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

by Michael Robertson

  “Nothing will ever be the same again,” Herm said.

  Cocking an eyebrow, Stus snorted a laugh. “It’s sweet you’re trying to look out for me, but I wouldn’t worry, my humanity disappeared when the world changed. If the dead can inherit the earth, maybe having a tarnished soul isn’t so bad. I’m being fast-tracked to hell whether Pandora opens that box or not.” Shrugging, his eyes glazed. “Maybe hell will feel like a rest.”

  Watching him for a moment, Herm screwed his nose up at the reek of his fetid body odor and stepped back a pace.

  When Stus pressed his face against the glass, condensation clouding around his mouth, Herm looked down at Athena. Battered and broken, she pressed the back of her hand to her nose. Blood still pooled on the floor beneath her.

  “Open the box,” Stus said. “Open it, you dumb little bitch.”

  As if in response to him, Elpis knelt down next to the box.

  Athena’s shrill scream sent sharp needles into Herm’s ears.

  Throwing a dark scowl at Athena, Stus returned his attention to the girl.

  When Elpis reached out, her small and pale hand just millimeters away from the ornate lid, Herm bit down on his shaking bottom lip. If she’d just leave the box alone, she could walk out of there. She could beat Stus’s twisted game.

  When she pushed the box, every atom in Herm’s being sank and for a moment the world stopped spinning.

  Crash!

  The lid flipped free, kicked away from the inside as if she’d released a tornado.

  Lurching forwards, teeth snapping at the air, a boy of around Elpis’s age fought to liberate himself from the box.

  Clapping her hands to her mouth, Elpis screamed and backed away, her feet slipping on the tiled floor.

  Stus banged his fists against the two-way mirror. “That’s it, Pandora, meet your fate, you dumb cow.” Turning around, his eyes wild, his dark grin dominating his stubbled face, Stus threw his arms wide. “All the evils in the world, right, Herm?”

  Nodding at the room, Herm managed to direct Stus’s attention back to the box. Watching their maniacal leader, he counted down from three.

  On two, Stus screamed, “No! What’s he doing in there?”

  Herm moved next to his leader. “I tried to warn you. He was bitten this morning, so we used him.”

  The boy was still fighting against the box, snapping, snarling, desperate to feed, but too clumsy in his movement to escape the ornate coffin.

  Stus grabbed Herm’s shoulders so tightly his grip ran all the way to the bone. “Why did you use him? Why did you use my nephew?”

  Before Herm could respond, Stus had shoved him aside.

  Crack!

  Crack!

  Crack!

  The three locks came free and Stus yanked the door open.

  Following behind him, Herm beckoned Elpis over.

  As Stus pulled the boy from the coffin, wrestling to keep him at arm’s length, Elpis ran into her mother’s waiting embrace.

  Slamming the door shut, Herm secured the bolts.

  Crack!

  Crack!

  Crack!

  Athena sobbed, first wiping her daughter’s hair back from her dirty face and then wrapping her in a tight hug.

  With his hand on her shoulder again, Herm spoke to Athena in a soft voice. “You have to leave now. There are too many loyal to Stus in the complex. You need to get out before they hear of our deceit.”

  Helping the pair to their feet, Herm opened the door to the corridor. Kissing Athena’s forehead, the salty taste of her sweat touching his lips, he stared into her brown eyes before looking outside. “It’s clear. Take hope with you, dear Athena, and may the gods aid your escape.”

  Dropping a gentle nod, Athena led Elpis from the room.

  Watching them out, Herm closed the door and walked over to the two-way mirror. The intercom hissed when he pressed the button. “There’s nothing you can do for Apate now, Hephaestus. But I can tell you why I put him in the box if you like?”

  Crying as he looked at the little boy, Stus didn’t respond.

  “Putting him in there was the only way I could save Elpis. She was a victim in this and her needs deserved to be heard. I couldn’t let you get away with killing her. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Stus. You knew that box contained hell, yet you still opened it. Elpis knew nothing of its horrors. She wasn’t Pandora. You are.”

