Thirteen Roses Book One: Before: An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga (19 page)

'I didn't ignore it. I'm having a child to stop it.'

'Only you've just sold your future and that of every other person on this planet and your baby won't be born for another seven months. Except it won't be born at all, because your girlfriend's going to be dead long before that ever happens.'

'But you said he'd stop it.'

Luke shoved his head back and stormed away across the huge open space. He ground his teeth together. He couldn't argue with that. He had said the child would stop it, because that's what his list said. Only somehow, the fates had changed. And he knew exactly who to blame for that.
 

The Father.

It wasn't just a set up in the list and subjects. This wasn't just a ruse to get him out of the Flights. It was about screwing him up as much as possible and killing the human race along with it. But why? What did the Father have to gain by killing his people?

Unless this part wasn't the Father. Unless someone had been watching it all and found a way to tweak things just enough. Or maybe it was all a coincidence. Maybe someone was messing with Alex and had no idea Luke would be here at all. If that was the case, he might have an advantage. He stomped back to the scientist.
 

'What about a cure? You don't have to say anything, but how quickly could you make a cure?'

Alex looked up at him, eyes sharper now. 'I don't know. I could make one, but it could take a while. I need to get back to my lab.'

Luke hissed and turned away. He needed to get it back from the government. It didn't matter how quickly he made a cure, they could kill thousands of people before they even realised what was happening.
 

Why did he care so much? He'd have cared before he came here, but everything had changed the moment he became human. He hadn't felt this way for hundreds of years and it felt good. But there was something gnawing at him, chewing away inside. A cancer that made him want to make this work and want to save humanity. And he didn't know what it was or where it came from.
 

If he could ignore it, he could stop worrying. But the world would be awfully boring without anyone in it. And he had no idea how it would affect him. Perhaps this whole thing was about making him human then putting him here to die. Was this the Father's way of finally getting rid of him without being blamed? He stopped short in his pacing, goosebumps running up his arms.
 

Could he die? He was mortal now, in a way. What would happen if this body died? Would he return to the Flights or was this it? He hadn't entertained the notion for even a second, but why should he? The Father had sent him here, body and all. There was nothing of him left above, so why would he return?

The cure was a dead end. He could be dead a hundred times over before it was created or useful. He spun around and went for Alex. He slammed his fist into his chest and knocked him over. Chair and man slammed into the concrete and Alex made a sound like a drowning rabbit.
 

Luke crouched beside him and put his thumb against Alex's eye. He pushed just hard enough for him to feel the pressure. 'Tell me or I put your eye out. Time's up and my patience is gone.'

Alex squirmed and whimpered, shaking his head from side to side, but getting nowhere. Luke pushed harder. He had a second when he thought he was going to have to go through with his threat and shuddered at the thought of having eyeball all over his finger with nothing to wipe it on. Then Alex coughed up.
 

'Okay, okay, I'll tell you. God, who are you? It was the MOD. They came in these trucks, two big armoured trucks in brown and green with these soldiers with gas masks and guns. Real guns in bloody England. They took the formula and my test vial.'

'So you don't know how to make it now?'

'They didn't take my board. That has the new equation.'

Luke grunted. 'What were you doing, leaving that sort of equation on a board?'

'It wasn't me. Well, it was, but not that one. That one just appeared. I think I did it in my sleep or something, or had some kind of blackout.'

Luke chuckled quietly and took his hand off Alex's eye. 'It wasn't you. You aren't that smart, not yet. Someone's been screwing with me and using you to do it. Where did they take it?'

Alex looked at him with his chin jutting out as though he didn't want to accept the truth about his amazing discovery. Luke brought his thumb back and Alex shook his head, whimpering. 'I don't know. They said something about Yorkshire, some place up there.'

Luke sat back on his haunches, groaning. Not only could he die but he had to go to the back of sodding beyond to deal with a bunch of hicks and peasants. Someone was laughing. And the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that it wasn't the Father. He didn't have the imagination for this. And as much of a bastard as he was, he wouldn't kill the entire human race just to get rid of him.
 

But someone else would. The question was, who? The answer wouldn't matter, though, if he didn't get hold of the damned plague and hide it somewhere no one was ever going to find it. Perhaps he could combine the two things. He needed to speak to Az, which meant a summoning.
 

Plague first, then summoning. One thing at a time. Speaking of which...

'You're coming with me.'

The man groaned and closed his eyes and Luke patted his cheek. 'You'll be fine. It'll be fun.'

Two hours later they left Alex's room and headed for Paddington.

David - Thursday: Plague Day

The song came to an end and he noticed that the sounds outside had changed. The sirens were making weird noises like they were being sick, and there was screaming too. He pressed pause and glanced over his shoulder.
 

His eyes widened as he saw the approaching hordes. People running towards him, hands in the air, mouths open wide and shrieking. What was happening? The beginnings of curiosity stirred in his gut but they were drowned out by the need for peace and quiet.
 

He got off his bench and braced himself. The crowd surged past so he was assailed by smells and sounds, all too close and too strong. Someone caught his arm and spun him round, straight into the path of someone else. She slammed into him and they hit the ground together. His elbows bashed against concrete and he howled in pain.
 

The woman screamed something at him but went before he could respond. All he could see were legs and feet flying past. All heading in the same direction. The wrong direction. He got onto his hands and knees and crawled.
 

He caught a foot in the head and spent a minute or two curled up with his hands over it. Then he got up and went on. The crowd were thinning and the way was clear enough for him to get to his feet. He dashed the last part and got back under his arch. He sat against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest and stared out at the world.
 

