by Rich Hawkins
THE LAST PLAGUE
A NOVEL
BY RICH HAWKINS
All content © Rich Hawkins, 2018
Cover and interior layout © White-Space, 2018
The right of Rich Hawkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & 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.
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.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Last Plague has returned in this revised and rereleased edition. I’ve done some polishing, improved the flow and dusted away the cobwebs – but the story remains the same as the original. Don’t worry, I haven’t retconned anything!
This edition includes the brand new, never-before-published novella AWOL, which chronicles Corporal Guppy’s mission to find his ex-wife and son in the first days of the outbreak.
I hope you enjoy this return to the Plague-infested United Kingdom. Don’t get bitten, my friends.
Rich Hawkins
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Much appreciation and thanks to my literary heroes and all those who support my writing. Special thanks to Theresa Derwin and Steve J. Shaw, whose kindness and generosity made this new edition possible.
This book is dedicated to my family.
PROLOGUE
Florence did not cry when the world ended and distant planes fell from the sky. Neither was she alarmed when muffled explosions and detonations rose from far away. And she didn’t scream when Mr. Stewart from next door stumbled into the garden with something squirming and wet erupting from his throat.
Plumes of black smoke stained the horizon where the planes had met the earth. She imagined fire and metal and people burning in their seats. She imagined bodies obliterated by impact with the earth.
Mr. Stewart collapsed to his hands and knees on the front lawn. He spluttered a yolky fluid from his mouth. His body twitched and shuddered. He arched his back and his bones cracked and popped like something being chewed inside a slavering mouth. Florence watched him with fascination, her feet planted on the garden path. There was the smell of cut grass in the air.
On all fours, Mr. Stewart stiffened and stopped moving. Sweat trickled from the taut skin of his face. His mouth trembled. A damp clicking sound from the fleshy protuberance in his throat grew louder. It looked like a black starfish, flowering outwards with wavering tendrils.
He turned his head towards her, regarded her with leaking eyes. His voice was pathetic and pleading.
“Please help me…”
Florence took a step towards him, but the shadow of her father fell over her own. She looked up to him as he grabbed her and said they had to help Mr. Stewart, even as she was dragged into the house.
Before Dad shut the door she glanced back to see Mr. Stewart reaching towards them, screaming in agony.
Beyond him people ran down the street.
Mum was waiting for them in the kitchen. Mascara bled from around her eyes as she put down her mobile phone. She was shaking her head, her eyes dull, as though trapped in a bad dream she didn’t understand.
“I couldn’t get through to my parents. I couldn’t get through to anyone.”
“What about the television?” Dad asked.
“Bad news. It’s all bad news.”
Florence went to her mother and they held hands. Mum offered her a weak smile through glistening tears.
Outside, Mr. Stewart’s screams became shrill and inhuman. He sounded like a creature, not a man.
Dad picked up a carving knife. “Lock the doors. Don’t come outside for anything or anyone. I’ll see you soon.”
CHAPTER ONE
Two days earlier.
The dirt-speckled Vauxhall Corsa was an intestinal worm in the guts of the Kent countryside.
Frank Hooper’s bones shook as the car lurched over a pothole. The road’s surface was scarred and uneven, dusted with gravel and dirt. Shadows of trees stretched across the road, creeping with the sun behind them. His back was aching. His throat and mouth were dry, like he’d been chewing cotton wool. He yawned. A dull pain throbbed at the top of his skull.
“We’re nearly there,” said Joel, studying the map beside him. “I think.”
“Glad you’re certain about that,” Frank said.
“You’re the one who turned off the sat-nav.”
“It sounded like my mother.”
“Your mother’s got a sexy voice,” said Ralph, from the back seat.
“You’re obsessed with older women,” said Magnus, across from Ralph.
“To be honest, I’ve always fancied Captain Janeway.”
“Who?”
“She’s from Star Trek: Voyager,” said Joel.
Magnus frowned at Ralph. “Captain Janeway is a woman, right?”
“You’re a funny twat,” Ralph said.
Magnus grinned and looked out his window.
Frank glanced at Joel. “Find out where we are on the map.”
Joel gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”
“No need to be sarcastic.”
“Sorry. Right. I think we’re heading in the right direction.”
“You think?”
“We just went through Wishford. The house is somewhere around here.”
“That sounds reassuring.”
“Now you’re the one being sarcastic, Frank. Don’t worry, it’s not very far.”
Ralph laughed. He was a short and stocky man with a shaven head and a thick beard. The packet of crisps he was eating from rustled every time he reached his ape-like hand inside. The floor around his feet was sprinkled with bits of food. Frank glanced back to see him brushing crumbs from his lap, but didn’t bother to scold him. There was no point.
“You two are like an old married couple,” Ralph said.
