The Alpha Plague - Books 1 - 8: A Post-Apocalyptic Action Thriller

by Michael Robertson

  Chapter 5

  Ten years later.

  The boom of the weight against the shipping container provided some comfort for Vicky as she pushed on, her body tired from years of supply runs. With Rhys behind her, the pair sprinted up the alleyway toward the field at the back of the airport. Several diseased chased after them, their breaths heavy and their feet clumsy against the ground. Although their numbers had thinned, a considerable amount of the fuckers had learned how to hunt and survive. They ate berries and animals. Surprisingly composed when it came to hunting, they still lost their minds in the presence of humans. Consumed with a desire to get at Vicky and Rhys, they moved as fast now as they had ten years previously.

  When she got close to the stile that led out into the field beside the airport, Vicky jumped up onto the step and hurdled the fence. She’d meant to knock the barrier down some time ago, but something more important always came up.

  The amount of diseased may have dwindled over time, but a large crowd of them still gathered at the airport on the other side the tree line. They smelled worse than ever. They may have learned how to hunt and survive, but none of the fuckers knew how to wipe their arse. Every single one of them stood covered in piss and shit.

  Vicky estimated it to be May. The sun shone brightly in the sky, and with the winter behind them, they’d entered a time of growth. It had been a long few months, and Vicky now had to tie her trousers extra tight to prevent them from falling. But now the first signs of vegetables grew in their patch by the containers, and she could feel her strength returning.

  Without breaking stride, Vicky gasped for breath as she looked over her shoulder at the diseased on their tail. A quick count and it looked like six, maybe seven of them. The fuckers ran as fast as ever. It seemed like Vicky and Rhys would lose their speed before the diseased did. The original plan of waiting for them to die out had failed. At some point, the tables would turn, and the diseased would have the edge.

  Vicky looked at Rhys. Red-faced and with his mouth open wide, he gasped for breath and nodded at her. They’d done this a thousand times; they could do it again. It didn’t matter that the diseased had gotten closer to them today than they had in a long time; they could do it.

  With the swish of the long grass as it tugged on their feet, and the fury of the diseased both behind them and on the other side of the fence, Vicky clenched her jaw and pushed on.

  A small rucksack on her back, it had gotten lighter every time they returned from a supply run. Back in the day, she’d be able to pack the thing to busting and would get bruises from running with it. The diseased may have been good at catching dogs, rabbits, squirrels … hell, they even knew what berries to eat, but the fuckers couldn’t open a tin or a bottle, so the world still had something to offer. Sure, most of it had gone off, but it still tasted okay—well, some of it did at least. The water remained drinkable, and it rained enough for them to catch the extra they needed.

  Dressed in no more than rags, the diseased continued on their tail. Most of them had their torsos exposed, and their trousers or skirts ripped off from mid-thigh down. Dried blood filled their eye sockets. The fuckers shouldn’t be able to see, yet they picked up a scent and moved with utter confidence as they homed in on it.

  Vicky’s feet shifted and adjusted over the hard and uneven ground. Although she knew the run well, one slip and she’d be fucked.

  As they rounded the bend toward the back of the containers, the boom sounded louder, and they saw Flynn. He stood at the top of the ladder. Tall for his age, and lean, he may not have left the containers in the past decade, but he’d worked out every day in anticipation of it. Boredom had set in quickly, so they set up the gym equipment in the container they’d found it in, which gave both him and Larissa somewhere to exercise; one of the many things they’d done to stave off the madness of cabin fever.

  With a five-metre lead on Rhys and about a fifteen-metre lead on the diseased, Vicky pushed on. Without missing a beat, she jumped onto the ladder and climbed it like a monkey up a tree. She leapt past Flynn and landed flat against the container with a resounding slap.

  As she got to her feet, she fought for breath and watched Rhys. The distance between him and the lead diseased had shrunk to no more than a metre or so. The rest of the pack still hung back far enough for him to get away. But if he stopped to fight the one at the front, he wouldn’t make it.

