Thirteen Roses Book One: Before: An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Publishing

  Mailing List

  Dedication

  Intro

  David pt 1

  David pt 2

  David pt 3

  Interlude

  Bayleigh pt 1

  Bayleigh pt 2

  Interlude

  Krystal pt 1

  Krystal pt 2

  Krystal pt 3

  Interlude

  Jackson pt 1

  Interlude

  Jackson pt 2

  Interlude

  Sam pt 1

  Sam pt 2

  Interlude

  Alex pt 1

  Alex pt 2

  Interlude

  Interlude pt 2

  Taylor pt 1

  Taylor pt 2

  Interlude

  Luke - Monday - 10 Days to Plague Day

  Alex - Tuesday - 9 Days to Plague Day

  David - Thursday - Plague Day

  Bayleigh - Thursday - Plague Day

  Luke - Wednesday - 8 Days to Plague Day

  Jackson - Thursday - Plague Day

  Krystal - Thursday - Plague Day

  Luke - Thursday - 7 Days to Plague Day

  David - Thursday - Plague Day

  Bayleigh - Thursday - Plague Day

  Jackson - Thursday - Plague Day

  Alex - Thursday - 6 Days to Plague Day

  Krystal - Thursday - Plague Day

  David - Thursday - Plague Day

  Luke - Friday - 6 Days to Plague Day

  Bayleigh - Thursday - Plague Day

  Krystal - Thursday - Plague Day

  Alex - Friday - 6 Days to Plague Day

  David - Thursday - Plague Day

  Bayleigh - Thursday - Plague Day

  Luke - Friday - 6 Days to Plague Day

  Krystal - Thursday - Plague Day

  David - Thursday - Plague Day

  Alex - Saturday - 5 Days to Plague Day

  Steph - Thursday - Plague Day

  Thanks

  Free Book!

  Also available

  Acknowledgements

  Thirteen Roses

  An Apocalyptic Zombie Fable

  Book One: Before

  by

  Michael Cairns

  Published by Cairns Publishing

  Copyright © Michael Cairns (2014)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced, distributed, or

  transmitted in any form or by any means without the

  prior written permission of the publisher.

  1st Edition

  To get a free book, free short stories and updates on upcoming releases,

  JOIN MY MAILING LIST!

  For Elyan. I know you'll want to read it one day. Just not yet.

  Intro

  The flower seller strolled from the station and out onto Embankment. The sun was out today and he hunched his shoulders. It wouldn't do any good, but his hands were full. Eyes scrunched almost shut, he found his usual spot at the bottom of the stairs and spread out his wares.

  On first inspection, he was a very normal man. A shaved head, a pair of deep set, dark brown eyes, a nose that could kindly be described as large and a thin mouth. His lips were pressed together as though in disapproval. He was average build and average height and his physique was buried beneath a large bomber jacket that kept out the morning wind racing up the Thames.

  However, looking a little longer and more carefully, one might begin to see things that weren't quite so average. His skin moved as though ants crawled just below the surface. With every move his body made, it shifted and sighed, like sand spread by the wind. His eyes weren't actually dark brown. They were flecked, tiny yellow sparks that winked in and out like stars. Catch him at the right time, in the right light, and his eyes were golden.

  But the most striking thing about him was the presence of two growths. They were small, small enough to go unnoticed by most, pressing against the skin on either side of his head, just above the ears. But one would have to look close and scrutinise. And there was something about him that discouraged scrutiny.

  The city was quietest at this time. The early commuters marched, slouched and crept from the tube, eyes invariably glued to phones or the floor. So it was that no one saw the table emerge from his jacket, or the flowers that followed it, bunch after bunch from a seemingly empty rain coat. Within minutes the table was heaving with a spread of the most beautiful flowers, perfectly in bloom and wrapped in delicate white paper.

  No water from the tubs in which they stood marred the paper. Not one petal was out of place. The flower seller picked and poked until he was happy, then settled his back against the rail at the bottom of the stairs and let out a long breath.

  The herd of commuters thickened and bustled and ignored. They barely saw the roses and chrysanthemums, the tulips and lilies. Had you watched the flower seller, you might have seen his eyes follow first one then another. They lingered here and there, tracing the steps of a woman in a grey suit before jumping to a jogger clad in green sweat pants and t-shirt.

  Had you looked even closer, you might have seen his eyes despair again and again. You might have seen the smile that seemed permanently fixed to his face droop now and then. Then again, you might have just seen a flower seller, waiting patiently for his first customer of the day.

  He would only have one. He only ever had one. Today, it would be David.

  David Part One

  The only thing worse than the shower being crap was the freezing cold bathroom he had to step into once he was done. He didn't have to put up with this at Steph's. She had the most amazing shower and towels thick enough to bury yourself in.

  Today, he would do it today. It wouldn't be that difficult, not really. They'd barely spoken in the last few months, it wouldn't come as a surprise. He towelled himself as quickly as he could, shivering as he did the one-legged dance of drying. Content he wasn't about to freeze to death, he wrapped himself tight in his robe and sneaked into his study.

