The Exodus Plague | Book 2 | Imprisoned
Page 23
“And frankly,” added Leila, “if that’s what getting the bite ‘seen to’ involves, I’d rather take my chances.”
“Oh but I assure you, we have treatments. Very effective treatments. If you would just come back with us…”
“And if I refuse?”
The Colonel said nothing. He simply smiled and glanced at the two soldiers who had silently emerged from the back of the Land Rover. They were wearing full combat gear and they were carrying assault weapons.
“I’m afraid, my dear,” the Colonel said, “that I must insist that you accompany us.”
“They wouldn’t shoot her,” Jonathan said, “I know your people treat anyone who recovered from the infection as special.”
“I think you may have misunderstood,” the Colonel said, “I’ve always been very solicitous of you and your little band of adventurers. But Leila here is not special. I’m sure she’s a most interesting and charming person. But no, not at all special.”
“Then why do you keep following us?”
“You, my dear Jonathan. You are the special one. Hadn’t you realised?”
Absent Friends
It was early evening when Geoff and Matteo arrived back at the cottage. They had managed to find an old but serviceable green Land Rover abandoned in the middle of a small woodland. On the side of the Land Rover, written in gold script, were the words: “Willow Lane Tree Services, Forestry & Tree Surgery”, followed by a phone number and an email address. Whatever had happened to the owner of the vehicle must have happened quickly because the keys were still in the ignition and the fuel tank was nearly full. They were sure that Jonathan and Leila would be pleased.
They parked the Land Rover just outside the gate to the cottage’s little front garden. The silence was broken only by the shrill sounds of flocks of swifts darting around the eves of the cottage before swooping up the road towards the woodland.
Bobby jumped out of the Land Rover and dashed, full-pelt, straight through the open door of the cottage. Matteo and Geoff followed the dog at a more leisurely pace. Then the dog was back out in the garden again, yap-yap-yapping! They knew the dog well enough to understand that this was his signal that something was amiss.
Already, Bobby had turned tail and dashed into the cottage again. When Jonathan and Geoff entered the small living room, the dog was running around frantically barking and howling, then he dashed out through the back door into the overgrown vegetable garden. He sniffed briefly at the heaped compost beneath which they had placed the skeletal woman’s body, but that held no interest for the dog. He was dashing around frantically with his nose to the grass, trying to scent out Jonathan and Leila. But no matter where he looked, the dog could not find them.
When Geoff and Matteo looked, they could not find them either. They were gone. They would not simply have wandered off. They must have been taken against their will.
“What now?” said Geoff.
Matteo shrugged: “We continue with the plan.”
Twilight
The two men strolling across the quad of St. Dunstan’s College attracted no attention from the undergraduates who, by ancient tradition, were obliged to walk upon the gravel-covered paths and were strictly forbidden from putting their feet upon the sacred grass. The men were on their way to Formal Hall and were, consequently, dressed in their academic gowns. The taller of the two, a distinguished, slightly balding man, was the Master, Sir Eric Martingdale. The smaller, plumper man, Dr Ampleside, was Director Of Studies in some obscure subject – Sir Eric could never recall what: Old Nordic Rune Lore perhaps? Or was it Etruscan Erotic Poetry?
“Well, the thing is, the chap’s become a damn’ nuisance. He intimidates the junior fellows.”
“Could he not be rusticated?” suggested Dr Ampleside.
“He is not a member of college, sadly, or I should have not the slightest compunction in rusticating him with extreme prejudice.”
“Why does he lurk around St Dunstan’s particularly, do you suppose? Could he not just as well sell his pardons to undergraduates at Trinity, St John’s or Magdalen?”
“Ah, well, that’s a most interesting story, as a matter of fact. I have heard it said that he was something quite important before everything went to wrack and ruin. A biologist of some sort.”
“A scientist?” Dr Ampleside spat out the word as though it had soiled his mouth, “I can’t say I know many of that sort.”