  Before Vicky could speak, Flynn lifted a rock from the top of the container. With the cry for him to stop caught in her throat, Vicky watched him launch it at his father and the lead diseased directly behind him. It connected with the diseased’s head with a loud crack and knocked it to the ground.

  A few seconds later, Rhys jumped onto the ladder and climbed it. When he got to the top, Vicky helped Flynn pull the ladder up after him just in time for the rest of the pack to reach out for it and miss. The shudder of seven bodies crashed into the container below, and the vibrations shook through Vicky’s feet.

  Rhys lay on his back with his mouth open wide and stared up at the sky. Sweat glistened on his red face, and his slim ribcage rose and fell with his heavy breaths.

  Larissa’s war drum continued, unrelenting in the background as a steady boom, boom, boom.

  Chapter 6

  As Vicky stood with her hands on her hips, she pulled deep breaths into her tight lungs and watched the diseased on the ground below. The one Flynn had hit with the rock lay sparked, and fresh blood ran down its twisted face from an angry gash across its forehead.

  The sound of Rhys’s heavy breaths joined the moans and groans of the diseased. Catching her breath, Vicky watched him lie on top of the container next to the ladder they’d pulled up after him.

  When Rhys looked up at her, he drew another deep breath and slowly got to his feet. Still puffed out, he stood for a moment to compose himself before he put an arm around his son. “Well done, mate.”

  Flynn pulled his long and greasy hair away from his face and smiled at his dad.

  Over the years, Vicky and Rhys had found extra ladders. Enough that they had one for every gap that needed one, and one leading down into each of the containers. Seventeen in total, each container had a hole in the top of it and had been converted into either a storage space, a place for communal use, a bathroom, or a bedroom.

  At sixteen, Flynn still bunked in with his parents. Vicky had moved into her own container the second she could. After several years, she’d finally managed to get a decent night’s sleep through the banging and groaning on the other side of the steel walls. Now she barely heard the horrible fuckers.

  Vicky watched Larissa, who continued to bang the weight against the container. When Larissa finally looked up, Vicky waved for her to stop. Larissa placed the weight down and stood up. She pressed her hands into her kidneys and pushed her stomach forward as if to ease the aches from her body. As Vicky watched her, she felt her pain. The older she got, the longer her aches persisted. Most days she woke up tired and went to sleep exhausted.

  With Flynn and Rhys following behind her, Vicky moved from one container to another as she headed for the one they used as a kitchen.

  “Did you see that, Dad?”

  “I did, mate, you scored a direct hit. I’d be dead were it not for you.”

  As she hopped across a small gap of no more than a metre wide, Vicky looked down at the snapping jaws of the diseased wedged into the tight space below. Rhys and Flynn followed after her, more focused on their conversation with one another than the mindless killing machines around them.

  The sound of Flynn’s footsteps then rushed up to Vicky until he fell into stride next to her. “Did you see that, Vicky? Did you see the shot?”

  With her attention on the ladder that stretched across another, larger gap, Vicky walked across it and didn’t respond.

  After he’d followed her over, Flynn caught up with her again. “I said, did you see me?”

  “I heard you.”

  When Flynn stopped dead, Vicky did too. A l
ittle abrasive at first, she softened her tone. “It was a good shot, but maybe a lucky one.”

  Rhys had caught up with them and looked at Vicky. “Why don’t you give the kid a break, Vick? He did well.”

  Heat rushed to Vicky’s cheeks as she pointed at Flynn. “Because he doesn’t need a break. He needs to be better. The kid’s nearly sixteen. He’s nearly a man, and we’re praising him for the occasional lucky shot. He’s fitter than all of us and should be on supply runs with us. But instead, you’re treating him like a baby by not putting any expectation on him to even try to get good enough to do a supply run.”

