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

by Michael Robertson

  When I open my mouth to shout, nothing comes out other than a dry rasp, my throat stinging from the effort. The cold wind continues to burn my eyes, turning my world blurry again. Reaching for another cola from the bag, my stomach twists in anticipation of more poison hitting it. It's like drinking tar, but with a lubricated throat, I can call out. I take a sip. "What is this? What do you want from me? Why am I here?" I nearly vomit from the exertion, the cola swimming in my guts.

  The only reply he grants me is an impassive stare.

  "Excuse me, sir, can you please tell me why I'm here?"

  Remaining mute, he wears his same smug smile.

  "Fuck you then."

  Nothing.

  There's no point in trying to stare him down. This man will be here long after I'm gone. He's as constant and ageless as the atoms he's made from. He just is.

  Turning to my brother, I shout louder than before. "Adam!" He flinches like he can hear me, but he continues staring over the side of the bridge.

  "Adam!"

  A frown creases his features, but he won't take his attention away from whatever he's staring at.

  "Adam, it's James, your brother." An itch leaps into my esophagus, and coughs explode from me, snapping my body with each raking bark. Thick, warm, and acidic coke rises up in my throat like an air bubble from the bottom of a thick bog.

  Groaning, I look up again. Adam's lips are still moving. What's he saying?

  Keeping the bag in my hand, I drag my useless body closer to him.

  "And he took the ball along the wing and ran past three players. He crossed the ball, and it landed square on Lampard's head. Obviously, it was a goal, and we were three nil up."

  Why's he talking about the soccer? It feels like being a kid again. When we shared a bedroom and I couldn't sleep because of the night terrors, he'd talk about soccer to me. Such a patient older brother, he'd stay up with me for hours sometimes, telling me about all the matches. But who's he talking to now? And why isn't it me? I need him more than ever. "Who are you talking to, Adam? It's me, James. I'm right here. Adam, please?"

  Nothing.

  Dragging myself closer still, cuts opening up on the tips of my fingers, I remove the gold coin from the bag and toss it at Adam. "Here, take this." I watch it roll along the steel floor, hitting his foot as it comes to a rest.

  Nothing! How can he not see me?

  There's another coin in the bag. What the hell? It was in my hand the entire time, and the other one's still resting against Adam's foot.

  As I toss the next coin at him, there's a slight tug on the bag in my hand. It's been re-sealed, and another coin's inside. What's happening?

  Flicking another coin, I watch the bag instead.

  Nothing happens.

  I watch it for at least five minutes, trying not to blink despite the wind drying my eyeballs. Still, nothing changes.

  Finally, I look away to check where the other coin has landed. It's on the top of Adam's shoe. How did he not feel that? When I look back, there's another one in the bag. A limitless supply of gold. It feels so useless now.

  The gold is now piled around his feet and still nothing. I don't know how long I've been throwing the coins. I can't see his shoes anymore, and he's given no more than the slightest reaction to me. "Why are you ignoring me, Adam? I need you, mate. What's happening to me? What's going on?" I know he can hear me, I just don't think he realizes it yet. It's as if he's sleeping and hasn't woken up.

  I flick a coin at his legs.

  Nothing.

  The next one hits his torso.

  Still nothing.

  Finally, I catch him in the face. Although he flinches, he doesn't react.

  "Jesus Christ, Adam! What do I have to do? What have I done?"

  Why is now the time I have to learn that my big brother can't always be there for me?

  By the time I've finished, Adam's planted in gold coins. Other than the occasional twitch, he continues with his calm ramblings.

  Then he turns his head in my direction. Black bags sit beneath his distant stare. He looks like a corpse.

  "I'm not going anywhere," he says. "I'll stay here as long as I damn well please."

  "I'm not asking you to go, Adam." I fight to continue talking past the lump in my throat. "I just want you to talk to me. Just acknowledge that I'm here." But he's gone again, staring into space and gently mumbling once more.