“Very wise. They are not the most civilised of chaps at the best of times. Have you heard of something called the Microbiological Research Unit?”
“Can’t say I have, old chap. No, no, I can’t say I have.”
“They mess about with germs, so it seems.”
“Really? How eccentric!”
“Well, the Pardoner was something up there.”
“But he’s a religious maniac. I didn’t think those scientific chaps went in for that sort of thing.”
“Do you remember a postgrad student we used to have in the college. Now, what was his name? Good-looking boy. Of Italian extraction if my memory serves me well. Matteo, was it? Yes, a chap called Matteo.”
Dr Ampleside smiled fondly. “Oh yes, indeed. A very good-looking young man. Whatever happened to him?”
“Whatever indeed! Some soldiers arrived and took him away.”
“Good Lord! Did they give a reason?”
“They never do. But I have heard rumours that it was Perkins…”
“Perkins?”
“The Pardoner. His name is Perkins.”
“Ah.”
“I’ve heard it said that it was Perkins who put the soldier fellows onto Matteo. Perkins had formerly worked with Matteo, on germs and suchlike, and he seemed to think the lad had talents which might be of some use.”
“Not much use these days, I shouldn’t think. Germs. Why would anyone want a germ specialist? Utter twaddle. Have we time for a small Amontillado in the Combination Room before dinner, do you think?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure we have. It would be only civilised, after all. No matter what hardships we may have to put up with, we should always maintain a sense of civility and decorum, old chap. Yes, a small Amontillado would be most agreeable.”
A Message from the Author
Thank you for reading my book. I hope you enjoyed it. This is the second book in The Exodus Plague series and I am already busy writing another one!
Writing these books takes a great deal of time and effort. I love writing them and it is one of the best things in my life to hear from readers who enjoy reading them. But the biggest problem I face is trying to let potential readers know that I even exist. There are millions of books for sale on Amazon and elsewhere and it is really hard for my books to compete against titles produced by big publishing companies with huge marketing budgets.
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Huw Collingbourne
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Now Read On…
The story continues in ‘Escape’ – the third volume of The Exodus Plague trilogy. Here’s the first chapter…
Escape
January 12th (Sunday, London)
&nb
sp; 1
They’re out there. Scratching at the front door, howling, trying to get in. Do they know I’m in here? What should I do? Try to get out? Or crouch in a corner and hope they go away?
*
The last thing I remembered was Sandra screaming that she wanted to build a snowman and the big bloke whose name I forget saying that in Sweden when it snowed people took off all their clothes and went snow-wrestling (which, incidentally, I don’t think is true). I wasn’t really concentrating due to the combination of the Sangria, speed and dope. I’d been mainlining the Sangria all evening and then someone produced some speed which I had a quick snort of and then someone else gave me some marzipan sweets that turned out to be liberally doctored with cannabis resin. The speed made me hyper, the dope calmed me down and the booze gave me an irresistible urge to sing Rick Astley songs and dance the rumba. All in all, I was in no state to go wrestling in the snow.
Some time later, I remember rolling around on the rug in front of the fire. Sandra was rolling around with me. She had on a black, lacy bra and not much else, as far as I can recall. Then, some time later still, I was lying in bed with Alistair who was, according to legend, Sandra’s boyfriend but who appeared to have broader tastes than I’d given him credit for.
Finally, I must have passed out because the next thing I remember is waking up with a stonking headache and a strong desire to become a teetotaller. I realised then that I was lying in someone else’s bed and I didn’t know whose. It looked a feminine sort of bed with little flowers and frills all over the pillows and duvet. Dismal pale daylight was filtering through the lacy drapes of the uncurtained windows. I turned around to see if anyone was lying in bed with me. I was relieved to discover that I was alone. That’s when I heard the howling.
