INK: Blue (INK Trilogy Book 3) (12 page)

All Edsel knew was that the man had to die.

"Where's my family Michael?"

"I'm your family now; all you need. You will do as I say."

"Or else what?" sneered Edsel.

His world exploded into pain as bright blue Ink pulsed wildly, and as he looked at his arm he could see the clear flow of energy moving through his raised skin, spinning around his body faster and faster, the pain growing with each circuit, his body controlled, thoughts clouded.

"Or else I shall have to put you out of your misery my dear boy, and that would be a terrible waste."

Edsel lost consciousness and slumped back in his chair, his body pulsing; everything else was lost to him.

Everything.

ALONE

Awake again. Where to this time? At least I know I'm awake, which is an improvement.

Edsel opened his eyes only to see the familiar penthouse suite and the clear blue sky once again, the same thing he had seen each time he woke from a terrible sleep that finally overcame his waking dream-state for a few hours deep into the night.

The pain had subsided, more a background hum like the tattoo machine now, rather than all there was in his world — just an annoyance, no longer all-consuming.

My head feels clear; I can think. What have I been doing?

Edsel sat up on the couch and had the weirdest sensation.

There's someone here, not Michael.

He could feel it, knew it; there was no mistaking the smell either: death.

Edsel turned his head to the left.

His world ended.

Lash. Aiden too.

Both were sat like they too had just woken from a fitful sleep, except they hadn't. Their rest was final, they had gone to The Void along with everything Edsel clung to that had kept him going through one nightmare after another. However long the years between Ink and more pain were, it always came back to get him one more time.

The vision of them cleared as he came to his senses, the mannequin-like way they were just sat there, empty eyes staring into space, jolted him into clarity.

What have I been doing? What has Michael done to them?

Edsel got up off the couch and stared out the window — it felt like he'd lived a lifetime just staring out that window, endless summer days, the seagulls screeching. Just how long had each day been the same? What had Michael been giving him to keep him so sedate? Some kind of strong medication that was for sure. Edsel looked at the couch to make sure the vision had retreated, just checking it wasn't real even though he knew it was just a memory of a dream. They were alive, they had to be. Out there somewhere, waiting to be found. Well, he was back, and he would get his family no matter what the cost.

What's that?

Edsel craned his neck and saw a car moving slowly away from the apartment complex opposite, exhaust fumes polluting the clean air. The engine echoed around the empty streets, disturbing the garbage in wind-swept piles, and as it pulled around the side of the building Edsel saw a face peering out of the back window.

Aiden. It's Aiden!

Lash was there too, sat next to him, head bowed forward but he couldn't mistake that hair, not for a minute. How many times had he buried his head in that hair, crying or laughing? Or spent after lovemaking? Or too angry to do anything but let Lash comfort him, hold him, tell him everything would be all right — he had her and she had him?

They're alive.

Edsel ran for the door to the apartment, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans but he didn't care. They were alive and that was all that mattered. And he cared, he really did. He loved them with every ounce of his being, and now the chase was on. He ran down flight after endless flight of stairs, almost falling repeatedly as he took them three, four, or five at a time, using the handrail to stop himself crashing down. Paintings they had stopped to look at when they had first arrived tumbled to the floor as he brushed past them, trying not to bounce off the walls and kill himself before he had a chance to get his family back.

He was out in the street in seconds. Suddenly the world was alive once more, the background of the ever-present seagulls now a cacophony, as if his ears had been blocked to sound just like his mind had been blocked to feeling. Senses assaulted, he ran across the road, the grass covered asphalt already warm from the sun that promised another beautiful day.

The car was moving slowly as if to taunt him, trundling along leaving tire tracks in the lush growth poking through the crumbling road surface.

He's dragging me up to sentience, teasing me like a fish on a line, reeling me in then letting me have some slack.

Michael had been playing with him, he was sure of it.

With a burst of energy from limbs atrophied from inactivity, Edsel found he was gaining on the vehicle, the sun glinting off the metal around the rear window where he could see a wide-eyed Aiden almost willing him to run faster, to catch up, to save them. Edsel sprinted for all he was worth, legs cramping already, that old familiar feeling of pushing past what his muscles expected.

The car slowed.

What's he doing? He wants to taunt me, to make me think I'm going to make it.

Edsel ran faster.

His feet began to pop, blisters forming where the strange Ink was repeatedly irritated by the pounding, but Edsel didn't care, didn't care about anything but Lash and Aiden, getting them back, saving them. His body began to pulse as blood flow increased, the blue Ink glowing, the welts raising, getting harder to allow the increased volume of energy to flow faster through the false veins.

Edsel ignored the lactic acid burning his thighs and focused on Aiden's face, before he turned to the front, reacting to something happening inside the vehicle.

He'd nearly caught up with them, nearly had a hand to the rear of the car, when the face of Michael peered out from the open driver side window, all suntan and perfect white teeth, a pensioner from an old advert extolling the virtues of some amazing holiday deal in the sun.

"Let the games begin," he shouted, grinning obscenely, teeth bared like a wild animal ready for the chase.

The car sped up and Edsel was left spluttering in a haze of exhaust fumes as he bent double, coughing and feeling his lungs burn, his blue Ink screaming at him, pain washing over him then receding as his heart rate slowed a little. Seagulls cried loudly above the car, chasing it away, keen to be rid of the pollutant to their environment.

They're alive, which means there's still a chance to save them.

Edsel just didn't know how, but he knew that he'd never let himself fall into the emptiness that had consumed him for what could very well have been weeks. He had a duty to his family, a duty to himself — he would kill Michael, whoever he really was.

A car, I need a car. Now.