  Amber was still asleep. She used to get up and have breakfast with him. They'd drink tea and talk about the day ahead and he'd leave with a kiss and sometimes a pat on the bottom, and his heart would carry him on wings to the station. His lip curled as he unlocked the top drawer of his desk.

  The envelope lay where he'd left it, the solicitor's name printed neatly in one corner. Every day he didn't press ahead with this meant another day of coming home to misery and another day of not knowing whether he'd see Steph. Why didn't he just do it?

  He'd take the papers to work. He could check them one more time and have them ready when he arrived home. They could sit at the table they bought together from Cargo, giggling about spending more money on a table than their first car. And he'd explain that this was it and she didn't have to put up with him anymore and all she had to do was sign, sign and sign.

  He slipped the papers into his bag and headed downstairs. Cornflakes. Bloody cornflakes. Was it so difficult to learn how little he liked cornflakes? They'd been married eight years and still she bought cornflakes. He hissed, shoved them down his throat as fast as possible and headed for the station.

  He sent Steph a text on the way.

  Hey sexy, what you wearing?

  Moments later, his phone buzzed. It was like she was waiting for him.

  Granny pants and pyjamas. I am the queen of hotness x

  Why does that image give me a hard-on?

  Because you're a weirdo. And because I've got that quarter cup bra you got me on underneath. You coming over today?

>   He stopped and adjusted his trousers, coughing and glancing about. He went to work early enough that the streets clung to the half-dark of dawn and entertained the last stragglers from an all-night fog party. She would be in bed, tousled and gorgeous. They made a good couple. He was tallish, short hair, sharp nose and easy smile. She was shorter, long black hair and pouty. Everything Amber wasn't.

  He kept walking, staring at his phone. He was busy today. Too busy really. His fingers moved before his brain told them no.

  Are you free at lunch?

  Can be. What time?

  David's heart leapt into his mouth and started thumping. He swallowed, forcing it back down so it punched his rib cage, demanding release.

  Half 12?

  My place xxx.

  He thought about skipping and tapping his heels together. It would most likely land him on his arse, so he settled for a sort of embarrassed, middle-class English fist raise. The mental image of tennis players celebrating dampened the heat rushing around his body. He was shivering again by the time he reached the station.

  The journey was long enough for his fantasies to run their course and when the train rolled into Paddington he had to stay sitting and shuffle about, picturing Andy Murray until he could stand up.

  The day went horribly slow. Despite his busyness, every time he glanced at the clock the hands had barely moved. But every minute brought him closer to Steph, and he clung to that, until he finally decided he could lunch break without anyone frowning at him and he was out the door.

  His mind was filled with the crappy advert that had taken up most of his morning. 'Who doesn't want a better life?'

  It was wrong. It sucked and invoked entirely the wrong imagery but the rest of the copy was so strong and only worked with that headline. So he'd gone round it and round it and now he couldn't think of anything else. The Thames smelled today, salty with a hint of rotting food, but the sun was out and the wind brisk enough to throw in some roasted chestnut and candyfloss from the South Bank to balance it out.

  The flower guy was there again. When was the last time he bought flowers for Amber? He flushed, then smiled as he glanced over the Thames. Just over there, tucked behind the IMAX was Steph's flat. He slowed as he reached the stall. He'd never bought Steph flowers, either. He never knew what to buy. Roses were so clichéd, but then, flowers were clichéd, weren't they?

  He shrugged. How the hell was he supposed to know? He picked up his pace but the smell assaulted him as it always did and his footsteps slowed. The scent was amazing, overwhelming, and his nose wrinkled up. A bunch of roses thrust out at him from the table, the colour of wine in candlelight and open just enough to make him wonder what lay within.

  Which was daft, because he knew what lay within. But he still longed to find out and found himself standing before them, entranced by the soft petals and pungent smell.

  'They're lovely, aren't they?'

  It wasn't the voice he expected. The guy had a shaved head and wore this over-sized coat that seemed derigueur for anyone selling flowers or gig tickets. His voice sounded like he'd just stepped off of University Challenge.

  'Yeah, they're quite nice. How much?'

  He wasn't going to buy roses, surely not? And red ones at that.

  'I'm sure we can come to a price that's acceptable for both of us. Let me do you a dozen, and we'll call it ten pounds, sound reasonable?'

  'A tenner? I could get them in Tesco for five quid.'

  'But is ten pounds very much to spend to see the smile on your wife's face?'

  'My wife's...'

  The flower seller was nodding at his wedding ring. Oh yeah. 'Yeah, well, no I suppose not.'

  'Splendid.'

  The flower seller busied himself with selecting the roses and placing them neatly, one by one, on a clean sheet of paper and plastic. David stared, entranced despite himself by the smooth movements. The guy had done this before.

  'Is that twelve or thirteen?'

  The flower seller gave him a smile that made the bit of skin just behind his ears itch.