I thought it must be an animal of some kind. It sounded in pain. A wounded dog, maybe? The howling went on for a minute or so and then it stopped. I levered myself out of bed and tried to stand. The room spun around. I fell back onto the bed, closed my eyes and started to drift back to sleep. Then the howling began again. It sounded more like a snarl of rage now, an animal that was hunting, not one that was being hunted. It wasn’t a dog, that was for sure. But what else could be making a noise like that? A bear? Or a tiger? Nah… How would a bear or tiger happen to be wandering around the streets of west London?
I levered myself off the bed again, more slowly this time, and, trembling slightly, I padded in my bare feet over to the window. The light was so bright it hurt. I guess the pupils of my eyes must have been dilated – the after effects of whatever drugs I’d taken the previous night – because I could see that the sky was overcast and yet the light was blindingly white. Snow was falling. Everywhere was covered in snow. All I could see was a seamless sheet of pure, dazzling white.
I stood to one side of the window, to hide myself from view. The howling had stopped. It had been replaced by a high-pitched keening that made me think of an injured animal. Then the banging on the door started. I peered out around the side of the window and that was when I saw them. There were three of them: two men and a woman. One of the men – a big, tall bloke – was banging on the front door. The woman and the other man stood slightly behind him; they were clinging to one another. They weren’t doing anything else – they were just standing in the snow with their arms around each other. None of them was dressed for the weather. The woman was wearing a big woollen pullover, the man holding her was wearing a denim jacket and jeans. Only the big man hammering on the door was wearing an overcoat. But under the overcoat he was wearing a tee-shirt.
I thought they must be even drunker than I was. Or out of their heads on acid. Then I recognised the woman. It was Sandra. The man holding her was Alistair. There was no mistaking his wavy blond hair. What were they doing out in the snow? It didn’t make any sense. For a split second I thought of opening the window and shouting out to them. Thank God I didn’t! The big man began hammering on the door again and howling. I realised then that it wasn’t just a meaningless animal howl as I’d thought at first. He was shouting words, of a sort. But the words were garbled and incoherent. To be honest, I couldn’t make out what he was trying to say. That scared the hell out of me. It was just wrong, all of it, totally wrong.
I shrank back against the wall. This was Sandra’s house that I was in. I’d been at Sandra’s party the night before. If she had got herself locked out in the middle of a blizzard, obviously I should go downstairs, open the door and let her in. But I didn’t do that. Because there was something wrong – about everything.
I heard a noise behind me. The door of the bedroom creaked on its hinges. It began to open. Just an inch. Then it stopped. I flung myself onto the floor and crouched out of sight between the bed and the window. I was thinking of crawling under the bed. But I’m slightly claustrophobic so I didn’t. It felt safer being out in the open, having the chance to run if I needed to.
The door opened all the way then. It banged against the bedroom wall. There was a girl there. A woman, I mean. Early twenties. She looked awful. Her face was ashen, her eyes had great dark rings around them. She was wearing a long satiny dressing gown, pale purple decorated with gold flowers, which was left far enough open at the front for me to be sure that she wasn’t wearing anything else.
She staggered towards me, her eyes seemingly unfocussed. I stood up, being careful to keep my back to the wall next to the window so that whoever was outside wouldn’t see me. That was when the girl in the dressing gown noticed me for the first time.
“What’s the bloody racket?” she said.
I put my finger to my lips and said “Shhhh.”
“Don’t you ‘Shhhh’ me,” she said, “This is my bloody house, after all. Who are you anyway?”
“It’s not your house,” I whispered, “It’s Sandra’s house.”
She stared at me for a few moments. Then she looked around the room. Then she went back through the door and took a look out in the corridor. Then she came back into the bedroom and said, “You’re right. It’s not my house. Who’s Sandra?”
And that was how I met Eryn.
But wait, there’s more…
More Books…
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Books by Huw Collingbourne
The Exodus Plague
Book 1: The Snow
Book 2: Imprisoned
Book 3: Escape
The 1980s Murder Mysteries
Book 1: Killers In Mascara
Book 2: The Glam Assassin
Book 3: Death Wears Sequins
Thank you for reading.
Best wishes
Huw Collingbourne