Thirteen Roses Book One: Before: An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga

by Michael Cairns

  Luke stared at him. He couldn't be telling the truth, because where would the problem be? Why was he here? Then again, the problem was thirty years away, so maybe nothing Alex did here made any difference. Perhaps a change of tack was needed.

  'You're sure you want to keep the baby?'

  'Huh? I mean, what the hell? How can you ask me that? Of course I do, after what you showed me. I mean, I can't really remember what you showed me, but I know I have to keep it, him.'

  'Even though you've changed your research. Don't you think that will be enough?'

  'I don't bloody know, this was your idea.'

  Luke smiled as Alex's voice rose. For a smart man, he was as unconfident as they came. He just wanted to be led around. Did his girlfriend know that yet? Luke smiled reassuringly. 'Well, I think your change in study would probably be enough. You might want to have another chat to your girlfriend, just to be certain. You could do amazing things here, if you didn't have a child.'

  He almost felt bad as Alex's face crumpled and he dumped his notepad on the table. 'Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?'

  'My only interest is the safety of the human race.'

  'Yeah, well, my interest is my sanity, so go away. Please.'

  It would have to do for now. He could work on him over time. He had plenty of it. He headed for the door and was about to leave when he spotted something written on a piece of paper by the door. He pulled it out and read the entire thing.

  MOD/MI6 fhurng/rg/234

  Full gagging and secrecy order

  Dear Alex

  Thank you for your recent efforts in support of our nation's continuing security. As discussed in our meeting, this is your copy of the secrecy agreement you signed.

  May I take this opportunity to remind you that any attempts to break this order, or share any information pertaining to the contribution you have made, will result in severe and immediate sanctions upon both yourself and any you hold dear.

  Thank you again.

  Sincerely

  There was no signature. Luke held it up and turned back to Alex. The man watched him, sickly smile on his face.

  Jackson - Thursday: Plague Day

  His belly hurt. It was like he'd eaten an entire carton of ice cream and one of the bitch's dodgy curries. The thought of his girlfriend made his eyes water. He rolled onto his side and tears streamed down his face. He'd called her a bitch! He shouted at her and screamed and threatened. How had he done that? How had he done all those terrible things?

  He rolled onto his front and pulled his knees up, forehead pressing into the concrete. His throat was like sandpaper and he coughed, retching and choking. He could feel them, their little hands clawing at his mouth, their feet shoving and kicking as they went down.

  His throat was blocked for a moment and he wrapped his hands around it, gasping for breath. His vision began to blur and he rocked back and forth, trying to dislodge them. Some tiny part of his brain, the part not overwhelmed by terror, told him there was nothing there. It had to shout, but it was good at it and suddenly he could breathe again.

  They were gone. Were they inside him? He lifted his head off the pavement and looked at his stomach. It wasn't swollen or bloated. In fact, the only thing that remained was his aching belly and sore throat. How had he done that to all those children?

  Tears came again and he sobbed and coughed. Finally he sat up and crossed himself. He hadn't done that since he left home, since Mam threw him out. She'd always crossed herself, often right before she took the belt to him.

  'My son, you've brought shame to us again. I pray to the Lord for salvation for your soul. Now grab the door handle and keep your mouth shut.'

  Wham wham wham and no sitting down for the rest of the week. He hated Mam. Had hated Mam. He remembered the funeral well, the looks of disdain from his brothers and the warmth he felt as she was lowered into the ground. Now he thought of all the love she'd given him, the teachings and the faith. It took a minute or two before he ran out of memories and he crossed himself for the entire 120 seconds.

  He stood and stretched, his sleeves sliding up his arms as he reached for the sky. His tattoos sprang into sight and he groaned and shook his head. What was he thinking? He'd scarred himself. He chuckled and shook his head. Scarring on the outside meant nothing compared to what was burned into his soul. What he had done could never be washed away.

  His only hope was to balance up the scales and find some way to become useful to mankind. He would still go to hell, but perhaps he could buy himself onto the higher levels. Nodding righteously, he strolled into the park and took a deep breath. It was beautiful here, so beautiful tears sprang into his eyes.

  It felt good to cry. It had been too long. To think he'd been ashamed of it before now. He needed to get home and see Maria. She deserved so much better than him and he needed to tell her that and help her understand how amazing she was. He bit his lip as it wobbled. How had he ever called her all those terrible things?

  His belly ached, but it was nothing compared to the hurt in his heart.

  He heard sirens and ducked his head. Instinct, driven so deep he wasn't even aware of it, making him glance around for a good spot to hide. The sirens were numerous enough to make him more curious than scared, so he jogged across to the entrance of the park to see what was happening. As he reached it, four pig cars went past at a serious lick. He flushed as he caught himself thinking of them as pigs. When had he ever believed that was an acceptable way to speak about the police?

  They were followed by ambulances and he watched them go past and out of sight. They were heading for Oxford Circus. Maybe something big was going on. Something stirred inside, an old habit of taking opportunities when they arose. He walked through the gate and set off at a steady jog after the police cars.