  'Well spotted. You've heard of a baker's dozen, no doubt. This is much the same. You can take them all home to your wife and the thirteenth will ensure she gets her twelve, should one be damaged on the way. Or you can always give it to someone you meet, someone who looks like they might need it...'

  His hands were still now, his eyes fixed on David's. 'Uh, yeah, right.'

  The itching wasn't going away and he pulled out his wallet, suddenly keen to be somewhere else. He checked his watch. Fifty minutes of lunch left. They'd have time. They might be able to do it twice, but he should eat something as well.

  'There you are, sir. I hope she enjoys them.'

  He handed over the ten pound note, not really looking at the flowers. His eyes drifted past the man and over the river. It would be another ten minutes before he got there.

  'Thank you, sir, have a lovely day.'

  'Yeah, cheers, you too.'

  He stomped away as fast as he could. He cradled the roses like they were precious, which at ten quid, they were. In six minutes he was standing, panting, outside Steph's. He took a few deep breaths and checked his hair in the reflection of the door, then pressed the buzzer.

  'Took your time.'

  The door clicked and he ran in and straight into the lift. As he waited for the doors to open he looked at the roses. What was he supposed to do with these? He saw his ring glinting against the paper and yanked it off, stuffing it into his pocket and flushing. He'd never forgotten before. Normally it was off before he left the office.

  He looked back at the roses and the flower seller's face flashed through his mind. He blinked. He felt bad enough already, why should some random posh weirdo make him feel worse? Steph would appreciate them and they'd only wilt by the time he got them home.

  The door opened and he almost ran down the hallway to the door that was already open. She wasn't lying about the bra. The pyjamas though, were nowhere to be seen. He got as far as 'I bought you roses' before she took them from his hands and replaced them with her hips.

  The roses were still lying on the table as he hastily pulled his jacket on and headed for the door.

  'Shouldn't you put them in water or something?'

  She nodded, pouting at him between thick strands of long dark hair. She lay spread-eagled on the bed, cat-like, her skin sheened in sweat. He would tell Amber tonight. He had to. He pulled the door closed and wandered back to the office, adjusting his trousers as he went. He should've had a shower.

  He lifted his fingers to his nose, catching the scent of her and smiling as he stepped onto the bridge. It was oddly quiet, the lunch time traffic absent for once. He nodded in relief. He'd get back to the office far quicker now. By the time he was halfway over, there wasn't another person in sight.

  When he reached the top of the stairs down to Embankment tube, he paused and frowned. He hadn't heard a train the entire way over and now, peering down at the street, he saw not one car all the way up the river. Where the hell was everyone?

  He took a few steps down and stopped. There was no one on the river, either. No boats and none of the ferries were moving. He thought about shouting 'hello' and blushed, laughing at himself. He opened his mouth to do exactly that when a voice stopped him.

  'Welcome, David. Thank you for visiting me. Tell me, what is your greatest fear?'

  His mouth closed with a snap. He knew the answer to that. He turned, scrambled up the steps and ran back across the river.

  David Part Two

  His feet thudded on the bridge, knees complaining with every impact. Running in these shoes was like trying to chop down a tree with a bread knife. He reached the steps and went down them two at a time. He was ten steps from the bottom when he lost his footing and went flying. His shoulder hit first, slamming against the step and sending him sideways.

  His body caught up and drove him the rest of the way. He tried to twist and curl but his face hit the stone at the bottom. Fire sho
t through his chin and cheek. He'd been hit in the face once or twice, but this was far worse, sharp stone biting through his flesh. Every muscle in his body jarred as he crumpled up.

  He lay still, waiting for the pain to end or get worse. It stayed about the same and he didn't want to move for fear of dying. Eventually, the silence got to him. He shifted slowly, expecting a bone to pop out of somewhere at any moment. It didn't though and he climbed to his feet. His face throbbed and he'd collected a headache bad enough to make his eyes water.

  He limped slowly around the bottom of the bridge and headed for Steph's. He knew she was there. She had to be there. But where the hell was everyone else? He was denying the voice. He hadn't heard it inside his head, calling his name in the same eerily well-spoken tones of the flower seller. If he admitted to hearing it, he would have to admit to the silence being something other than a freak occurrence.

  Maybe there'd been a bomb threat and he and Steph had been too busy boning to hear it. She was loud. That brought a smile to his face that made him gasp and cup his bruised cheek. His fingers came away bloody.

  He reached the block of flats and pressed the buzzer. He waited. He waited some more. He pressed it again and then again, and then he hammered on it, smashing it as though the sheer intensity of his blows would somehow magic Steph into being. But she wasn't there. Or maybe she wasn't answering.

  He tried the door, tugging and shoving on it, but it was solid. With a groan he barely recognised, he put his back to the door and slid down until his arse touched the cool concrete.

  The flower seller! How hadn't he thought about it earlier? He clambered up and set off. He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked up at them for a while. They seemed to leer at him, inviting him to risk them a second time. Sweat trickled down his temple and stung his cheek where the skin had been ripped off. With a deep breath, he mounted the stairs.