2 Years, 2 Weeks, 2 Lives

by Phil Cocker

The next novel in the Eric Peterson series.

  Available soon on all E-book formats.

  Bang!

  Eric sat in a puddle, eyes closed, rubbing the rapidly growing bump in the centre of his forehead. He wondered what had crashed into him. The day hadn't started well. His mum had nagged him to get the usual chores done around the house and with everything that had happened in the last month, he just didn’t give a damn. Eric didn’t care about putting the bins out, or mowing lawns, and now, to top it all, he had a banging headache and a very wet bum.

  Leaning back onto his hands he raised his soggy jeans out of the puddle and replayed the last few seconds in his mind, as something wasn’t right. His mum had asked him to “Nip to the shops for some milk, Love” and he’d thrown on his coat, even though it was a very warm morning. Not wanting to face the world yet, he pulled the hood up over his head before trudging down the alley that ran along the side of his house on the way to the local supermarket. Approaching the main road someone came charging around the corner. Neither had time to stop and they’d slammed into each other, literally head on.

  He rubbed his forehead. The bandages from his last accident, when he’d been found unconscious at the bottom of the stairs, had been removed only two weeks before, and he wondered if he’d now need new ones.

  His mind flashed back to the time of his previous accident, a month previous, and everything went blank. No matter how many times or how hard he tried, there was nothing. At 14 years old, Eric could recall most of his short life, but this was a huge chunk that had now simply vanished, as if wiped off a memory card. These were the two weeks leading up to and after the accident and it frustrated him.

  He came back to his current predicament, drips of muddy, grit-filled water dripped off his back-side, and a thought struck him. It must be hurting, because I'm sure that what just hit me was something that couldn’t have hit me, something impossible, because it was……….

  He stopped rubbing, fearful at what he was about to see. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered his waist down, careful to not let it touch the water. He opened his eyes, and saw nothing there. This was quite perplexing. He turned his head to the left and there was his best friend Tom, also sat on the floor massaging his head.

  "Aaaarrrgggghhhhh!" Eric screamed, backing away on all fours from his friend.

  “All my giddyants!” Tom replied in shock.

  Eric closed his eyes, as he couldn't quite believe them. This wasn’t happening. He opened them again, thinking he was hallucinating, probably caused by colliding with such force. “Arrhythmical, NO, NO, NO, YOU’RE NOT REAL YOU’RE…” he scrambled away from Tom as fast as he could, until he hit a garage wall. He clamped his hand back over his eyes, trying to get away from this nightmare.

  Eric’s mind flashed to just over a week ago, when he was dressed in his best trousers and clean white shirt. He wore his School blazer and a black tie, and he remembered the tears rolling down his face as he threw a handful of dirt onto a hard, unfeeling, lifeless, oak coffin. The wind lashed the rain viciously across the cemetery, stinging the faces of the huge crowd who’d attended. They’d had all four seasons that day. The hailstorm that only lasted several seconds was probably the bleakest moment of the whole morning. Although Eric recalled the thought that Tom would have been in fits of giggles watching the vicar constantly sweeping the little frozen balls off his bible. Alas, he then saw the coffin, coated in its cool, white blanket, and it didn’t seem real that his best friend was lying in there, dead.

  Eric went through that day as if he was and actor in a very surreal play, where he hadn’t learnt the lines. He knew to say thank you and to smile when people said kind words to him, but he had never realised about all the emotions he’d have to face. He replayed the moments as he stepped away from the graveside, his mum comforting him, his head drowning with the terrible feelings of pain and sorrow. He could have been a thousand galaxies away, he felt so lost.

  Eric snapped out of the memory as the pebble-dashed wall of 228 Brownside Road dug deeper into his back. He was pressing his skin into it, trying as hard as he could to find a small gap between the concrete sectional pieces that would let him squeeze through and flee this current horror.

  "It can't be… but, but…" stuttered Eric.

  "Sure is, but I've no time to explain all this" said Tom, holding out a hand to help his living friend up.

  "No way - You’re...” he hesitated, as he knew this wasn’t real, “You’re……” he struggled to come to terms with the word he was about to utter. “You’re dead! We buried you. I saw you in the Chapel of Rest. Is this a dream?"