  Despair stretched Stus’s face as he looked up at what Hermes knew was his own pitiful reflection, his jaw flapping with silent distress.

  “And you know what, Hephaestus.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “I was wrong about something. It looks like the box can be resealed once it’s been opened.”

  As he walked away, he listened to Stus’s cries.

  “No! No! Please, Hermes. Please.”

  Opening the door to the corridor, Herm rested his finger on the light switch. For a second, he listened to Apate snarl and hiss. Then he remembered the boy in the room wasn’t Apate. The virus took him. Stus was grieving for memories. Although, without memories, what was grief anyway?

  With one final sigh, Hermes pressed the white switch and cast the room into darkness.

  Click.

  Ends.

  The Chest

  Opening my eyes, I can't see anything other than a creamy blur. Despite laying on my front, not even the floor I'm pressed against is visible to me. Where am I? Lethargy grips my muscles—or what muscles I can feel. I have no sensation below my waist.

  The sound of a fierce wind and the thrashing of metal chains surrounds me. They run straight to my core, rattling my very being. Strung out and fractured, I'm a bag of broken glass, a sack of used and infected needles. What's happened to me?

  Every blink sends shattering pain splintering across my face like a fist to a mirror. The frozen wind bites down to my bones, cutting to the marrow. It flaps in my ears. It gives sharp teeth to my migraine. It drills down through the top of my skull.

  Where am I? How did I get here?

  My world slowly comes into view. Lucidity and clarity expand in equal measure as my perception stretches outwards. Dressed in nothing but my boxer shorts, I'm lying on a gray steel floor. The chill of the frigid metal bites into my exposed skin.

  The muscles in my neck ache as I lift my heavy head. The thick beat of my pulse swells in my eyeballs. The steady and wet throb grips them so tightly it feels like they'll burst and leave two sticky trails of blood down my cheeks. Closing my eyes does nothing to either stop the pain or steady my spinning world.

  After closing my eyes for a few minutes, I allow everything to settle down, pressing my forehead against the freezing floor. When I lift my head again, I see about a meter in front of me. Frowning, I try to make sense of my environment as my stomach turns on a spin cycle.

  The muscles at the base of my skull burn seconds before giving out. My head falls forwards, white light exploding in my vision as my brow clatters against the unforgiving floor. The memory of the impact stings just above my right eye. I close it to shut out the pain. I want to rub it, but my arms don't work. I inhale, my body lifting slightly as my lungs expand, the metallic reek of the floor filling my sinuses.

  With my nose pressed against the ground, I grit my teeth, fighting to send strength to my muscles. It does nothing.

  As more of my world comes into view and the strength returns to my body, I lift my head again. Long, parallel grooves, a centimeter wide and deep, run the length of the cold floor. The design must be to reinforce the steel walkway although the gullies look like they would be good for draining fluids. Almost like the floor of a slaughterhouse. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

  With sheer will, I finally manage to lift my arms by a few centimeters. The effort sends my world spinning, and I fight for breath as I hold them there. Panting, my tacky trachea pinches, lifting my concave stomach in a heave.

  Lowering my head and arms, I press my nose against the ribbed steel again and clo
se my eyes, fighting to regain my breath.

  The loud, rattling chains tear a jagged trail through my delirium, and I open my eyes again. My nose is still pressed into the steel floor. The sharp grooves have left a pair of paper cuts on its tip—a stinging bite from my harsh environment.

  How close are the chains? What are they for? Where am I?

  My vision is still blurred. Although I can see farther than before, it's no better than a few meters.

  The biting wind burns my eyes as I search the fog. Blinking does nothing to relieve them. Hot tears run down my icy cheeks.

  The stabbing pain returns to the base of my neck. It gets worse with every passing second. I can't look up for long.

  While lowering my head, I stop. What's that? It looks like a hole no bigger than a plughole in a bath. What's it for? Drainage?

  I lose focus as exhaustion crawls back up my body.

  Darkness closes in.

