Lazarus: Enter the Deadspace
Page 1
OTHER TITLES AVAILABLE FROM HAWK & CLEAVER:
The Rot Series
Kondor & Willcocks
They Rot (Book 1)
They Remain (Book 2)
Keep My Bones (Bonus Story)*
Novels
Lazarus: Enter the Deadspace
Deeper than the Grave
The Hipster from Outer-Space (Book 1)
The Hipster Who Leapt Through Time (Book 2)
Ten Tales of the Human Condition
Keep up-to-date at
WWW.HAWKANDCLEAVER.COM
*Available for FREE at www.hawkandcleaver.com/bunker
— ENTER THE DEADSPACE —
Copyright © 2017 by Hawk and Cleaver
All rights reserved.
www.hawkandcleaver.com
ISBN-13: 978-1973715832
ISBN-10: 197371583X
Cover design by Petrilampela
www.petrilampela.com
All work remains the property of the respective authors and may be used by themselves or with their express permissions in any way that they deem appropriate with no limitations.
No part of this publication may be produced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover or print other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
To the other half, for without you we would not know evil.
Thanks to our ARC team
Petrilampela, Naomi Yehezkel (as always), Laura Crouch, Duncan Everson, and F.C. Shultz.
And a special thank you to our Patrons over at
http://www.patreon.com/hawkandcleaver
J.M. Bryan // Nick Porter // Kayleigh Smith //
Duncan Muggleton // Larna Dennis // Kathy Robinson //
Jo Ann Wilkins // Jessie // Josh Curran // Sara Luciano //
Ian McEuen // Marcelle Liemant // Kate Mena //
Abraham C Kanter
CONTENTS
‘For Lazarus’
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
The Crossing
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Buck & Baseball
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
No Way Back
36
37
38
39
40
41
The Reunion
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
The Hunt Begins
51
52
EPILOGUE
FREE BOOK ALERT
HUNGRY FOR SOME POST-APOCALYPTIC FICTION?
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Part 1
‘FOR LAZARUS’
1
It was close to 2pm as Maurice made his way through the thick cluster of birches. He walked speedily, feeling the weight of his heavy pack bounce off of his lower back. A brimming smile never quite leaving his face. Today is the day, he thought as sunlight splintered through the treetops, warming his neck and casting the woods into a mystic glow. Today is the day…
And a beautiful one at that. The sun was high and the clouds were few. The smell of pollen and summer wildlife flowering around him. Here and there at the boughs of trees were sprigs of daisies and buttercups. Earlier he’d spotted a fox sniffing about the rotting corpse of a fallen tree. A little after that he’d spooked a small flock of sparrows that beat their wings and made their way to the skies.
Maurice checked his watch and stepped over a collection of nettles.
There was no one else around. Yet. He’d made a point to show up early. By his guess, it would be another half a mile or so before the trees began to thin and he’d approach the large open battlefield where it would all happen, and that gave him plenty of time to prepare.
Another bubble of joy rose within him and he began to whistle. His lips were dry, but a quick flick of the tongue fixed that. The birds and the cicadas enjoyed the sound and joined in. For a moment, as the twigs snapped and leaves rustled beneath his boots, he felt at one with the world. In a state of bliss and calm that he could never have imagined only a few weeks ago. Before He had come to him in a dream and showed him his true purpose. Had opened his eyes to the hidden side of life that seemed almost impossible to comprehend.
But it was there.
His phone began to ring, the sound pulling him from his serene state. He checked the screen, saw the name, rolled his eyes, and powered it down. What was another missed call among 17 others? Was it Maurice’s fault that Patricia – his wife of six years – didn’t understand what it was he was doing? Was it his fault that somehow he’d been anchored into a relationship that he’d never really wanted? Two kids, a mortgage, and an 8 ’til 6 job working for an accountancy firm that couldn’t handle their own sheets, let alone clients’? Rolling the same shit, day in, day out? He’d heard tales of life sweeping men away, of running the hamster wheel day in day out, but he’d never thought he’d be the one getting trapped in the machine.
If it hadn’t been for his new friend he may never have realised the truth of it all. The reality of life and death. He may never have come to understand what exists behind the veil. The impossible tunnel that can hold life in limbo. The train platform where you wait, but the train never comes. Even just the thoughts of it made his heart flutter.
But how he could make her see?
To be fair, he never really tried to explain. How could he? It wasn’t so simple to explain to a woman that feared change amongst all other things that he had made a new friend. That Maurice had been wandering in visions in his unconscious as he snuggled in bed beside her, when He had appeared, a vision of ash and embers, and blown his world wide open. That sometimes life moved on, bigger things came along, and sometimes people got left behind. That’s just the way it is, babe. Now pack your own lunch and I’ll see you on the other side.