“They’ve been like that since school,” said Magnus, adjusting the thick-rimmed glasses upon the bridge of his nose.
“Are you sharing a room, when we get there?”
Frank laughed.
“Very funny, Ralph,” said Joel. “You should be on Comedy Central.”
“They wouldn’t let the ugly fucker on television,” Magnus said.
Ralph picked a scrap of crisp from around his mouth and ate it. “Piss off, cucks. Loads of women love the bearded and portly look.”
“Depends how drunk they are,” said Frank.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Joel said. “There are plenty of sober ugly women who’ll sleep with you.”
“I don’t need your sympathy, Joel – you’re the poor sod getting married next month, remember?”
“Says the bloke who’s got his right hand for a girlfriend.”
“Left hand actually. Well, both, to be honest.”
“Have they got names?” asked Frank.
“Yeah,” said Ralph. “Magnus’s missus and Joel’s missus.”
The four men laughed. Magnus tried to twist Ralph’s ear between his thumb and forefinger, but Ralph batted away his hand and slapped him on the back of the head.
“Wanker,” said Magnus.
Ralph grinned. “Love you too, skinny boy.”
They passed a small farm with a grey-walled, crumbling barn. A tractor was parked at the front of
the farmhouse. Ralph made a lewd comment about farmers and their sheep while scrunching his crisp packet into a ball.
Frank eyed him from the rear-view mirror. “Where’re you thinking of putting that?”
Ralph made an innocent face. “Somewhere…”
“Put it in your pocket; if you can’t do that, stuff it up your arse. You’ve already made enough mess.”
“Wouldn’t putting it up my arse make more mess?”
“Don’t be facetious.”
“That’s a long word, college boy. Only long thing you got, I bet.”
“Just do as you’re told, mate.”
Ralph sighed and put the empty packet in his jeans pocket. Then he took a cookie from the paper bag beside him and bit it in half. Crumbs fell down the front of his Metallica t-shirt, over his belly and onto his thighs.
Magnus looked at him. “You’re basically a gorilla, aren’t you?”
Ralph’s voice was muffled as he chewed. “Sorry.”
“I think I’ve worked out where we are,” Joel said, studying his map. “We need to keep following this road for a few more miles then turn onto a smaller road, which should eventually take us to the house. More or less.”
Frank nodded. “Good. I need a beer.” He guided the car around one of many tight bends in the winding road then spared a glance towards the fields as they opened up on either side. Some were filled with the distinctive yellow of rapeseed, the colour of it almost garish against the land’s dull greens and browns. The sun was falling.
Ralph stared out his window. “Reminds me of Somerset. Reminds me of home.”
“You sound disappointed,” Magnus said. “Would you have preferred to go up north?”
Ralph kept his eyes on the fields. “You must be joking, mate. Last time I went up north, I got fondled by a drag act.”
The men laughed.
A military truck trundled around the corner, filling most of the narrow road and momentarily blocking the low sun with its angles of dark green metal encrusted with dried mud. Its shadow fell across the car, engine growling and heaving.
Frank turned the wheel, bringing the Corsa to a stop at the side of the road. The truck passed inches from his window and swiped the wing mirror. Gravel and dust were kicked up from the tarmac. The driver in the cab looked straight ahead, uncaring or oblivious. The stink of diesel and oil filled the truck’s wake as it carried on.
Frank breathed deeply to slow his heart. With a trembling hand he wiped sweat from his face.
“Fucking squaddies,” Ralph said, and ate another cookie.
“He just kept going,” said Joel. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
Another army truck blared past them, following the first, and crushed what remained of the severed mirror.
The men were too shocked to say anything as the second truck disappeared down the road. Frank’s chest tightened. He fumbled for his asthma inhaler and sucked on it until his breathing evened out. A rush of relief flooded his lungs, softening his feelings of injustice and anger. He took in a deep breath of countryside air and tried to compose himself.
“You want me to drive?” Joel asked him.
Frank put away the inhaler. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Okay.”
“What about the mirror?” said Magnus.
No one answered.
Frank got the car moving again, hoping to reach the house before nightfall.
CHAPTER TWO
Joel pointed ahead. “There’s the turning, to the left.”
Frank slowed the car and changed gear to take the entrance to the side road, which turned out to be more of a dirt track. The car trembled upon small craters and bumps.
“And there’s the cottage,” said Joel, when it came into view. He folded up the map. “Haven’t been here in a while.”
The cottage was flanked by gentle slopes and open fields. Wild flowers lined the sides of the dirt track, which widened into a gravel driveway. Frank stopped the car at the front of the house. He turned off the engine and undid his seatbelt then sat back in his seat and enjoyed the silence.
“Looks like a nice place,” said Magnus.
“And we’re staying here for free,” Joel replied.
