INK: Blue (INK Trilogy Book 3) (15 page)

Lash gripped his hand tightly, just as she'd done for hour after hour now. She was exhausted and really scared, sick with worry for Aiden — he knew that she was holding on tight just to keep herself upright, as much as for the comfort and closeness.

They'd talked a lot as they walked, until they grew too tired, just to break the silence that closed in and left them feeling as empty as the world they traveled in. Neither of them could understand what it was that Michael hoped to gain from his actions, and why he'd taken Lash and Aiden at all. It just made no sense.

The only conclusion that Edsel could come to was the simple fact that the man was broken, his mind gone, replaced with an insanity that thrived on a need for something to do. That was it, Michael simply wanted to be noticed in a world that no longer cared. He wanted to be recognized, he wanted to stand up and be counted, not just fade into the background like those with The Lethargy.

So he'd learned new skills, experimented with the knowledge he gained, and wormed his way into other people's lives just so he could be a part of something, be a player in a story that had already played out, resurrecting Edsel's past life so he could insert himself into it and lead the tale, rather than just watch from the sidelines.

And I'm going to give him exactly what he wants. He's going to be a part of the story all right, just not in the way he wants. Or maybe he does. Maybe all of this is just his sick and twisted way of putting an end to it all — going out with a bang.

The pain had ebbed to a background noise of irritation, replaced with numbness, the only blessing the night bestowed, as feet as cold as ice told Edsel that they were closing in on the remains of civilization. Styrofoam cups, plastic bags and other garbage that had been blowing around the streets for so long, scratched at his bloodied toes and welcomed him into the town that offered rest for the night, but no guarantee of safety.

~~~

The streets were deserted apart from the usual wildlife. The few people that remained would be locked up as safely as they could be for the night. Nighttime was not for people any longer — when it was dark it was truly dark now, unless there was a strong moon.

No streetlights guided their way; it was almost impossible to see a thing. There was no moon, just the clear sky and the countless stars, cold and indifferent. Creatures hid in the shadows, disturbed by the footsteps of human beings, a rarity that sent them scurrying for the shadows, eyes peering out at them from behind cars and the rapidly increasing plant life that would eventually cover everything man-made, reclaim what was lost.

What a difference. The animals are still wary here, different than just a few miles back. Who can blame them? I'm scared of people too.

Edsel longed for the sight of drinkers spilling out of pubs, the loud chatter of a cab driver, the sight of lights on in office windows, but there was nothing, all that was left was darkness and fear.

Yet there was light, Edsel just hadn't really thought about it as he was so tired. No moon, just the faintest glow from the stars, yet their way was gently illuminated by a blue patch of luminescence.

"You're glowing. Look at your skin," said Lash, pointing at his chest.

Edsel looked down and it was true — the raised welts that covered his body were shining gently with a warm blue light, effervescent like a piece of modern art made from neon.

"Why doesn't this surprise me in the least?" said a resigned Edsel, simply not caring any more, too tired to be angry or even curious.

"You know what? That is kinda cool. Look at it!"

"Yeah, brilliant. I'm a walking torch now on top of everything else."

Lash kept silent and they walked on, hunting for what? Somewhere to sleep, for Michael and Aiden, for food and water. They no longer knew, just kept walking, waiting for whatever would happen to happen. What else could they do?

As the street narrowed, and the way was blocked by what was left of a building that had collapsed years ago after a fire, Edsel knew that Michael would have turned back and found another way through the town, but he would surely connect back up with the road further on so they scrambled over the rubble, Edsel's feet now raw from so much walking without anything on his feet.

"We need to stop, find shelter. I need clothes and I need to take a look at my feet."

"Okay, where?"

"Does it matter? Let's just pick a house and go inside."

They made it over the bricks and burned timbers, the interior of the house still standing, a strange glimpse into the once private world of those that had lived there. Edsel felt like a voyeur, looking where he shouldn't, people's secrets open to him.

At the end of the street, each house painted a different pastel color — a lost pride in what was probably a close-knit community — they headed around the back of the terraced houses, checking for any sign of life before Edsel felt the row was deserted and they wouldn't be making their presence known if he smashed a window to get into what was hopefully an empty house.

It was spooky in the alley, claustrophobic and warm, huge mounds of trash blown into the dead-end decomposing, raising the temperature. Strange noises made Edsel's skin prickle, but it was probably just rats, or cats. The main fear was dogs, and that was why you never went out at night if you could help it in built up areas.

They wandered further down the alley, the sight of a huge rat scurrying past enough to convince Edsel they'd moved far enough out of sight if there was anybody tracking their progress.