  The sirens weren't stopping and another two cars hammered past. They were going faster than they were supposed to in the city. In this second group, the ambulances outnumbered the police cars. He heard something else as well, the distant but unmistakable sound of screaming. His heart jumped. It was a sound that made him feel at once queasy and oddly excited. It stirred things he recognised all too well and shoved down as quickly as he could.

  He stepped up the pace, pleased for the hours in the gym. It had nothing to do with staring at the gym-bunnys' tight arses and everything to do with keeping fit. He flushed and put his head down. His ears were burning as more memories flooded back. He tried to remember exactly where he'd been in the interim, but all he could picture were the children's faces. That and the feel of boots against the inside of his throat. Which was ridiculous, of course, but he still put a hand against his neck each time the feeling grew strong.

  His feet brought him to Trafalgar Square and he stopped dead, bending over as he struggled for breath. It wasn't the running that had him gasping, but what lay before him. The square was covered in bodies, tourists and suits alike. They were lying as though they'd been frozen in time, hands held out before them, grasping and eager.

  The nearest body provided no clues as to what had happened. He couldn't find a pulse and his own heart rate sped up. The skin was dry and cold and the limbs were stiff. He backed away. Something terrible had afflicted them, something evil and rotten. He put his hands together and glanced heavenward.

  But God wouldn't help him. He was a sinner of the worst kind. Asking God for help now was an insult. It was up to him to help himself and others. He set off through the square. The screams were coming from the river and he looked down Charing Cross Road to see crowds of people running, fleeing like rats from a burning building.

  The road up to Leicester Square was just the same as here. The ground was littered with bodies and not a soul moved. The screams were growing fainter and he caught a glimpse of how it would be in a day or two. There was absolute silence, save the sound of his laboured breathing. London was doomed. So why was he still here?

  He dashed for the river. He had to find someone else alive. He was hal
f way down when he heard the rumble of trucks and glanced behind. They were coming his way and he split to the hotel that ran all the way down the right hand side. Jackson crouched in the doorway, hands shaking. He wasn't a scaredy-cat but there was no way anyone driving that thing was here for fun and hugs.

  The first truck roared past his hiding place, all armoured plating and wheels taller than he was. He caught sight of a gas-masked figure peering out the back, then the next one came and another. The fourth truck carried a container rather than people and smoke jetted from a nozzle on top of it.

  So that's what had happened. An invasion. Some goddamn terrorists had invaded and were poisoning them. How had they got into the capital? Was the Queen dead? His fists clenched and he stared at the truck, looking for some sort of marking. Surely those Al-kyeeda bastards would want everyone to know who done it?

  But the trucks were blank, painted a city-war grey and bearing blacked-out windows. He waited till they'd gone past before he straightened and stretched. He still shook and broke into a walk in the hope it might stop it. He reached the river, still following the screams, in time to see the trucks go over Waterloo Bridge.

  All the way down the north side of the river, bodies were scattered like flowers after a funeral.

  Krystal - Thursday: Plague Day

  She was oddly warm. And she could smell something that wasn't her. She woke and stared at the blackness, trying to work out what she was looking at. It was only when he stirred and his hair stirred with him that she realised it was Ed's head. Her arm was wrapped around his waist and she could feel his body pressed against hers.

  Her breathing quickened and she couldn't decide why. They'd fallen asleep on different bunks, so nothing funny happened. Had she climbed in with him or vice versa? She was pretty confident he'd made the move and if she could just start breathing again, it probably wouldn't be that bad, or that big, a deal. They'd spent every second of the last two weeks together.

  It was part of the deal. He didn't kill his rapist and they hung out. And actually, it wasn't as bad as she'd expected. Once he was over the whole 'I want to die, I want my mummy' thing, he became surprisingly good company. And having someone to talk to was better than she'd expected.

  He smelled pretty good, now that he was washing. There was something faintly Indian about his scent but maybe that was just from the tint of his skin. His eyes reminded her of an Indian girl she'd gone to school with, big and brown and soulful. He had long lashes that guarded his thoughts and distracted her just as she was asking the important questions.

  Not that there were any important questions. The big ones were 'how are we going to eat?' and 'where are we going to sleep?' Beyond that it was all details. But now they were lying in the same bed and her boobs were crushed against his back and her nose was tickled by his long dark hair, and she was far more comfortable than she should be. Or wanted to be. This was dangerous.

  She extricated herself and climbed over him, thankful for once he was a deep sleeper. They were on the bottom bunk and she felt a strange flush of relief that he had climbed in with her. It was easier to push away when she'd not done anything. She sneaked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Krystal amused herself by making a list of the things they'd do today.

  Quick trip to Harrods for some ice cream

  Open-top bus back into the centre and then a ferry ride down the Thames.

  Jump off at the London Eye and take a trip on that.

  Into the Royal Festival Hall to see what was on.

  She got bored pretty quick. There was too much to do. She was like one of those people who moved to London because of all the things they could do but never actually did them. They just replaced their home town local with the nearest one to them, and went into Richmond or Ealing or Shoreditch once a year to remind themselves where they lived.

