Thirteen Roses Book Two: After: A Paranormal Zombie Saga (5 page)

So Alex folded his arms, settled back on his heels and took a deep breath.
 

'Where are you going?' Luke asked.
 

'I need to get some lunch.'

'Is there a cure yet?'

He shook his head.
 

'Then you don't need lunch. You need to keep working.'

'Luke, look…' There was no way this was going to end well. 'Look, the cure. Whoever it was changed my equation, they did things I don't understand. I can't just create a cure based on what's there; I have to understand it first. And I don't. At all.'

'Why do you have to understand it?'

Luke's voice was calmer than he'd anticipated, which was either a good thing or something to be scared about. Maybe he just hadn't got the point yet.
 

'Without understanding it, I'm just guessing. I could do this for decades and not get any closer.'

The frown grew deeper. 'Are you saying you can't create a cure?'

Alex shrugged evasively. 'Not can't, exactly, but it's very unlikely.'

'I see. That's unfortunate.'

Alex stuck his chin out and glared. His hands slipped unobtrusively beneath his armpits. 'So what, are you going to kill me now, or take my hands away?'

Luke chuckled and shook his head. 'As tempting as that is, I think the alternative will be far worse. You've created a disease and very soon you'll have to live with the consequences. That'll be much worse than anything I can do. I've been wondering what'll happen to babies in the womb. Perhaps they'll zombiefy and eat their way out of their mothers...'

He drifted off and went to stroll past Alex, a wry, sickening smile on his lips. Alex grabbed his arm and Luke froze, looking down at the hand. Their eyes met and Alex refused to look away. It was like a bee had got stuck inside his head and the buzzing grew louder and louder, but still he stared.
 

Eventually the buzzing faded and Luke nodded, maintaining eye contact. Alex wanted to punch him. More than anything, he wanted to take a swing and feel the impact. It would probably break his hand but it'd be worth it, just for the look on the bastard's face.

'Fine, so what do we do? I can't make a cure and we can't let it happen, so what do we do?'

Luke smiled and Alex wondered whether he'd planned this entire thing. There was something self-satisfied in the way he sighed and ambled up the street towards the shops.
 

'Well, that's an excellent question. I've spent the last few days searching for something and as luck would have it, I found it.'

He dug in his pocket and removed a small bag the colour of blood. He stopped and tipped the contents of the bag into his hand. A jewel, the same colour as the bag and cut into a simple square, glowed in the sunlight. He juggled it gently in his palm, watching Alex as he watched the stone.
 

'What is it?' Alex asked.

'A gemstone.' Alex gave him a look and he shrugged. 'What question are you asking?'

'Fine. What does it do, what's the point of it?'

'It was blessed, a long time ago, by a man considerably holier than me. It should be a direct route to the Father, if I can get the words right.'

'Do you know the words?'

'I do. I think.'

'So who's the Father?'

Luke looked at him, smiling wryly. 'Take a guess. I'll only give you one.'

'You know I'm not going to say what you want me to say.'

'Frankly, I don't give a toss what you say. All you need to decide is whether you're ready to have your opinions changed. If so, grab some lunch and let's get going.'

He strolled off and Alex stayed where he was, watching the strange man get further away. What would happen? His curiosity alone was enough to get him moving. What if the stone was radioactive in some way? But if that was the case, it was probably too late already.

He picked up his pace. 'What are you going to say to him?'

'I'm going to call him a bastard and ask him why he lets his people scheme and connive under his nose without doing anything about it. Then I'm going to explain that we screwed up and ask for help.'

'Would it perhaps be a good plan to ask for the help before you insult him? It's just a thought, I don't know, just seems a more logical way round.'

'Possibly. But he is, first and foremost, a bastard and unless I say it straight out, he'll think I'm up to something.'

Alex nodded, pretending he understood. Lunch came in a plastic bag, so with it in one hand, he strolled down the pavement next to a man who could be an angel, but was more likely a nutjob with impressive hypnosis skills.

They were on their way to visit someone called the Father, who, if Luke was to be believed, was God. Or at least, the next best thing. This was going to be either very funny or very distressing. Or possibly both.
 

Jackson

Every blow was a strike for God. Every swing brought the blessing of Jesus and the Lord to the poor, hapless victims of the terrible plague. Righteous anger was all Jackson needed. It was all he'd ever needed, only before, it had sprung from a very different place.
 

Before his rebirth, he'd believed first and foremost in himself. He'd believed in the free market and the right of all men, and a few women, to make a place for themselves in the world through whatever methods were necessary. And he had done well for himself as a result. The woman he'd once called a very bad name and now thought of as Tammy, as he always should have, had been good to him, even when she was bitching and moaning.
 

He'd been rolling in cash and ridding London of a serious homeless issue at the same time. In many ways, he'd been doing the Lord's work even then. God didn't want people to be homeless any more than they did themselves. Jackson removed the problem and passed it over to China, which had been the English way for decades.
 

He nodded absently, pleased he'd found the right frame through which to explore his past life. That was all life was, really, finding the correct way to explain what had happened. The biblical frame of plague was clearly the only explicable one here. There were too many sinners, and too many Arabs and Muslims, and all the others who didn't belong here. They'd all spent too much time worshipping false gods and stealing and lying, and this was their punishment.
 

But God is great. He'd left Jackson here to begin again. There was a woman alive somewhere in London, his Eve, and when he found her they would rebuild and make the world great again.
 

The body was finished. The pile of flesh-covered bones was growing larger at the bottom of the stairs. The smell of it was attracting more and more of them. He would be here forever, but perhaps that was the point. Perhaps his task was to be endless, to teach him the error of his ways.
 

Except, hadn't he just decided they weren't erroneous ways?