  As my vision clears, so does the numbness in my arms. They're still heavy, dead like I've slept on them all night, but I have enough strength to drag them around in front of me and press my palms against the chilled floor. Pushing down, I arc my back away from the steel platform like a snake rearing from the ground. With the wind crashing into my face, I blink to try and clear the fog from my mind.

  I still can't feel my legs. If I couldn't see them, I wouldn't believe they were there.

  Lowering myself down, my fatigued arms shaking from the effort, I rest my bare chest against the cold steel. A chill spreads through me as though its icy reach is trying to grip my heart.

  The effort of lifting a heavy arm creates stars in my vision. I drop it down on the back of my right thigh. I only feel the contact on my hand.

  Repeating the process, I drop my dead arm again with the same result. It's as if my legs don't belong to me.

  Resting my forehead against the floor, I take heavy breaths as I stare at the gray steel.

  Pins and needles run an electric dance up and down my arms as I regain control over them.

  Pressing down on the floor, I lift my torso from the ground again. It's impossible to control the shake, but I stay upright. Blinking does nothing to stop my sweat from stinging my eyes.

  Falling forwards, my chin crashes against the metal, and white-hot pain explodes across my tongue as I bite it. The hot, iron taste of blood fills my mouth and coats my throat.

  Repeating the process, I lift myself from the floor and fall forwards again. The air leaves my lungs as I smash down, chest first, against the rigid platform. I feel like the evolution of a species, a creature not suited for this environment but fighting for survival.

  There's nothing to grip. Nothing to use to drag myself along.

  Despite the Arctic gales, my face is on fire. Sweat runs down it, my entire body turning slick from the effort.

  With the plughole close enough, I stretch out in front of me. Slipping three fingers into it because that's all it's wide enough for, I pull myself forward.

  The weight of my body and the sharpness of the hole tears at my fingers. If I pull too hard, will the tips shear off completely? I have to see what's down there. I have to know.

  "Argh!" As I pull again, the muscles in my shoulders snap taught like over-burdened ropes. Fire runs down my arms. How long has it been since I've used my body? Where was I before this? All I want is my mom and brother. Despite being seventeen, it's the comfort of my family I want most. What are they doing now? Are they worried? Taking deep breaths, I fight to settle my spinning head and galloping heart.

  One last pull, and I get to the hole.

  When I look through it, all I can see is a dark mist below. Thick and swirling, it's like being in the middle of a cloud. But what's that noise? It's heavy and rolling. It sounds like a landslide.

  A gap opens in the clouds, and my stomach lurches. It's a long way down. It's a river of some sort. Churning and writhing, it tears a furious path through the land.

  Where's the froth and foam? Where's the white water? Twisting and turning, it's as if it's treacle running below me. Or maybe even blood. It's a huge, obsidian eel. My nose twists at the smell of salt. Salt and metal.

  Resting my face against the cold floor, my eye pointing down, I watch the river as the gap in the cloud slowly closes over.

  The chill of the platform spreads through my sinuses, giving me brain freeze as I keep my face pressed against the hole. I've been waiting too long for another gap to appear in the clouds.

  Looking up, I finally see the chains. They surround me on each side, forming a cage, its perimeter about the size of a bus. They hang heavy, gated like a portcullis. What the fuck?

  Above me is a sheet of chains tied to supports outside of the cage. It's like some kind of medieval tent. The entire thing shakes in the wind—a spider's web hosting a freshly caught fly. It's entirely see-through, but the holes are too small for anything other than my eyes to penetrate.

  More of my environment comes into view, my vision clearing quicker than ever. I'm on a bridge, but where does it go? The clouds of fog make it impossible to tell. Even with the strong wind, it hangs heavy and impenetrable in the air.

  My vision may be clearer, but the sting of a spreading migraine wraps my head, and the mist limits my view.

  But what's that? A silhouette standing in the fog just outside of my cage. No, it can't be. A cold chill snaps through me. The dryness in my hoarse throat robs my words of their power and I wheeze, "Adam?" He's here.

  But he doesn't hear me.

  Swallowing, the taste of blood lining my throat, I try and call my brother again. "Adam."