"Let's try this one," said Edsel, opening the gate and checking the back garden. There could have been anything or anyone there, the waist-high grass and confusion of large shrubs made it perfect for hiding in, not that he could see anyway. Lash held on to his hand again as they pushed through the grass, Edsel's feet so cold they were numb.

I just hope that they're not too badly damaged.

Lash was shivering uncontrollably now, her vest little more use than if she wore nothing like Edsel, and her teeth chattered so loudly she sounded like a woodpecker searching for grubs in a tree.

The red-brick house loomed high above them, a dark menace silhouetted against the sky, the row as a whole reminding Edsel of shattered teeth in a mouth bathed in blood. He almost couldn't face going inside, knowing that he was in no state to do much if anything but emptiness greeted them inside the tomb-like interior.

Let it be empty, the cupboards stocked with food, the TV working and for there to be shoes in my size.

Edsel shook his head at his own ridiculous daydreams — what was wrong with him?

Ah, yeah. Ink, always Ink.

Edsel tried the back door, the chrome lever illuminated by his own skin. It was unlocked — quite common in properties where the owners had succumbed to The Lethargy. He pushed the door open cautiously, peeking his head inside, half expecting a blow to send him crashing to the black and white linoleum.

Nothing. He signaled for Lash to wait at the door while he stepped inside. The strange blue glow from his Ink lit the way like a flashlight when the batteries were running low, but it was enough to see by if he moved slowly and focused.

I'd never know if someone was here, not enough light.

The back door opened onto a cramped kitchen, clean but old-fashioned, the owners definitely not keeping up with the Jones'. Cupboard doors were partially open, and even without checking Edsel knew that they would offer up little — he had a sixth sense for such things, he'd rummaged through so many kitchens over the years he knew as soon as he walked into a room whether or not he was wasting his time. Part was intuition, part was the smell, although he never really connected it — if a kitchen didn't reek of rot then the chances were that it was empty of all goods, either stolen or the owners had simply run out of provisions before leaving, or passing into oblivion.

There was no smell in the hallway, the same as the kitchen, just a rather pleasant background odor, so he at least knew he wasn't going to come across any bodies — that was something he never got used to. You can watch all the movies you like, read as many books as you can afford, but nothing prepares you for the visceral, total sense assault that greets you when you discover a body in one stage of decomposition or another. It was both fascinating and utterly repellent what happened to a corpse over the days, weeks, months and years. This house definitely didn't contain any people.

He went from room to room anyway, walking around the entire house, listening for sounds, only hearing his own breathing, sometimes not even that as he found himself holding his breath to listen for the slightest sign of occupancy. The blue glow illuminated his way, casting bizarre and unsettling shadows across the patterned wallpaper and the ancient multi-colored carpet that swirled with patterns nowhere near as complex as those on his own skin.

In the master bedroom he opened an expensive looking mahogany wardrobe and fumbled about, clattering metal coat-hangers that set his nerves on edge, his stealthy search now a waste of precious time, coming up with a shirt that was two sizes too big but at least it was something. Only problem was that although he was shivering he couldn't put it on and button it up or he wouldn't be able to see anything.

Not unless I walk around pointing the top of my head at the carpet.

He settled for putting it on but leaving it open, rolling up the sleeves so his forearms were exposed.

Socks were found in a dresser and he gratefully pulled them over his wrecked feet. From what he could see they were going to hurt like hell in the morning, or as soon as they began to thaw, whichever came first. They felt like they were frozen down to the bone and beyond, black and bloodied, but the blue Ink still shone through, giving a pathetic weak blue light, even radiating through the black cotton, luxurious and soft after the harshness he'd become used to from walking for hour after countless hour.

Where are you Aiden? What's Michael doing to you?

It was always there; a constant nagging at the back of his mind. No amount of tiredness could eradicate the concern he had for his family — nothing could, nothing ever would.

Edsel made his way slowly back down the stairs, already feeling his body begin to relax, sleep threatening to take him now he was warming up and the promise of a little comfort dragged at his limbs, willing him to find a chair and sleep, never wake up, not until the nightmare was over. He padded quietly out to the back door and helped Lash to move into the living room. Edsel had flashbacks to his mother and sister, how he'd guided them around the house as they became lost to themselves. Lash was so exhausted she acted like she too had succumbed to The Lethargy. Edsel shivered just thinking about it — she was his world.

They slumped down onto the sofa, ignored the stale air carrying a hint of wax that still lingered after so many years without the furniture being polished. They were asleep before they had the chance to worry about what would greet them the following morning.