  Maybe that came at the end of the list. Pub crawl down the river, grab a meal along the way. She sneered and poured herself a tea. She'd be happy with some money in her hat and another cup of tea before bed.

  They were out before most, wandering in silence down Embankment. Ed had been blushful and mumbling when he came into the kitchen, but she'd laughed it off and warned him not to get any ideas. She hadn't mentioned that she'd had some of her own and they felt like pretty good ones.

  Now they seemed to have run out of things to say. She could vaguely remember talking to friends about TV shows and music and books and all sorts. Now there was nothing. They could compare detailed notes on the others in the hostel, guessing why they were there, but they'd already done that to death.

  They contented themselves with finding a bench and commenting on the passers-by, creating stories for them. Ed was quick and funny and his stories were invariably better than hers. His were always more optimistic as well, at least at first. His men were going to find the women of their dreams and marry them. Her men were angry and bitter and off to rob a bank or throw themselves from the top of The Shard.

  That was when the idea got her and she couldn't shake it off.

  'Let's go to Canary Wharf.'

  'What?'

  'Let's go to Canary Wharf. Let's go there now and get in a lift and go to the top and look out over London. I want to go to The Shard, but they'll never let us in. But the Wharf's got a cafe and stuff at the top. And neither of us smell bad and you actually look pretty good…'

  'Thanks.' He blushed.

  'Not like that. I mean, you don't look totally homeless.'

  'Oh, yeah.' His blush became a frown. 'Why?'

  'Why? Because the sun's out and I woke up next to you and didn't slit your throat on reflex. I think my counsellor would have called that growth or something. Whatever, it's reason to celebrate.'

  He blushed again and examined the tips of his shoes until she nudged him with an elbow in the ribs. 'C'mon.'

  He shrugged and let her pull him off the bench. They stomped along the Thames, listening as the city woke, shook itself and came to life. It changed as they walked. They reached the Tower of London and the Bridge and tried to imagine being locked up in the dungeons. Ed muttered something about the two of them being in close quarters not sounding that bad and she asked him what he thought he'd do if they were.

  That led to more blushing and scuffing his feet which made her laugh. Laughing wasn't something she remembered all that well. She'd certainly forgotten how good it felt. They moved on through Shadwell and the city got grubbier. She rarely came out this way, too much competition and no one she knew, nowhere she felt safe.

  Then it suddenly got new again and the pavements and tattered buildings were replaced with glass and elevated roads and lots of bored people in suits. There were docks as well, water stolen from the Thames and hemmed in for the sake of people with too much money. She stopped herself spitting, and made an effort to stand up straight and look deliberate. It was odd, trying to hide her homelessness. She hadn't bothered in a long time, not since her pride about that sort of thing slunk off with her first night outside.

  Canary Wharf loomed high above them, surrounded by confusing roadways, but they made it toreached the front door. She grabbed his hand on impulse and they made it to the lift and up to the cafe. She had cash, enough to buy a cup of tea, so they shared it and stared out over the city.

  Dad brought her here, way back when. Not the Wharf, but the city. It was why she'd headed here instead of Reading or one of the other places closer to her home. She'd always dreamed about London and what she'd do when she grew up. Then Dad stopped wanting to just hold her hand and Mum had gone away with the fairies, and she'd stopped having dreams.

  She shook her head and refocused her eyes on the steam rising from the cup. Ed watched her.

  'What?'

  'You looked thoughtful for a minute. I mean, more than usual.'

  'Is that a compliment or an insult?'

  'Um, don't know. What were you thinking about?'

  She sniffed and glanced around. The cafe was quiet on a Thursday morning and n
o one was staring at them. It made a pleasant change.

  'Thinking 'bout what London used to mean. I used to dream of coming here and making my fortune.'

  Ed grinned. 'Didn't we all? This was, like, my Mecca.'

  'Your bingo hall?'

  He burst out laughing. 'Mecca's like another name for a holy place. The bingo people stole it.'

  'Oh yeah, of course.' Her face heated up. She'd known that. Ed seemed oblivious to her squirming.

  'I mean, I was gonna come here and study art and become this famous artist and stuff. Now I'm...'

  He looked out the window and she noticed how his hands gripped his knees. His fingers were thin and she'd thought of them as bony and spider-like. But now she wondered whether they weren't artist's fingers. She reached over the table and squeezed his arm.

  'Now you're my friend. And hey, we made it.'

  She swept her arm wide to encompass the whole city, spread out below a crisply blue sky. He managed a laugh. 'Yeah we did. How long do you think we can stay here?'

  'You got money for another tea?'

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and she watched his forehead crease. Finally he shrugged and hauled his cash out of his pocket. As he laid it out on the table, she flushed. He'd learned quick about keeping your money to yourself. Showing it to her was a big deal. They counted it and without knowing why, she pulled hers out and added it to the pile until she no longer knew whose was whose.

  They had enough between them for a couple of cups of tea and maybe even a sandwich at lunch. The sun was shining in from the far side of the tower and they were warm and had somewhere to sit. They settled in, naming landmarks and sharing more stories about what they'd planned to do. Always what they had planned, never what was actually happening.