Misguided perhaps and clumsy, but not strictly wrong. Maybe he should look for a way out of here. A zombie shambled up the stairs towards him, swaying behind long curtains of hair. Blood and chunks of something indefinable were caught in it and the smell made him heave.
 

He took a step down and swung the chair leg. It cracked her head open and he saw the greying-pink of brain show through the soup in which it swum. He flipped the chair leg in his hand and plunged it straight into the brain. The zombie stopped, one foot halfway between this step and the next. He punched her in the chest, feeling it cave in beneath his blow, and her body went tumbling to the bottom.
 

They fell on her and he had another moment to think. But before he did, he heard a sound that made his heart leap. The roar of an engine filtered through the slurping and licking from below, and he cocked his head to one side. There it was again and it was quite some engine. A sports car and a nice one, if he was any judge.
 

That meant there was someone else on God's crusade. Someone else had been kept alive to help him drive away the plague. He had to reach them. He glanced back into the storeroom and saw what he expected, which was bars on all the windows. There had to be a fire escape, though.
 

They were nearly finished with the body. He needed as much time as possible, and as if on cue, his prayers were answered. A huge zombie, rolling with fat, began to wobble up the stairs. He blocked the way for anyone else and was taking his sweet time, so Jackson stepped back and peeked into the second room. In one corner was a door with the fire escape light above it and he nodded.
 

God was watching him. God would provide everything he needed, he just had to ask. He needed a better weapon, something to take with him into the street. He took a step towards the third door and pulled it open. Inside, a coiled hose was attached to the wall and an axe hung beside it. Stifling the laughter that threatened to burst from him, he lifted the axe reverentially off its hooks and cradled it.
 

God's weapon, sent to him in his hour of need. He almost asked for a woman, but it was too soon. And there was no need, not yet. He needed to escape and get somewhere safe. The roar of the engine grew louder, then he heard a crunch and winced. The driver had just totalled a very beautiful piece of equipment. They would have words when they met.
 

The fat zombie was almost at the top of the stairs, waddling and wobbling. He almost felt bad killing it. But it would have been unhappy when it was alive and probably felt even worse now. He was doing it a favour. With a nod that came from an undeniable sense of right, he readied himself. The axe he leant against the wall. This was his last shot with the chair leg and it deserved a final blow. It had served him well.
 

He brought it down as hard as he could on the creature's head and felt the crack as it struck. But the zombie showed no signs of slowing. Growling, Jackson smacked the creature around the face. Its nose caved in and spilt, spilling blood down its cheeks. The next blow broke an eye socket and burst the eyeball inside. Still it kept coming.
 

Jackson took a step back. If the thing got over the top of the stairs, he'd be lucky if he was able to roll it back down. He lashed out with his boot and kicked it high in the chest. It rocked but stayed upright, hands clawing and pawing at his leg.

He dragged it free and shuffled sideways. The zombie lurched onto the top step and Jackson drew in a breath. It was huge, belly almost filling the corridor. It stood beside the axe, which, though so close, was now tantalisingly out of reach. Cursing himself for whatever random sentiment made him stick with the chair leg, he let out a shout and barrelled at the zombie.
 

Running into it felt like hitting a wall, but it was a wall made of plastic that cracked and crumpled under the impact. His shoulder went deep into the zombie's chest and lodged there. The thing wrapped huge arms around him and bared its teeth. The smell emanating from its throat was a cross between dog food and rotting meat and his mouth filled with saliva.
 

It was so close he could see the torn pieces of skin and blood caught between its teeth. Its jaws came closer, but everything the creature did was in slow motion, ponderous and lazy. His right arm was trapped in the zombie's embrace, but he wriggled the left free.
 

Gritting his teeth together, he put his thumb against the thing's remaining eye and shoved as hard as he could. It was like putting his hand in warm runny custard, the sticky liquid flowing down his arm. The eye burst then his thumb plunged through. He shoved it deeper like he was stuffing a chicken and felt something firm beneath it.
 

He had to angle his hand to get it deep enough, but his thumb dug into the firmness and the creature stiffened, mouth snapping shut inches from his face. He pushed further until he couldn't push anymore. The thing's arms were tight around him and it tottered back, dragging him with it.
 

The stairs were inches away and he was about to be pulled down them, down into the waiting mouths below. He dug his feet in and twisted until the arms around him loosened.
 

But it wasn't enough.
 

They would eat him. The zombie tipped lazily backwards, just as it had done everything in its cursed life.
 

He wasn't going to die. Not here. This wasn't how God wanted him to go. Jackson screamed and dropped to the floor. The arms slipped off over his head and he was free of the embrace.

The body toppled and went down the stairs with a sickening thud that broke bones and flesh. Jackson teetered at the top, almost following his victim. At the last second, he threw himself backwards and landed on his arse. He lay on his back staring at the strip light above him, heaving and panting. He couldn't breathe, the light was too bright and the sounds from below, of tearing flesh and chewing teeth, brought the contents of his stomach into his mouth.
 

He rolled onto his side and spat sick onto the floor, then reached for the axe. Wrapping his fingers around it made him somehow stronger and he rolled onto his front and pushed until he stood. The corpse was covered in zombies, like baby pigs around their mother, all desperate for a suckle. It should keep them for a while.
 

He headed for the fire exit and shoved open the door. The alarm sounded like his ex-girlfriend on full whine mode and he covered his ears. Whether the zombies at the bottom of the stairwell heard he didn't know, he was too busy racing down the black iron fire escape to the alley below.
   

The alley was miraculously empty of zombies and he crept down it in the direction of Whitehall. He peered out and saw the zombie nearest him was at least twenty feet away. He also saw a gorgeous yellow Lamborghini attached to the back of a bus. He could have wept for the front end, but there would be plenty more. When he got out of London, it would be in something like that.