~~~

Edsel woke with a start, discombobulated, out of time and space, to be greeted with light pouring through the gap where the curtains weren't pulled tightly shut — a sure sign that whoever had lived in the house had succumbed to The Lethargy. If you had your wits about you then you never left it so people could look inside your home; it just wasn't worth the risk.

Lash was still asleep, so he left her on the sofa and went into the kitchen to see what he could find. The answer was not a lot, just as he'd expected. But the room was clean and tidy so whatever had happened to the owners must have been quick. They certainly hadn't taken years to die at home that was for sure, the place was way too clean for that.

It was a home once occupied by a couple, the clothes upstairs had made that obvious, but what had become of them was a mystery. The house was in order, had never been looted; just abandoned. Edsel had seen weirder things though, he only had to look at his own skin if he wanted properly weird, so paid it little thought.

The cupboards didn't offer up much, but he found some bottles of water stashed under the sink and drank thirstily, feeling guilty as he wet a cloth and cleaned up his feet as best he could without using more than a trickle. They weren't too bad, they'd been worse in the past, and once clean they were surprisingly cut free, more just abraded than anything else.

Edsel was itching to go, but knew Lash was utterly exhausted. He let her sleep, exploring the house quietly, trying to think about the best way to search for Michael and Aiden, knowing it was going to simply be a matter of getting a vehicle and hoping they caught up with them.

This isn't going to be easy.

HUNT

The Ink settled deep into his skin. It sank through the red and black — layers of corruption inflicted on him by men warped by their own sense of right and wrong to become something finally despicable, unaware that their twisted minds were anything but just.

Edsel felt the strange blue Ink penetrate ever deeper. Now he was fully awake and free of any drugs, he could actually try to understand properly what had been done to him. His final conclusion was that it simply didn't matter, not really. He was a plaything for those that wished to experiment, nothing more.

This Ink was definitely different though, it felt like it went beyond a mere marking of the skin. It was a part of him; he was a part of it. How the link was made was unclear, but it was undoubtedly making a connection in his own body, and he had the strong suspicion that it made him act like some kind of beacon for Michael — so he knew where he was.

That would certainly explain why whatever he and Lash did, Michael was always one step ahead of them, always managing to leave before they had the chance to catch up with him.

As the days passed so the pain subsided, until it became nothing more than a vague sensation, the raised skin ever-present beneath his clothes, somehow always coming as a surprise when he rubbed a hand over his face or head, tracing the convoluted lines with fingers just as strangely marked. Finally it settled down, the hard lines receding somewhat, as if they had sunk as low as they were ever going to, still raised, just not as prominent.