  Before Rhys could respond, Flynn stepped toward Vicky. “But that was for real then. I just saved Dad’s life with that shot. I am good enough to come out with you guys, so let me come.”

  Although he looked at Vicky, Vicky said nothing. Instead, she turned to Rhys.

  The warm glow of biased parental praise left Rhys’s face. Suddenly he’d been called out on his son’s abilities. He sighed and dropped his head. “You’re not ready yet, mate.”

  “But, how will I get ready if you don’t take me out with you, Dad?”

  “He’s right, you know,” Vicky said. “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to trust him enough to let him come. We’re all getting older; we need to adapt to that, not stagnate.”

  Rhys opened his mouth to reply, but Vicky didn’t give him a chance. Instead, she spun on her heel and walked toward the kitchen container. They’d run far for the bottled water and fresh vegetables Vicky had in her backpack. Time they fucking ate it rather than just stood around talking in circles.

  Chapter 7

  “Don’t suppose you’ve found any more paint?” Flynn said to Vicky as the four of them sat in the dining room container. Like all of the other containers, it had a hole in the roof to access it, and the inside had been painted. Vicky looked at the crude rendering of a city skyline with a sun behind it. Flynn had used a lot of bright colours in the dark space. Rhys found paint years back and brought it for Flynn. Since then, the boy had been obsessed. Before long, paint became a supply as important as food and water. Whenever Vicky questioned the extra weight on the supply runs, Rhys would tell her that it fed Flynn’s soul; that his spirit needed as much, if not more, nourishment than his physical body.

  The second Vicky finished her last mouthful of stewed potato and peas, she stood up and nodded at Larissa, Rhys, and Flynn. “Thanks for the meal, guys. I’m going to go back to my container.”

  Before Vicky could walk away, Flynn asked, “Why don’t you hang out with us anymore?” His voice echoed in the enclosed space.

  “What do you mean? I do hang out with you. What have we just done?”

  “Yeah, but once you’ve eaten, you always go back to your container.”

  Of course she did. A smart kid, Vicky didn’t need to lie to him about it. But maybe she didn’t need to tell him the truth either. Not yet.

  “I dunno,” she said. “I get a lot more tired now than I used to. I need more rest.” Not a lie, but in her mid-thirties, not the entire truth either. She had a lot of life left in her yet. She just needed to find a reason to live it.

  So he didn’t have any more of an opportunity to quiz her, Vicky turned her back on Flynn and climbed the ladder out of there. The slap of her steps against the aluminium rungs called out as the only sound.

  When Vicky poked her head from the container, the smell of stew vanished and she entered a reek of decay and shit. As she stood up high, she looked down at the diseased. A dense crowd for sure, but not like back in the day. The first day they’d arrived, the horrible fuckers filled the entire airport. Only a small airport, Biggin Hill had been great during the Second World War, but not since then. Other than private jets and air shows, the place had been left as a memory of what it used to be. Like a working museum.

  Despite its size though, it still took up enough space that when filled with diseased, it painted an intimidating picture. Once in the thousands, they numbered maybe two hundred now. All of them looked up at Vicky the second she appeared, and agitation ruffled through the crowd.

  Vicky stood above the monsters for a moment longer and stared down at them. She then looked out over the small airport. The once smooth tarmac had broken up, and grass grew through the cracks. The place would be hard to drive a car across now, let alone land an aeroplane on.

  The setting sun hit her face as the heat of a new season prickled against her skin. A deep inhale and Vicky caught the slightest whiff of something fresher than the shitty air.

  As she made her way toward her container—the one as far away from the others as she could be—she felt for the wind-up radio in her pocket. Nobody knew she had it. A small thing, but because she’d shared everything for the past decade, she needed something of her own. She’d had it for months now. If she’d have given Flynn the true answer as to why she went back to her container early, she would have had to show him the radio.