  The tracks of my tears turn cold against my cheeks. How long have I sat staring? Ten minutes? Twenty? However long it is, nothing's changed. Adam continues to look over the bridge, mumbling words with seemingly no meaning. Why can't he hear me? Why won't he listen?

  Reaching for another bottle of cola, trembling from the junk inside my body already, I lean against the chains again and ride the bucking wall. Closing my eyes, the fierce wind screams in my ears.

  If there's a god, please help me out of this.

  My brain feels like it's melting. The headache is so sharp, it's like hot pokers are being driven through my frontal lobe.

  Heavy breaths help me ride the wave.

  I watch Adam. Anything to distract me from the pain. He's still talking about soccer. "Adam, please listen to me. What are you doing, man?" I listen to the sound of my own whining voice. "Adam, please."

  Nothing.

  A thunderous rumble rocks my stomach. I need something to soak up the liquid burning in my swilling guts. Bread or crisps, something savory. But all I have is this stupid bag with the chocolate in it.

  Removing the sweet's golden wrapper, I release it to the wind and watch it fly away like a demented bird. It hits the chain fence for a moment before working itself free and disappearing into the darkness.

  As I stare at the chocolate, jagged pain tears through me. What's this going to do to me? Taking a deep breath, I place it on my tongue.

  The chocolate melts, coating my throat with a sweet and viscous sludge that pushes the bile back into my stomach.

  Once the nausea eases, I look down. The chocolate's returned to the bag. I eat another piece.

  Cramps tear through my guts like something's trying to eat its way out. My tongue lifts forward, a heave coming from the pit of my being. Then a rancid stench hits me. Sharp and acidic, the putrid reek burns my sinuses.

  Pooling on the platform where I'm sitting is diarrhea like I've never seen before. It's thick and black like the river below. It has blood in it. I watch the gloop fill the grooves in the floor and then roll towards the plughole. Even while this is happening, hunger gnaws at me. A parasite that's impossible to sate.

  I try another piece of chocolate.

  Bitter bile rides the sweet mucus that shoots back up my throat, clogging my airwaves. With my pulse galloping, I pull on the air around me, my windpipe constricting with each breath, my own desperate bark of suffocation calling out to deaf ears.

  Looking at Adam, him as oblivious as ever, I grasp my throat, gasping.

  Stars flash in my vision.

  Everything goes black.

  Regaining consciousness, my throat burning with the sweet taste of chocolate sick, I look away from Adam. Why am I bothering? He's a lost cause.

  Who is the man at the end of the bridge? He smiles like he knows everything, but he keeps it all to himself.

  Making a fist with my right hand, I stare at his fat nose. Would he still be smiling if I turned it to a pulp on his face?

  "What are you looking at, baldy?"

  Nothing.

  "Why am I here?"

  Nothing.

  "When will you let me out?"

  The man just smiles.

  He just is.

  I finally look away. Trying to stare him down is like trying to intimidate a monument. The statue will always win.

  Why are these items in the bag? What are their meanings?

  Removing the protractor, I wedge it under one of the bolts that clings to the floor, pinning the cage down. I lift it. It shatters.

  Pulling out the next protractor, I t
ry again with the same result. The Japanese man just smiles. What's he trying to tell me? That I should learn from my mistakes? That my efforts are futile?

  Adam continues to talk to thin air. What is this insanity? Will I wake up at some point? When will I see my mom?

  Maybe twenty minutes pass with me staring at the bag. The protractor must serve some purpose. It's not just here to try and pry the bolts away from the steel floor. But why a protractor? What can I measure?

  As I hold it out in front of me, I look at the chain fence beyond. Of course. Why didn't I think of it sooner? Shuffling forwards, I measure the hypotenuse of one of the squares that makes up the latticework of the fence. Four centimeters exactly.

  The next one is the same. As is the next one. There must be an anomaly—a slight defect that will reveal the weak point to me and maybe the way out.

  Gripping onto the thick chains, I tug myself along. Fire runs down my side as I drag myself over the sharp floor, my loose-fitting boxer shorts slipping down with every drag.

