After the first few attempts he'd given up. Things... slipped. His mind didn't work like it used to and he struggled to remember anything. His name was Dave, not David. He worked making greetings cards for... the company name was gone. Along with his mother's face and his first girlfriend. Holes appearing like loose threads on his favourite t-shirt.
Sleeping outside had just happened. The trains weren't running and he couldn't sleep in a deserted building anyway. He felt less alone outside, for all the sense that made. He wondered how long it would be before he went mad.
Now though, he wondered what the sound was and where it was coming from. Because he'd just heard it again and it wasn't the wind. He turned from the Thames and the world clicked back into focus. It was like being at the opticians when he was trying out different lenses. 'Now, is it better with this, or with this?' The optician had just slipped a different lense in and placed a layer over the world, a layer with people.
He screamed, the sound thin and unrecognisable to his desperately starved ears. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the looks he got from people passing by.
He wasn't alone.
He wasn't alone.
He wasn't alone.
He wasn't alone.
He wasn't alone.
He stopped the loop by biting his tongue. He bit a little too hard and blood filled his mouth. He wasn't alone. His filthy hands clutched the jacket of a woman rushing past. From the way she stared, he looked even worse than he felt, but she had seen him. And he could see her. He smiled, tears streaming clean tracks through the filth caked on his cheeks.
He got to his feet and stumbled away down Embankment. He got more looks and people stepped from his path. As well they should. He'd seen hell and returned. He was grinning like a madman by the time he reached the quay. He would take a ride on the ferry and drink in the city.
He had a hand on the gate when he stopped. What if they all went away? What if he was out there on the water and they all went away again? He'd be stranded. He turned away from the gate, shoving his shaking hands into his pockets.
What if they all went away?
What if they all went away?
What if they all went away?
What if they all went away?
Enough. He thumped his head with the palm of his hand and found a bench. He sat, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. The sounds washed over him and he struggled to breath. It was like the sea, soft but relentless. He needed peace and quiet and instead the noise came from everywhere, beating and beating at him.
He put his hands over his ears and moaned in his chest. Then another sound, one far louder than the murmuring of humanity cut through. Sirens. And not just one, but many. He joined the flock in turning this way and that in an attempt to be less ignorant.
Blue flashing lights appeared over by... what was the name of the bridge? He'd known them all, not so long ago. They drew closer, powering down the side of the river until they reached him. The noise was terrible, piercing his soul as they stuck and stabbed at him.
They flashed past one at a time and he counted them. He stumbled when he reached seven. Was it nine next? It felt wrong but he couldn't remember what it was supposed to be. He did remember that nine or more police cars all heading for the same event was a pretty big deal, though. He watched them down to the Houses of Parliament until the lights faded from sight.
A few minutes later, ambulances followed the path made by the police and there were just as many. He was half tempted to follow them. He wasn't the only one. Here and there, people wearing frowns that only half-masked their curiosity were heading in that direction with that half-run, half-walk that was supposed to look both dignified and sporty and failed at both.
With a shrug, he returned to his bench and stared out over the river. He knew what he could do. He dug through his pockets. He'd forgotten he got this a few days ago, but deep in one of his jacket pockets he found headphones wrapped around an iPod. Slipping them into his ears, he thumbed the play button and the scream of Thursday singing 'Rapture' drowned out the incessant battering of the rest of the world.
Bayleigh - Thursday: Plague Day
It happened right outside. Of all the things she remembered from that day and all the dark ones that followed, the moment that it happened was stuck foremost in her memory. But seeing it happen to Layla was what woke her, for years afterward, from nightmares that remained when she opened her eyes.
Friday morning and the early lunchtime rush was in full swing. They were at full tilt, the easy back and forth of their morning conversation entirely absent. They'd been talking about dreams. Not the sleeping kind, but the things you looked forward to. She hadn't talked about them to anyone, not for longer than she could remember.
It still felt like a betrayal of Dad to even think about them, but she couldn't help it. Every morning she woke up and set off for his room, only to stop when she reached the landing and the open door. The room was empty, the bed no longer bearing bars and the corners bare of their rubber strips. And every morning she'd cry for a bit and go to breakfast with the biggest sense of confusion and a smile on her face.
But times like this were nice. This was why she'd opened the shop, for the easy banter over the counter and the methodical, caring making. Every sandwich was a miniature creation, put together with love and thought, and every smile she received was payment that made it all worthwhile. She shook her head, handing over a mozzarella and tomato.
She thought too much. She always had. She needed to just enjoy herself, to relax and be in the moment. Layla nudged her in the back and nodded at the front door. Ali stood there, his flour-coated clothes absent. He strolled in, round the queue and to the end of the counter.
'Morning.'
'Hey, Ali.' Layla's bright, innuendo-ripe tones filled the shop and made Bayleigh's cheeks heat up.
'Hi.' She managed, blushing into a ploughman's with extra mayo. Ali gave her a grin and folded his arms, watching the coming and going like a local at a pub. He'd become a local now, appearing every day once his deliveries were done to chat and make his interest in her plain.
She loved it.