  After Vicky had descended into her container, she lay down on the pile of blankets she called a bed, and she pulled her boots off her feet. Sore from the day, she wriggled her toes to ease the beginnings of cramp. Vicky never let anyone in her container, and no one questioned it. Because they had to live on top of one another, they respected Vicky’s need for space. Had they come here, they would have asked questions.

  Vicky looked at the paint cans that she stacked in the corner years ago, and then at the plain walls. As the only container that hadn’t been decorated, they would definitely ask questions. To paint the place would be to accept it as home. In all the years they’d been there, Vicky hadn’t ever felt prepared to do that. A deep sigh and she pulled the small wind-up radio from her pocket.

  Made from clear, green plastic, the device sat in the palm of her hand. About the size of a cigarette box, it had a small black handle on the back that Vicky wound, less cautious of the clicking noise than she had been in the past. At least if they heard it, it could encourage some more open discussion … even if they did see her undecorated container. Maybe they’d accept she needed to move on.

  With the frequency on its usual setting, Vicky listened to the recorded message. It had changed today. It changed every few weeks.

  “Home is a place where we’re beginning to fight back. It’s been over ten years since the outbreak, and the tactic of hiding isn’t working. We need to build an army. We need to fight back against the diseased. We have plenty of people already. We have running water and warm showers. We have electricity and food to go around. All we ask is that you believe the same as us: that we need to fight back. Ablebodied or not, we will take you in, but you need to share our vision. Home is located just near Britnall. The diseased can’t read, so we have signs to guide the way. Everyone is welcome. Please come and join us.”

  The message repeated itself and Vicky listened to it again before she turned the radio off and slipped it back into her pocket. The messages had been consistent with their proposed agenda for as long as she’d listened to them. Although the idea had been similar in each message, it had changed several times in the few months that Vicky had had the radio for. They must have people like Vicky all over, people who needed convincing that Home was the place to go. At least if the messages changed, it proved that an actual person would be waiting for them.

  As she laid her head down, Vicky listened to the amplified beat of the diseased on the outside of her container. She could have picked a container in the middle of several others, but not only did she need her space, she needed to remember what they faced. Even when she slept, she needed the reminder of what would happen to her should she lower her guard.

  With the roars and groans of the enemy outside, Vicky hugged the radio to her chest and listened.

  Chapter 8

  As always, Vicky led the way out of the alley with her catapult pulled taut and held out in front of her. A crack shot, in a country where there were very few guns, she could give them the advantage, no matter how small.

&n
bsp; A quick look up and down the road, and she saw a rabbit sitting on the petrol station’s forecourt. Like with every other road and pavement, grass had pushed up through the hard crust as nature reclaimed the world for its own. The petrol pumps, useless years ago after all of the fuel had evaporated, had turned green from the moss and vines that climbed them. Despite the long grass, the rabbit—oblivious to Vicky’s hungry eyes fixed on it—sat exposed in the forecourt. Even from the twenty or so metres away, Vicky could knock a stem of grass from its mouth if she chose to.

  Vicky glanced at Rhys, who’d stopped behind her. With the catapult’s elastic pulled taut, she drew deep breaths to still her pulse, closed one eye, and focused on her target.

  When her heart rate settled, Vicky let go. The twang of the catapult sounded out, the stone scored a direct hit on the rabbit’s skull, and the creature fell to the ground. When a quick check up and down the road for diseased showed her none, she jogged toward the small creature.

  The catapult had often been enough to stun the creatures, but Vicky had had many small animals spring to life when she grabbed them. Before the rabbit could even think about it, she lifted its warm body and pulled its neck until it popped.

  With the rabbit limp, she tied some string around its neck and fastened it to her belt.

  Rhys caught up with her, looked down at the limp creature, and nodded at Vicky with a smile. “Good work.”

  Vicky nodded back while she looked at the petrol station. The windows had been smashed from a time when they’d thrown rocks through them to distract the diseased. The shelves had been picked clean of most things other than air fresheners and screen wash. “To think, this place was full of food ten years ago.”