  He doesn't turn. Instead, he continues looking over the side of the bridge. The black river must be as fascinating for him as it is for me. He looks terrible. His normally perfectly styled hair hangs limp. It's been years since I've seen him looking like this. He's normally so well-groomed.

  Why are his lips moving? What's he saying?

  "Adam."

  Why can't he hear me? Using the grooves in the floor as leverage, I pull my useless body around to face him, wincing as the sharp ridges tear at my exposed skin.

  Then I see something next to me. It's a clear plastic freezer bag with a ziplock. It's exactly halfway between him and I. Was it even there a few seconds ago?

  Dragging myself towards it, my torso burns as the ground tears a thousand scratches across it. My legs drag behind me. They're still no more than a dead weight.

  Squinting, the gales stinging, I lift the bag from the floor, the wind tossing it in my grip. Inside is a small bottle of liquid, some chocolate, a gold coin, a protractor, and a Band-Aid. Sliding the ziplock across, I keep a tight hold on it.

  The liquid in the clear plastic bottle is black. Has it been taken from the river below? It doesn't have a label. My throat is dry and sticky. Twisting the lid, I hear the carbonated hiss of soda. As I lift it to my nose, the wind blows across the top, ringing a low note. A sweetness fills my nostrils. It smells like cola.

  Pressing the bottle to my lips, I tilt my head back. Sweet familiarity punches my taste buds. It is cola. Upending the bottle, I gulp hard, the bubbles burning on the way down.

  Staring at the empty bottle, a gassy burp escaping me, I toss it to one side. The wind takes it and it collides with one of the chain walls near Adam.

  He doesn't move.

  I put the bag down.

  Focusing on Adam, I dig my fingers into the grooves of the floor again. But hang on, where's the bag gone? It's not where I just put it. What the hell?

  It's back where I originally found it. It's been resealed, and there's a fresh bottle of cola inside. But the old, empty bottle is still where I just threw it, rolling around in the strong wind.

  The only person I can see is Adam. "Okay, who's doing this?" The wind smothers my words.

  Leaning over, I pick the bag back up, remove the next bottle of cola, open it up with a hiss, and drink it again. It tastes like the first, saturating my dry throat.

  When I loo
k away, the bag has moved back to the original spot again and has replenished once more. I drink another bottle.

  Sitting on the floor, slightly nauseated from the full stomach of sugar and caffeine but still thirsty, I ride the wobble running through me as the stimulants take control of my nerves.

  I get another cola, open, hiss, and sip. I let the bag replenish and have another one. Then another. Then another.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine… I burp and throw the latest empty bottle over with the rest of them. Ten, enough to set up a skittle alley. Although each one crashed louder against the chains than the previous, none of them get Adam's attention. Why's he here? Where is here?

  Burping again, the liquid swills in my stomach like stagnant pond water. The caffeine sends my pulse thumping like a bass drum, dizzying as it crushes my temples.

  Looking at my brother, my legs as useless as ever, I shake. "Adam, help me."

  Nothing.

  Suddenly, my guts writhe and burn. I drank too much. Folding over, I let out a weak groan as a black hole of searing pain tears open inside of me. My whole world turns dark as it drags me in.

  When I come to again, I see the chains of my prison above me. The foggy sky is turning dark as night settles in. The cuts on my chest have crusted over, scabbing like grilled cheese.

  Sitting up, I stretch my arms out, the bite of sharp stings running across my body like a line of firecrackers as the wounds rip open again. Each one is a gummy mouth screaming in agony, a trapped and tormented soul disturbed during its eternal suffering. The pain makes my eyes water.

  I rub the blurriness away. I can see further ahead than before. There's a cage in front of me made from chains. It's identical to mine as they line up end to end like a train running down the middle of the bridge. I'm in the second carriage.

  But the cage isn't important. It's the green glow beyond it at the end of the bridge. It's two emerald irises staring at me. It's the statuesque calm. It's the half smile. The man looks like he's Japanese. Thickset with closely cropped hair, he sits serene and all-knowing. If anyone understands my fate, it's him. In front of him is a wooden chest that's no bigger than a shoebox.