He found some other music, Coldplay this time, and the man was singing something about London. The tune brushed his heart and made him shiver and shudder until he couldn't stop shaking. The people were gone now. He could see them further down the river, still running and screaming.
 

Nearer, though, were the ones who hadn't made it. Some had been trampled, faces smashed against the concrete. But some of them were just frozen, arms locked solid and hands curled into claws. He couldn't see anything wrong with them, but they weren't moving. He closed his eyes.

If he imagined hard enough, he could blank out the bodies. It wasn't completely silent, but it was close enough. He was home.
 

Something rumbled overhead and he jumped and scrambled out from under the bridge. A train bashed and clattered past and he watched it head over the river and further out of sight. His eyes strayed to a lone figure on the edge of the foot bridge. He could see the shapes of bodies up there, but this one was standing.
 

It was frozen, no doubt of that, but somehow it had balanced, and now stood lone sentry over the river. His eyes were drawn back to the railway tracks. Something flashed in the distance and the sound reached him, a low roar that grew and then faded. There were flames and smoke.

He turned up his iPod and stomped to Embankment Station. It was empty save a man in the ticket booth leaning against the glass front, eyes still open and staring. David watched him for a while, waiting. The man didn't move. David waved his hand before his eyes but still nothing.
 

He shrugged and strolled on, up the street to The Strand. There were more bodies up here and it reminded him of the movie
Saving Private Ryan,
when the beach was littered with dead soldiers. This had that same smoky, unreal thing going on. That was the first time he realised how foggy it was.
 

It clung to the ground like an early morning smog, dark and curling around his legs. It hadn't been down at the river, but up here it was hard to escape. He had the strongest urge to jump up and down and try to get away from it, but there was nowhere to go. He dashed into the nearest shop and slammed the door.
 

There were bodies in here as well, people lying prone over their baskets and bags. A serving girl was slumped at the counter, her face in an open till. David carefully pulled her back and then laid her flat on the floor. She was cold and stiff. He bit his lip, but he neither dropped her on the floor nor ran screaming from the shop, so that was something.
 

He heard a sound and realised it was himself, muttering and giggling. The music was joyous and epic and he yanked his head phones out and tossed them across the store. Then he swore and raced after them, shoving them back into his pockets. He was hungry.
 

He left the shop and walked to Marks and Spencer. In the food court he cleared a space in the corner, pushing the bodies far enough that he could eat without having to look at them. Then he gorged himself, eating as much of everything as he could. He'd done the same when the place was empty, but it felt naughtier this time. He kept glancing around for the person who would come in and drag him away.
 

Stomach bloated and burping, he staggered back onto The Strand and ambled towards Trafalgar Square. He didn't know where he was going, only that he wasn't stiff and dead on the floor, and didn't know why. Perhaps it was because he'd been in the other city, the empty city, when it had all happened.
 

Trafalgar Square was filled with bodies. They weren't all the horrible stiff corpses. The panic he'd seen earlier had happened here as well and there were people covered in blood, sprawled where they had been trampled to death. They were somehow so much worse than the others. It was like... what was it like? He didn't know. He had known, just then, but it was gone now.
 

He saw movement on Whitehall and ran across the street to the corner. As he got there, a flash of dark uniform stopped him in his tracks. There were a hundred questions he could ask, but one thought overrode them all. Someone had done this. This whole thing wasn't an accident. Someone had done it.
 

He backed away until he felt something approaching safe, and crouched in a doorway. Then he stuck his head out until he could see what was happening. There were four trucks in the street, moving slowly away from him. They were travelling slow enough for soldiers to walk alongside. He wasn't sure they were soldiers, though. They had no marking, no... what was the word?

They wore grey and carried guns, and were about the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen. He was sure of nothing anymore, but he was close to certain that if they saw him, his life was over. He almost stepped out and waved at them. Almost.
 

But they were here and alive. He looked behind him at the bodies and bile filled the back of his mouth. They were all dead.
 

They were all dead.

They were all dead.

They were all dead.

They were all dead.

Dammit. He slammed the palm of his hand against his temple and bit down hard on his tongue. He was alone again and he wanted peace, but not this much, not like this. He took a step out from hiding. Then the soldier nearest him stopped. He was staring at something on the side of the road. Without any further warning, the gun slipped off his shoulder and he opened fire. He kept it up for a few seconds before stopping and shouldering the weapon.
 

The scariest thing was that not one of the other soldiers even registered the gun fire. They just kept right on walking. David slipped backwards and crept into Trafalgar Square. He reached Nelson's Column and looked back down Whitehall. He could still see the trucks as they neared the end of the road.
 

One in the middle was different from the others and smoke poured from it into the sky. But the smoke didn't rise into the blue. Instead it sunk, like it was heavy, until it pooled around the base of the trucks and moved like water as the soldiers waded through it.
 

David crouched closer to the column and watched until he could no longer see them. Then he turned and ran, and didn't stop till he was halfway through Soho.
   

Bayleigh - Thursday: Plague Day

Someone was screaming. The sound was horrible, like the person's throat was raw and all that came out was this animal howl. Something grabbed her shoulders and she shook it off and spun around, and before she knew what she was doing, her fist connected with Layla's jaw.
 

Layla went flying, smacking off the wall of the alleyway and onto the floor. The screaming cut off and Bayleigh put her hand to her throat, realising where the noise was coming from.
 

'God, I'm so sorry, I'm so--'

'It's fine, it's fine, just...'

Layla held her arms out and Bayleigh fell on her knees, and they held one another until the tears came, like the shower after a hard day at work. Only they washed nothing away. But it felt better than the blankness that had got its claws in her before Layla grabbed her.