She handed over the ploughman's and glanced up. The queue was still out the door and she ran her eyes over the fresh stuff. They should have enough, but it always got close. It was the only way to turn a profit. She caught something out the corner of her eye and paused.
Two enormous trucks pulled up on the other side of the street, painted a uniform shade of slate grey and military-looking. They had stopped on the double yellows and were already causing chaos behind them. The back door of the rear one opened and a number of soldiers jumped out. She thought they were soldiers. They wore uniforms in the same dull colour of the trucks, but they had gas masks on and huge helmets covered in netting.
They were part-Vietnam war, part-Star Wars and they made her shiver. Goosebumps ran up and down her arms and her stomach turned over. Other people in the shop had noticed them as well and the entire queue turned to watch. She blinked and returned to her customer but his back was to her, staring with the rest.
She put her knife down and joined them, walking down the counter to peer out through the front window. Layla joined her.
'What are they? Creep me out.'
'Yeah, me too.' Without knowing why, she slipped her hand into Layla's. More soldiers poured from the other truck until twenty of them stood in a circle. Another truck pulled up, smaller and bearing a cylinder the size of a washing machine. The soldiers surrounded it, facing outward. They carried guns and it was that, more than anything, that made her take a step back away from the window.
A man dressed in white, with a shaved head and sunglasses above his gas mask, stepped from the smaller truck. He strode around to the side of it and pressed buttons set into the cylinder. The hissing sound was audible inside the shop and she watched as thick dark smoke jetted up into the London sky. The man turned away from the truck, putting his hands behind his back
as he joined the ranks of soldiers.
Bayleigh's mouth filled with bile. She didn't understand what she was watching, but still her stomach rebelled and her instinct screamed at her to run. Layla gripped her arm so hard she pulled it away, hissing.
'Sorry, Bay, what are they doing?'
'I don't know. I think we should leave.'
'Where we going?'
Bayleigh turned away from the window. 'Don't know, just away.' She froze as the first scream reached her. She turned back to the window, not wanting to but unable to resist. A man had fallen over and lay face down on the ground before the soldiers. His body was tense, his arms holding him up as though he'd got rigor mortis. But he wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead.
She realised she'd picked up the knife again and dropped it. The clang as it bounced off the counter was loud in the shop and everyone jumped and turned. Then chaos erupted. Customers streamed into the street, shouting and shoving, and in moments the place was empty save the two of them and Ali.
His face was pale, his usual confident grin very much absent. Bayleigh couldn't take her eyes off the street. More people were dropping now. Some ran and just looked like they tripped. Others were standing and didn't fall over immediately, just wobbled until someone else caught them. Then they went down like broken statues.
Every person who fell was rigid, hands curled up like claws and arms crooked as though they were pretending to be velociraptors. She saw one of her regulars approach the truck and start speaking to the man with his hands behind his back. One of the soldiers stepped out of line and smashed the butt of his gun into her customer's face.
He dropped to one knee and she watched dumbfounded as blood streamed from his mouth onto the floor. It was almost scarier than the smoke billowing up; the casual violence with no cause and no comeback was so abrupt. What followed was just as shocking. The soldier drove his boot into the man's throat and he fell to the floor, gripping his shattered windpipe as his life fled.
Bayleigh clapped a hand over her mouth. Finally, she was galvanised into action and headed out the back followed closely by the other two. The back door opened onto a dark alleyway empty of people. They ran out and headed to the end. The street was in pandemonium; tourists, office workers, students and everyone else running in all directions. She stopped short at the exit of the alley.
A Chinese man raced past, camera jiggling about in one hand. He stopped as he drew level with her and put his free hand to his throat. He coughed, once, and hit the pavement face down. She saw his hands curl, as though he got angry as he lay there. She knelt beside him and put her hand on his shoulder
She pulled it away, gasping at the heat. He was burning up and she took a step away, blowing on her hand. Ali came to stand beside her and nudged the body with his foot. It was stiff, moving as though he'd pushed a piece of wood. She looked up at him, but the sight of his pale face and flushed cheeks was too unnerving and she looked quickly away.
As her gaze wandered back across the street, she heard Ali cough. Her hands grabbed his as they turned to stare at one another. He coughed again and doubled over and she screamed as he dragged her to the floor. His hands curled within hers, the nails digging into her palms. Her knees struck the concrete and the scream cut off abruptly.
Then Ali fell face first to the concrete, hard and unyielding.
Luke - Wednesday: 8 Days to Plague Day
It happened far faster than he expected. And when it came, it was like nothing he'd ever seen. And he'd seen a lot. As plagues went, it was a doozy, the worst of the lot. Which, considering it was made by human hand, was unsurprising.
He left Shitsville early next morning. The wasp man was still in the pub, face blemished with tiny red spots and pulse slow. Luke glanced at him as he walked out the front door. The place was empty, the barman having fled when his third local collapsed screaming. Luke spent the night lounging by the fire and flicking through the TV channels.
He stomped down the road far enough to find a car and knocked on the door of the house. An elderly gentleman opened it and, after a short discussion in which the words 'snap' and 'neck' were used liberally, he handed over his car keys with shaking hands. Luke slipped behind the wheel of the Micra, glanced with amusement at the small cross hanging from the rear view and pulled away.