Edsel ran on bloodied feet from vehicle to vehicle, most still parked up in their alloted spaces for residents, so keys were still in the apartments or wherever the owners happened to be when they finally succumbed to The Lethargy. He didn't even bother with those. Edsel peered in through windows of cars at funny angles, or those just abandoned in the middle of the road, the dessicated bodies sat behind the steering wheel where engines had run until the fuel was spent. Many of the vehicles had been checked before, when they went off on excursions, but in his panic he forgot what had seemed suitable, what was definitely a no-go.

After frantic attempts to find something, anything he could use, he came to a Volkswagen camper van, resprayed a pale turquoise blue, knowing it would be the vehicle for him — it had to be with that color.

Sent to mock me even more.

Edsel opened the driver side door and the smell hit him bad. There was no driver, only a passenger sat there, seatbelt still buckled. She'd been dead a long time, years and years, but this was no initial victim of The Lethargy, more likely a couple had traveled, looking for somewhere to stay or maybe just traveling with nowhere specific in mind, until the driver had obviously never returned, either succumbing himself, or leaving his partner as he couldn't stand the heartache any longer.

Edsel jumped in, ignoring the smell, and turned the key, the white rabbit's foot hanging from the keyring swaying as he did so.

For luck. Ha!

The engine spluttered then died. Edsel pumped the accelerator pedal and tried again.

Come on, come on. For once let me have some motherfuc—

It started.

Yes!

Edsel jumped out and ran around to the passenger side, opening the door hurriedly. He grabbed the dried up remains of the woman and gently lifted her out after unbuckling her; the smell was atrocious. He unwound the window after placing her gently onto the ground, then slammed the door shut.

Keep it together, don't lose it now.

He ran back around the front of the van, feet burning on the hot bare patch of asphalt. Then he was in the driver seat with his feet scratching against the rough pedals, hand fumbling with the alien gear stick.

He was away; following the route that Michael had just taken.

It's not a big place; I'll find them. I'll get them back.

Edsel focused on the open space ahead, the roar of the old engine breaking the silence that had been the mainstay of the town for so long.

The seagulls called to him, saying their farewells as Edsel drove away from a once busy coastal town with fresh Ink.

There was only one thing on his mind: his family.

TOUR

I seem to have a habit of doing this.

Edsel wound his window up halfway; the smell had been blown away by the open window on the passenger side, not that he really cared anyway. He glanced at the seat, a strange sadness washing over him as he noted that all that was left of the passenger was a dark stain on the upholstery.

A whole life gone and that's all there is to show for it now. I wonder if anyone is alive to think of that woman now and then?

Things were clattering around in the back but he didn't care; he couldn't stop, not while there was a chance that he could catch up with Michael and get his family back. Edsel had the small hatchback in his sights, some foreign model that had flooded the British market before production stopped. He didn't have a clue what make it was, just knew that it was a damn sight faster than the Volkswagen camper van. He could see the car ahead, going fast down the open road that stretched north, skirting small towns and villages, one of those bypasses that some locals loved, others hated as it took business away from their towns.

The verges were thick with trees and the central aisle was a mass of overgrown plants of all description, spilling out into the fast lane, each side gone wild making the four lane road narrow. The way ahead was clear though, with no cars blocking the way — those that had been abandoned were in the slow lane, but most larger roads were usually clear, it was getting to them that was the problem.

What's he doing? Where's he going?

Edsel willed the van to go faster, leaning forward, rocking as if it would make a turbo suddenly kick in, but it was going as fast as it could and Edsel didn't want to try to force speed by dropping gear — the last thing he wanted was to break down and the trail to be lost.

Edsel's bare torso writhed with his new branding — it was like it was the first time he'd seen it. He couldn't understand how he'd been in such a daze for who knew how many days. The stupor had been like a cloud over his judgment, as if he simply didn't care about his family, himself, or what had happened to him. Shock obviously played a part, maybe even incredulity that it had happened again, and at the hands of a man they had all thought of as a friend — more, he'd been a reminder that there were some nice people left in the world after all, and locking yourself away meant you missed out on the good as well as avoiding the bad in life.

Drugs. He must have been drugging me, keeping me docile.

It was the only answer. He would have been hell-bent on revenge otherwise. He knew himself well enough to know that nothing would stop him from wanting answers, wanting his family back, and to dole out punishment to Michael for whatever it was that he'd done to him. What had he told him, back at the restaurant? It was hard to think, like memories wouldn't hold still long enough for him to understand them properly. He'd definitely been drugged, no doubt about it, or was it something in the strange Ink?

Think Edsel, what did he say about it? Wade through the stories and get to the truth of the matter. Damn! Why the hell is he doing this?

A blue-patterned hand bounced back off the steering wheel, sending pain sparking up his arm as he thumped it in frustration, the horn beeping as he accidentally hit it.

De de dah dah dah dah, de de dah dah dah dah.

The musical horn mocked him with its merriment.

Very bloody funny.

Edsel racked his brain as he tried to keep the car ahead in his sights. Michael seemed to have slowed yet again, still keeping up a good speed but as the road degenerated and the way got a lot rougher he was obviously being cautious. As the van bumped over uneven ground, and the suspension jolted his bones, Edsel tried to understand what it was that was done to him, and why.

Michael was obviously a total loon, there was no doubt. He was clearly very intelligent too. But why him? Why anyone for that matter? A challenge? Was that it? He'd said he had been following Edsel's progress, heard about him. Maybe he just wanted to see what all the fuss was about? Why he would care Edsel had no idea, but he clearly did. Maybe it was the boredom: he'd just gone crazy and latched onto anything to occupy him. That would make sense. He'd probably just become obsessed with The Ink and the mythology surrounding it, and wanted to create something unique of his own.