  "Nope, no dream, and yes, I died” Tom looked up and down the alley, “but I need to help you up, and we have to move quickly, I'm in trouble, and you're the only one I can trust", he said earnestly.

  Eric took hold of Tom's hand gingerly, shuddering at how cold it was.

  "It's OK, it's not going to drop off, I've only been dead 2 weeks", Tom said as he hoisted Eric to his feet.

  "Stop talking like that", Eric shook his head in disbelief.

  "Why?” Tom stopped and looked at his friend, hoping he’d believe him. “I hate to say this Mate, but it’s true. I'm a stiffy, a cold fish, a gonner, I've been pushing up the daisies, I’m the finest teenage worm food money can buy."

  "Get lost Tom, you're not real." Eric walked away, rubbing his hand, trying to stem the icy feeling that was creeping along his fingers towards his palm. He decided to go home and turned round, but Tom was still standing there, alive and well, as if nothing had ever happened.

  Eric couldn’t bear it any longer and set off down the alley, past the apparent ghost or zombie or whatever it was that used to be his friend. He started mumbling to himself. "He's dead, we buried him, and I must be having an episode."

  "An episode of what?” Said Tom, keeping pace at Eric's side. “Dr.Who?”

  "I’m not listening to your twittering ‘cus you’re not real.” Eric waved his hands across each other, trying to cancel it all out. “I’ve banged my head and that has caused me to have some sort of psychological episode.” He continued with his reasoning, even though he didn’t believe he was actually talking to anyone. “The counsellor said I would have moments like this"

  "Whatever, but can we hurry up, Mate?” Tom glanced back towards the main road. “Listen, I am real. I might be dead, but I do have feelings"

  “WHAT!" screamed Eric, slapping his hands onto either side of his face "You’re dead, but you do have feelings. So you do admit you’re dead then and I'm not going mad?"

  "Yip, I’m dead, as I’ve said about a thousand times” he exhaled impatiently. “And nope, the jacket for hugging yourself in is safely tucked away - as we also need to be, so let's go back to your mum’s garage, now.” Tom looked worryingly back down the alley again, as he ushered Eric back to his house.

  Lost.

  “WHAAAAT?” Eklan screamed at her scientists standing around the perimeter of the laboratory, all were trying to not look guilty. “You’re telling me he simply woke up and took it?”

  The room was 10 metres square, one wall was glazed and opened halfway, cupboards lined the two sides and a bank of computer workstations lined the far wall. In the centre of the room was a large island of low-level cupboards, approximately 3 metres long by 1 metre wide with a smooth metal surface. Above was an array of bright lights fixed into a maneuverable arm, clearly illuminating everything they wanted to work upon. Some of the cupboard doors were open, an array of medical equipment on show, from portable scanning devices to vicious cutting instruments.

  All the scientists looked from one to another, each one not wanting to be the one who answered their fearsome leader.

  “Well?” Eklan’s voice was now a low growl, the anger contained as far as possible for the alien commander. She had climbed the ranks in the Rexon Army over a very short period, willing to do anything and go anywhere, getting the resul
ts her seniors always wanted, in places where many male Rexon would not go. She’d gained a reputation for letting her anger get the better of her, and then letting loose on any unsuspecting target, including her own soldiers, and this had so far limited her career. Yet, now, under the mentoring of the renowned Military Leader K’Nash, she’d spent time learning skills in controlling her anger, as he directed her talents to better use.

  Eklan drew a line down the bridge of her nose which started in the centre of her forehead, and ran all the way down, finishing in a bony point, a few centimetres below her chin. This gave the Rexon features the look of an axe blade bursting out of their face. Her long spindly index finger arched back on itself under the pressure. It flicked off the end of her chin when she’d finished the relaxation technique. This was one of many she’d been taught as a means to curb her anger.

  It didn’t work.

  Eklan balled her hands, her fingernails digging into her palm, breaking the skin, making her tangerine coloured blood run drip onto the floor. She raised her fist up, and then slammed it back down onto the nearest work surface, the adjacent computers jumped in shock, along with the scientists.

  Her eyes turned to the door as it slid open. “Harrap, tell me,” Her voice surprisingly calm towards the Lead Scientist as he