After about ten minutes or so Maurice came to a point where the trees began to thin. He shaded his eyes and looked ahead. It was a little difficult to make out at first, but he could just about see the large green clearing on the other side. A borderline where the trees cut off and the open field began. And just beyond that, the large white building that he’d seen on the websites and brochures. The place where people would start filing through and filling the field, all soon to settle down and become the first subjects to join him on a revolutionary path to the other side. He only hoped that He would be happy with Maurice’s work.
He checked his watch and saw that he had a good half an hour to spare. He spotted a fallen log and sat. He lowered his shoulder, pulled off his bag, carefully lowered its precious contents to the floor, and reached into his jacket pocket to find his cigarettes.
He opened up the carton to see two Lucky Strike waiting for him. He took one out, pl
aced it in his mouth, and sparked it up. Around him, he could hear the occasional sound of birdsong. Although the sun shone bright above, he could smell the damp from where the trees and fallen leaves blocked the light from reaching the floor. Maurice sucked on the end of his cigarette and breathed in the smoke, taking his time to enjoy the sensation of the tobacco filling his lungs, soaking into his system.
He exhaled and watched as the smoke rose and disappeared into a shaft of light that hovered before him.
Maurice thought of Patricia. Of how he hadn’t really wanted it to be this way. When he first met Patty they had been young, stupid, bold. She had been a cute little thing with an insatiable sexual appetite. Patty had pulled him in from the loins first. Maurice had been about to pass his degree. She had been working in a flower shop for her father. It hadn’t been long before they moved in together and things pretty much snowballed from there. Now, while he wiled away his days at his computer desk at Manford & Firth, Patty spent her time at book clubs and women’s groups, meeting with friends and bitching about their men’s lack of commitment. Sipping away their coffees and eating their cakes that were purchased with the man’s dollar. Stewing in a bitter broth that they made for themselves. Meanwhile, all Maurice could do was stare at the cute intern sat only a few desks away and imagine a scenario in which they’d find themselves alone and she’d crawl across the carpet to suck him under the table.
Was it any wonder that he was throwing all this away?
After all, none of it was real. Maurice knew that now. He knew of the world beyond.
The only guilt Maurice felt was not saying goodbye to the little ones. For leaving the office on that fateful Friday afternoon, jumping onto the greyhound bus, saying ‘Sayonara’ to the concrete history of Lincoln, Illinois, and heading over to Virginia. He had thought it odd at first, to be told that the Colonial Williamsburg Visitor Center was where it would all begin. He thought that perhaps a football stadium, or maybe even somewhere like Grand Central Station would be better. Where there would be more footfall and the impact would be larger. But He had insisted, and after some explanation, it sort of made sense to Maurice, it was almost poetic. A place that revelled in the nation’s history would be the birthplace of its future. To be the host of the revolution, in which life and death unite in the shadowy bonds of immortality.
Maurice took a small photo from the inside pocket of his jacket. The picture showed a faded image of a younger Maurice with Patty, Ewan, and Shauna. He smiled and stroked their faces with his thumb.
Sure he felt guilty, but he had been assured that that was only temporary. The plan was clear, he was ready. When the little hand reached three, and the big hand reached twelve, he’d drink deeply from his flask and enjoy his journey, his pilgrimage.
In the meantime, though…
What he wouldn’t give to kiss their foreheads one last time…
Maurice checked his watch. Fifteen minutes to go.
He bent down, unzipped the top of his backpack, and once more marvelled at the large container of viscous yellow liquid. The golden fluid that was the key to a thousand mysteries and questions. Liquid gold trapped inside a bottle. He ran his fingers along the cold glass, leaving a clean track in the condensation that had gathered, and reached deeper into the bag. He felt for the point where the mechanism clustered at the bottom of the cylinder, traced the length of wire with his fingers and found the little red switch.
Who knows, he began to wonder as he sat back and placed a second cigarette into his mouth, maybe when this is all over, I’ll see them again…
2
The bus ride was uncomfortable. Great over short journeys, sure. Maybe a quick ten–fifteen minutes as it rumbled along the uneven roads of Jamestown, Virginia. But this journey seemed to stretch on forever. There was only so much that the asses of the kids of Jamestown High School could take – no matter how scenic the journey. The greens, the greys and the browns still blurred on by outside, and the patience of High School teachers could only stretch so far.
“Settle down! We’ll be there soon,” the voice of Mr Richmond called from the front of the bus. The same phrase that he called every five minutes that got lost somewhere between his seat behind the driver and the cacophonous joy of giddy teens, making his voice hoarse. “Hey! Frankie, if you don’t get both feet on the floor right now I’ll be sending a letter to your mother.”
“Ooo!” chorused a pool of students sniggering behind their hands. One or two others lowered heads and laughed towards the floor. Mr Richmond stood up and looked down the length of the bus, eyes like fire. He steadied himself by pressing his hand to the ceiling, though that did little against the bus’s constant rocking and rolling. He took a breath in, ready to bellow at Frankie again, until he caught the eye of the girls in the front seat, pointing and giggling at the damp patches that circled beneath the armpits of his shirt.