  The next one is exactly four centimeters.

  I move to the next one.

  Four centimeters.

  Then the next.

  Four centimeters.

  By the time I circumnavigate my prison, my knuckles are so cold my hands have locked as gnarled claws. The muscles in my arms shake, and sweat runs down my face. My right hip has turned slick with blood although I feel no pain. It would seem there's a plus side to being paralyzed from the waist down.

  All I've discovered is that every square has a hypotenuse of four centimeters. Every square I can reach at least. I thought a discrepancy in the pattern would lead to answers. Maybe it will. I just haven't found one yet.

  The Japanese man continues to stare. I stick my finger up at him, and he blinks. That's his only reaction.

  Dragging myself along the cold floor, I head for the middle of the cage.

  "Argh, fuck!" A sharp sting tears through my right pec. Grabbing it does nothing to ease the pain. When I pull my hand away, my palm's covered in blood.

  Oh, my god. The floor has sliced through the center of my nipple. It's as good as split it in two.

  Lactating thick blood, it runs down onto my stomach like honey. Another pain added to the thousand cuts ripped into my torso.

  When I get to the middle, I remove the Band-Aid from the bag and try to liberate it from its plastic backing. My frozen hand can't grip it. Biting one end, I pull, the backing coming free. Spitting out the white, waxy paper, I watch it fly away before attaching the bandage to my wound.

  Grabbing the new Band-Aid in the bag, I stick it next to the first one.

  When I'm done, my entire upper body is covered in Band-Aids. They press against my cuts, aggravating the pain. Hopefully, they'll protect me against the harsh floor the next time I move.

  Wearing a suit of Band-Aids, my damaged skin buzzing from the pressure of each and every one, I stare down at the bag of items in my hand. The clouds in my mind part, and the bright light of my own lucidity shines through. Why didn't I see it earlier? I have six items. Of course I have six items. The bag is number six. The bag is the most important of all. It's the thing that contains them all. The space in which they exist.

  Clamping the bag between my teeth, I claw my way across the floor, dragging my heavy legs behind me as a knot of anxiety ties in my guts. I get to the side of the cage that's downwind. It's on the opposite side to Adam.

  While watching the bag to prevent anything from regenerating, I remove the bottle of cola and squeeze it through a gap in the fence. When it falls to the floor on the other side, the wind takes it, the container skimming across the steel floor and then disappearing over the edge. With it goes my thirst.

  Then the chocolate. I flick it up high so the wind carries it, and it too disappears, taking the writhing hunger in my guts with it.

  After discarding the Band-Aid from the bag, the epidermal sting vanishes. Removing the ones on my body, raking at them so they come free like flakes of skin, they fill the air like ticker tape at a carnival. Soon, I'm down to just my boxer shorts again. There isn't a cut left on my body.

  The gold goes the same way, as does the protractor. With each item discarded, my chest lifts as if a great burden is being removed.

  Holding the empty bag outside of the cage, I watch it flap in the wind, desperate to follow the other items. Should I let it go? What am I sacrificing in doing so? The bag gives me security. It gives me certainty in an uncertain world.

  The six items seemed like they should have been of use but in reality end up utterly ineffective. To keep them will be to die slowly and in pain, unfulfilled and undernourished by a bag of poison and useless trinkets.

  My only reason to hold onto the bag would be because it's familiar. Although clearly killing me, there's something comforting about certainty no matter how bleak the prognosis.

  My prison isn't made up of the chains surrounding me. It's my desire for the items in the bag. If I don't take this leap of faith, I'm going to be here forever.

  Letting it go, I watch it for the few seconds it remains in view before it too is swallowed by the dark fog.

  The sound of scraping metal whooshes next to me. One side of the chain fence has opened up. Power suddenly surges through my legs, and I get to my feet, standing strong in the heavy wind as if their function never abandoned me.