He hadn't driven in... he hadn't ever driven, but he knew the theory. It took him until the first junction to get it sorted and from there he drove as fast as possible towards London. The inevitable blue lights led to a brief stop on the hard shoulder of the M3.
'Excuse me, sir, are you aware of the speed limit on the motorway?'
'Actually, no. This is my first time.'
'First time on a motorway, sir?'
'First time driving. How was I doing?'
'Well, you were doing 120 in a 70, which means I'm afraid this is your first and also your last time driving. Could you step out of the vehicle please?'
Luke glanced at the wheel and then in the rearview at the BMW covered in blue and yellow signage. Their car would be even faster. And much classier. Actually, police cars weren't classy, but certainly cooler than a Micra. Anything was cooler than a Micra. With a shrug he stepped out of the car.
The passing traffic pulled at his hair and he shifted from foot to foot. His wings itched horribly but the Father had been clear on that. No powers, no flying. Then again, he'd already disobeyed the first part. But there was something wonderful about doing things the human way. Everything here was rich and lush. Saving the human race felt like a small deal compared with the fun he'd already had. Speaking of which...
'Officer, I'm sorry, but I'm going to need your car.'
The policeman raised an eyebrow and gestured. The man sat behind the steering wheel of their cruiser opened his door and moved to join them.
'Hey, Steve, this gentleman needs our car.' He said it with a smile on his face, the sort Luke had seen too often selling flowers. It was the sort of look which was accompanied by the belief that the smiler was in some way superior. It was perfect. Luke leaned closer, lowering his voice so it was almost stolen by the roar of the traffic.
'Tell me, officers, what are your worst fears?'
The smiler went pale and his mouth dropped open. He screamed and ran. Unfortunately, he had forgotten where he was and dashed straight into the path of an oncoming HGV. The sound was somewhere between dropping a watermelon and squirting the last bit of ketchup out the bottle. Luke blinked as a spatter of blood caught his shoes.
That wasn't supposed to happen. He grinned, ignoring the quiet voice deep inside that cried out in distress. He just had to think, what would Az think about this? The smile widened. How about Seph? He shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line and turned to the other policeman.
He was naked, his clothes piled neatly on the tarmac. He was stood five feet away from the pile and firing a taser repeatedly at them. Luke was tempted to go deeper and find out what was so scary about them. Instead, he took the long way around him and jumped into the cruiser. After the Micra, it felt like the cockpit of a space shuttle and he grinned as he flicked switches and played with things.
Not a great deal happened, so he pulled around the officer and put his foot down. The lorry had pulled into the hard shoulder, pieces of the policeman attached to the front bumper. Wincing, Luke pulled away. He needed to be careful. Or did he? He wasn't sure. This felt natural, more natural than what he'd spent the last few centuries doing. This was the real him, wasn't it?
Too many questions. Boring ones at that. He was enjoying the experience, but the sooner he could find Alex and convince him of the error of his ways, the sooner he could get back to the Flights and his cosy chamber and his flowers. Life was far simpler there, even if it wasn't strictly life. And Sara was there.
The M3 cut through the M25 and soon he could see the landmarks that brought a sense of homecoming to him, far stronger than he'd expected. He drove right in until he hit the river. Then he parked the cruiser on Waterloo Bridge and
walked until he came to his spot. It was empty and he felt the absence of his stall in the eyes of the passers-by.
Many of them had no idea what had been there, but they felt it anyway. But some of them, the workers and regulars, knew what to expect and struggled with the space. Change is difficult, always so difficult, and it's sometimes the little things, the things taken for granted that, when gone, have the biggest impact.
He needed to find Alex. He studied at the University of Westminster, but the lab in which he did his research was close by. The universities in England had a remarkably unrecognised stranglehold over property, particularly here in the city. There were all these pockets and bolt holes owned by random educational establishments.
The one in which Alex worked was part of Temple, a place close to Luke's heart. Anywhere that practised secret and creepy belief systems was fine by him. Anything that stuck the finger up at the Father had to be a positive. He pushed through the gate and let the traffic sweep him along. It was quieter in here than out by the river, but there were enough people for him to fade until he reached the lab.
He slipped away, down a tiny alley and pushed through the door. The red brick and green lawns outside changed abruptly to the white tiles and linoleum of the laboratory. Alex was there, humming to himself as he bustled about. This was going to be easy. There was no way it would be this easy.
Alex glanced up, saw him and backed away, shaking his head. 'It's you. What are you doing here? I've made my decision, we're keeping the baby, there won't be any problems.'
'See, it's funny. Because you say that, but I have it on good authority that you're still pushing ahead with your experiments.'
Alex shook his head, still backing away until he bumped against the wall. 'I'm not, really. I've changed the thrust of my research. I'm working on a cure for chemical weapons. I sold it to the university this morning.' He frowned. 'Well, I sold the idea. They haven't given me any money yet, but I'm sure they will.'
Thirteen Roses Book One: Before: An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga Page 12