“Just be quiet will you?” he said, throwing his arms down and tucking them at his sides. With a roll of his eyes, he sat back down.
A trickle of cackles and laughs followed, but it didn’t last long. There was always something else going on on a school trip. It took only a minute or so before Thomas Shepherd’s deck of cards were smacked out of his hands in the middle of a very complex magic trick, and flew all over the bus. He had been about to reveal his subject’s cards before being forced to unbuckle his seatbelt and chase the flying debris around the bus, counting them as he went.
“Twenty-nine, thirty… Hey! Give me that!… Thirty-one”
There was, however, one student that had managed to keep himself quiet for the entire trip. Even as Thomas buried himself in the footwell, hunting for cards with Mr Richmond looming above him, arms folded tight beneath his pits, Kurt Alder was oblivious. Having sunken into his seat fairly early on in the trip, knees bent and locked onto the seat in front, his nose buried in the thick yellowing pages of his latest purchase. A charity shop novel bought mainly for its bright cover and bold lettering. On the front of the paperback a half-man, half-robot space pirate rode what appeared to be a speeding torpedo across a spiralling galaxy. Kurt remembered being drawn to the image with a smile. It didn’t matter that the corners of the pages were tatty and frayed, nor how the rough texture of the paper made him shudder with each page turn. He had bought it there and then and began reading on the ride home.
As far as Kurt was concerned, he wasn’t even on a bus anymore. His eyes flitted across the words and his imagination took him far away to a world where laser guns and spaceships and aliens were real. Mr Richmond wasn’t wrestling with Thomas to put him back in his seat and plug in his seatbelt. Caitlyn hadn’t just sprayed her deodorant in her teacher’s direction. No. As he turned the page, he joined Hickory Dalton, ‘Space Pirate’ who, at that moment, was deep in the throes of defusing an un-defusable bomb that had been set in the centre of the alien planet’s parliamentary square. A crowd had gathered, consisting of the alien’s council, as well as civilians, and Hickory’s accomplices – Vector Hyperdrive and Sissi Galactus – and there were only seconds left before the bomb exploded.
Three…
Hickory placed his fingers on the electronics of the bomb. A quiet calm descending over his face.
Two…
He took a deep breath in. Chose a wire. Prepared to cut the cable.
One—
A scream from the front of the bus yanked Kurt back into the real world, nearly making him drop his book. His eyes snapped up, scanning the bobbing heads of his classmates, before locking onto the back of Emily McGowan’s. She was sat just three rows ahead, on the other side of the aisle, her hands clasped tight over her auburn hair which flowed down her back in ringlets. As she turned now to the two girls sat behind, each guffawing and clutching their stomachs Kurt felt his own stomach flutter. Even with a face full of upset, she was cute. He wondered what was wrong with her until she lifted her hand and saw several sticky strings of pink chewing gum stretching between her palm and the crown of her head.
Kurt knew the girls behind. Jessica and Kaitlin. Not biologically related, though they might as well have been sisters. Similar in their broad looks and their punk attitude. Brown hair that was always styled exactly the same way thanks to their morning Skype calls. They were the type of girls that seemed to do things just for the sake of it. Because they could. “Because,” as Kurt had once been told by Jessica after she had poured her apple juice all over the contents of his lunch with Kaitlin stood behind, “why not?”
Mr Richmond dashed over, smacking Frankie round the back of the head for once more kneeling on his seat and trying to antagonise the boy sat behind. Frankie mumbled something about ‘abuse’, but Mr Richmond waved a hand and was soon sat across from the girls, trying to fathom what had happened. Kurt found himself staring as Emily tried to explain the unprovoked attack. He could only see half of her face from the gap between the seats in front, but that was enough for him. He watched the tears roll down her cheeks and saw himself wiping them, offering her comfort, exchanging niceties and maybe even hugging her afterwards. He had only spoken to her a couple times in the six months since he’d arrived in Jamestown, and each brief encounter was crystal clear in his mind.
There was a moment when Emily’s eyes caught Kurt’s. His eyes widened as he threw the book in front of his face and ducked down. After a few seconds, he looked cautiously around to check that no one nearby had noticed. Lucky for him, no one had. For even Kurt knew that, in any High School, an unconfessed crush could quickly elevate to relentless ridicule and the focus of bullies. And the last thing that Kurt, the transfer kid, needed, was a reason to be picked on.
Mr Richmond returned to the front of the bus, with Emily alongside. Kurt tried to return his attention to his book but found that, now that his thoughts had been painted with Emily, he just couldn’t focus. He sat up straight, stretched, and looked outside as the fields began to transition into farms, into houses, into an estate into more farmland. He watched, alongside the thirty or so other pupils, as a large green sign with the words, ‘Welcome to Colonial Williamsburg’ streaked past.