  Stepping outside of my prison, Adam just meters in front of me, I stop and look back. Inside the cage is my broken and battered body. It's skinnier than I've ever seen it. The skin's stretched loosely over the skeleton. Malnourished like a prisoner of war, my once short hair is long and unkempt. My stubble has turned into a beard. I look like a tramp.

  I can't look at it any longer. Turning to Adam, I see he's still speaking calmly into thin air, but now, he has his hands clasped in prayer. I want to help him. I want him to know I'm here.

  Looking over my shoulder again at my inanimate body, I step towards my brother.

  Whoosh!

  The steel curtain has been drawn. The gap where it separated is impossible to see. Like the discarded materials, I've given my body over to the fog.

  Adam screams, and I run to him. "What's wrong? What's happening?"

  But he doesn't hear me. Of course he doesn't. Putting an arm around his shoulders, he shifts a little at my touch, but that's all. "Adam?"

  Nothing.

  Following his line of sight, my stomach clamps, and a chill jolts my body. Over the side of the bridge, suspended in midair, floating in the fog as a projection, I see a bed on a hospital ward. There are machines everywhere, and the poor soul in the bloodstained sheets has a shaven head, a battered face, and probes protruding from their skull. My mom's down there too.

  The buzz of a flat-lining heart monitor sounds above everything else. Nurses rush around, and one snaps the curtains shut. But the projection is so far below me I can see over them.

  I turn to Adam, but he's gone. He's down by the hospital bed, suspended in the fog next to Mom. A nurse pushes him in the chest, but he bats her hand away. He isn't going anywhere. My mom pulls him back, but he remains where he is.

  By the time a doctor, dressed in green scrubs, arrives at the scene, it's clearly too late. The poor soul has gone. As the nurses and doctor step away, I see the broken body more clearly. Everything makes a lot more sense now.

  I call down to my family. "Adam, Mom, it's okay. I'm here. I feel well now." They don't hear me.

  My broken body is still in the cage, lying in exactly the same position as in the bed. It was the right choice to leave it behind. I hate seeing my family like this, but I couldn't stay. There was nothing left of me. I was broken beyond repair. I just had to make the choice to leave.

  The image over the side of the bridge vanishes. The damp weight of sadness in my chest lifts. I had to make this choice.

  Blinking several times breaks me from my daze. How long have I been staring at the space previously occupied by my hospital bed?

 
There's only one thing left for me to do.

  As I walk down the side of the bridge towards the man by the chest, I can hear the wind, but I can't feel it anymore.

  Stopping in front of the Japanese man, I look at him, and he looks back. His smile hasn't changed, but it seems less goading now that I understand him. He knew of the choice I needed to make, but he also knew it was my choice alone. In his own, silent way, he guided me on my path.

  Returning his broad and warm gesture, I walk over and sit down cross-legged in front of him. We stare at one another. Neither speaks. Unlike Adam, he's fully aware of my presence. He always was. He always is.

  Reaching out for the chest, I put my hand on the lid and look at him. The unvarnished wood is soft to touch. Although he's watching me, his expression remains unchanged. My actions are still my choice.

  Lifting it, the hinges creaking, I squint as a bright glow stings my eyes. It's like trying to stare into the sun, but I can't look away. The glow reaches out and spreads through my body, warming my muscles like a hot bath. Its massaging fingers reach all the way to my bones. Heavy tears roll down my face.

  Then the glow disappears, and I'm staring at the wooden bottom of the chest. I look at the Japanese man. He's also crying. I nod at him.

  He nods back.

  I get to my feet.

  The fog is as thick now as it ever was. However, I'm no longer scared of the uncertainty of it.

  Before stepping off the bridge, I look at the Japanese man one last time.

  He looks back.

  When I walk into the fog, it closes around me like the arms of a loving parent.

  I feel warm.

  I feel calm.

  I feel peace.

  Ends.

  Camps

  Ripped from his dreams, Ferdinand looked up and gasped. Sitting up in bed, he pushed himself backwards, his heart pounding.