, I reckon; I’ve got her stubbornness.

  Dad went on for five years after that. Killed himself, because he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Those were the big two weren’t they, dementia and cancer. The two diseases we were struggling so hard to fight, until… These we thought, naively, were the ones which would finish us off as a race. Can’t say I blame him for the choice he made, he’d seen enough of what happened to Mum as she wasted away; he just gave in. Neighbours realised that his milk was piling up outside and called the authorities, who smashed down the door to find the empty pill box next to him, his body slumped over the couch. He’d been there for the same amount of time we’d spent in the hospital… I didn’t see him until the funeral, and by then the undertakers had done their work – and I remember thinking there was nothing more artificial than that. I can imagine what he must have looked like when they found him, having now seen so much of it first-hand.

  Doesn’t do any good to think about that, though. What’s the point?

  How did I come to be talking about it anyway? Oh right, the SKIN – how it kept me alive. Even more artificial. In a word: recyc. It’s been doing that since day one, taking the last meal and the last drink ever to pass my lips, taking the waste from that, and using it, breaking it all down into the bare minimum needed to nourish me – then feeding that back into my body. Don’t ask me to explain the ins and outs – ha! – because they’re above my paygrade, not that I have a paygrade anymore. Beyond my understanding then, shall we say. Something the eggheads cooked up in their research and development labs – and sometimes I thank them for that, though other times I want to spit on their graves; if I could spit anywhere, that is. It’s also a prototype, the first and – as far as I’m aware – only one in existence, unless similar suits were being worked on in other parts of the world, of course. You should have seen the number of forms I had to sign before I was even allowed into that place, let alone told about the SKIN. Wanted my first born and everything.

  The endless dreams I’ve had about that last meal – that last supper – they gave me. Steak, potatoes, veg, everything the body could possibly need – washed down with water. No beer, no whisky; couldn’t poison myself before the experiment began, you see. I even had to have a detox a couple of weeks before I was taken to the facility. All part of the purification process. Although you wouldn’t necessarily be completely “pure” if you had cause to use the SKIN, they needed me to be a baseline. It was only intended to be a week anyway, that first lot of tests, but things didn’t exactly pan out that way, as you’ll probably already know if you’re listening to this. If there’s nobody left in the future to listen, then, well… Let’s not go there. Let’s assume there’s still hope. Let’s show a little of Mum’s fighting spirit, shall we, Adam?

  Oh, that’s a point – I haven’t said who I am yet, have I? My name’s Adam Keller. I’m not a captain, but I am a lieutenant. A former flight lieutenant in fact… and a test pilot. There’s nothing I like better than to be up in those clouds, preferably at breakneck speeds – though that was how I had my little accident in the first place. Not my first, of course, but the one that grounded me – at least as far as my Queen and country were concerned. Months in hospital, leg pinned; a regular bionic man. After that, I was fit enough, just not fit to test planes that flew at those kinds of speeds. Up until that happened, I was on a fast track to possibly representing my country up there, out in the Final Frontier, or a Galaxy Far, Far Away, depending on your preference. Instead, I wound up being a professional guinea pig, test ‘piloting’ everything apart from the planes I loved so much. Couldn’t really complain, it paid well – especially under-the-counter stuff.

  Oddly, I felt the closest to my once-cherished goals of space exploration by testing the SKIN. It’s what it was originally developed for – not just inhospitable environments on this planet, but others as well. A survival suit. It’s right there in the name, right at the start: Survivor’s Kinetic Integrated Network. S.K.I.N. A second skin, powered by your own movement – was how it was described to me b
y that nice Dr Weeks. Reminded me a little of Stan Laurel from those old black and white movies, he did. I imagined that the slightest harsh word would make him bawl his eyes out… Oh, right. On point. A second skin, one that would adapt to protect against the cold, from disease and toxins, filter out impurities in the air – even make air that was previously unbreathable safe for human consumption – and keep a person ticking along indefinitely. Or until help arrived in the form of a rescue mission, say.

  Personally, I’m not holding my breath. – that’s even now, as I speak, being filtered by the tiny, microscopic robots that work so hard on my behalf. Most of the time, I even forget they’re there, covering my entire naked body, giving me a weird shimmering appearance if you get too close – which I daresay wouldn’t hurt with regards to that ghostly metaphor – although a better description would probably be that it’s like a fish’s scales. But – and I hadn’t thought about it till just now, until I started talking about rescue missions – there are still people up there, out in space, that haven’t been affected by all this. That might find my recordings. Do they even know what’s happened, I wonder, or did radio communication just go dead on them? They should probably just stay up there, because one thing’s for damned sure, if they come back down to Earth it’s going to be with a bump – whatever their landing’s like. They’re going to find it a much-changed place; going to be in for a shock when they see what’s happened to—

  Bear with me, I’m not great at this. I never kept a diary when I was a kid, was never much for the social-media craze that swept the world back in the day and never really went away again, only got worse and worse. Always found it hard enough to talk to other people in person, let alone by electronic means. This is different, though – this is important. This is something that needs reporting; that’s worth chronicling, even if it’s only fucking aliens that find it in thousands of years’ time.