Frank scowled at the plastic stump and severed wires where the wing-mirror had been. He tried not to let it dampen his mood.
The cottage was a relic from the early years of the twentieth century, with brick walls painted white and an arched flagstone roof. Wind chimes trembled in the breeze. A wooden arch sheltered the front door, flanked by flowerbeds of tulips under the downstairs windows. It reminded Frank of the house where he had grown up, and he felt a strange pang of childhood nostalgia; of innocent days before the shadow of adulthood and its busy mess of taxes, dead-end jobs, responsibilities and high blood pressure.
And children, of course.
He pushed that last thought away.
“Sorry about the wing mirror,” said Joel.
“These things happen.”
The men climbed out. Frank leaned against the car, resting his arms on its roof. Ralph yawned and arched his back, stretching his tattooed arms towards the sky, curlicues of black ink stretching down to his wrists. He bent over, grimacing, barely able to touch his toes. His hairy arse crack appeared above the waist of his jeans.
“Talk about the dark side of the moon,” Joel said.
Ralph straightened, raised his middle finger.
Frank opened the boot and started unloading their bags.
“Careful with that one,” said Ralph when he saw Frank place his holdall on the ground. “My booze is in there.”
Magnus was talking on his phone, his face flustered. “Yes, dear, I’ll call you later, don’t worry. What was that? No, I won’t get too drunk. No, there isn’t going to be a stripper. Joel didn’t want one.” He paused, listened. “What? No, I don’t care if we have a stripper, it doesn’t bother me.” Magnus noticed the others watching him and shook his head.
Ralph meowed and made a whipping noise.
“Yes, dear, I won’t forget to call you later. Look, I’ve got to go now, okay? Okay then. Bye.”
“You might as well have brought your missus with you,” said Ralph.
“Is everything alright?” Frank asked Magnus. They were supposed to have arrived at the cottage yesterday evening, but Debbie had made Magnus stay an extra night to help look after their sons.
Magnus slipped the phone into his jacket. “Same old shit.”
“Grow some balls,” Ralph said. “It’s Joel’s stag weekend, for fuck’s sake.”
Magnus glared at him. “You know the boys are ill, and you know what Debbie’s like, so piss off.” He turned away, wringing his hands.
“Leave it,” Frank told Ralph. “It’s not his fault.”
Ralph shook his head.
Once the bags had been unloaded, Frank locked the car. Joel produced a key from his jeans.
“So your Uncle Jasper owns a few cottages like this one?” Frank said.
Joel swirled the key-ring around one finger. “He owns several holiday cottages up and down the country.”
“Not bad for some,” said Ralph, scratching his beard. He picked up his tattered holdall and slung it over his shoulder.
Joel unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped inside. Magnus followed him.
Ralph moved beside Frank. “What do you reckon, Francis? Good place for a piss up?”
Frank patted him on the shoulder. “You told me once that anywhere is good for a piss up as long as there’s booze and good company.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, but you won’t remember because you were drunk when you said it.”
“I do have moments of wisdom.”
“Occasionally.”
“Listen, mate. I know the last year’s been shit for you and Catherine…”
“I don’t need your pity, mate.”
“I know, but I see the anger and
frustration in your eyes sometimes. I don’t blame you for feeling that way. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve both been through.”
“I’m fine, Ralph. Really.”
“I’m just saying if you need someone to talk to, don’t feel embarrassed to ask.”
“You’re just a big softy, aren’t you?”
Ralph glanced around as though he was about to divulge a secret. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? I’ve got to protect my reputation as an arsehole. Shall we go inside?”
Frank lifted his bag. “Good idea.”
CHAPTER THREE
The kitchen was a wide space decorated with rustic designs and shades. Frank put the pizzas in the oven while Joel emptied bags of crisps and snacks into large bowls.
“You didn’t book a stripper, did you?” Joel asked. “I specifically said no strippers.”
“I did not.”
“Do you know if Ralph did? I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Ralph hasn’t booked a stripper, as far as I know.”
The man in question entered the kitchen, sipping a bottle of German beer. “What haven’t I done, fuckers?”
Frank looked from Joel to Ralph. “You didn’t order a stripper for tonight, did you?”
Ralph gasped in mock surprise. “Sir, I am offended. Order a stripper? On Joel’s stag night?”
“So, did you…?”
Ralph smiled. “No, I didn’t. Wish I had, though.”
“Good,” said Joel. “Where’s Magnus?”
“He’s in the living room playing on the Xbox. Poor bloke needs a break from that wife of his. She sent him a text a minute ago saying he was neglecting his marital duties.”
Frank shook his head. “Bloody hell, that’s harsh.”
“Is she back on medication?” Joel asked.
“No idea.”
“She’s always had problems,” said Ralph. “Even before she married Magnus. Everyone knows she’s crazy.”
