INK: Red (INK Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

It wasn't surprising though. Food wasn't easy to come by so only a fool would put themselves through the misery of doing regular exercise on top of the long hunts for food — energy expenditure was already high enough. His slim body wasn't built for such mad sprints — if anything he would have been a middle distance runner. He needed a steady pace, not sprinting for his life while well-fed Eventuals chased him through the dead streets of Manchester.

Gripping a lamppost before he remembered it was a really, really bad idea as the scabs on his palm ripped off and blood oozed out, he took the corner well with the extra leverage and ran through the narrower street looking back to see that his pursuers must have slowed — they were only now making it around the corner.

But there were only two of them, where was the third? Too tired? Given up? Or—

Oompf.

He nearly, but not quite, went down.

It was the third man. He'd obviously taken a shortcut through an alley and the smack into Edsel's side meant it was nearly over. Nearly. Trying his best to combat the flare of pain, he stomped down sharply with his right leg, smiling as he heard a satisfying howl — even though it probably hurt him as much as it did the man.

No time to fight, gotta run.

With the wind knocked out of him from the punch to the belly, and his skin actually spasming, he carried on regardless, maybe at least cutting down on his pursuers to two for a few minutes while the other recovered. Hopefully a bone in the man's foot would be broken and he would have improved his odds dramatically.

He kept running.

It kept raining.

The rain hurt like it was made of fire. Each nerve ending was opening up to greet the temporary cleansing of the fetid streets with a pain he never knew existed.

No good, the sole was hanging on by nothing but dogged determination now, so he reluctantly stopped for a second and ripped it off. He had to find safety soon — there was no way he could run with half a sneaker on his foot.

Go in.

He had to go inside a building, any building, just to try to lose them for a few minutes so he could take stock and sort out his feet. Barefoot would be better than this, anything would be better than this.

At least it can't get any worse.

Edsel sprinted across the street, jumping puddles, body so hot he was amazed the rain didn't fizzle before it made contact with his skin. The sign above the sports store was still in place, so he knew he was in with a chance, albeit a remote one. He didn't really expect there to be any footwear left, but at least he could get out of the rain, try to lose the others, and somehow find a few seconds to deal with his feet.

I can always hope. Gotta stay positive or they've already won.

Edsel crashed to the ground; he hadn't been watching where he was going. The smell of the putrid flesh of a half eaten dog greeted him as his face hit the creature's midsection with a sickening thump. Hands slipped in rotten flesh and came away with clumps of fur stuck to skin that was almost liquid. He had the foul stench all over his scavenged jeans and t-shirt as he got carefully to his feet, the fear of slipping again a reality.

They were almost upon him, so Edsel took his chance and ran into the store through the large shattered full height window, praying he wouldn't get glass stuck in his foot. If he did then it would all be over, he knew that now. They didn't want to capture him and finish the job, desertion only had one punishment.

Death.

SOCKS

He had to walk; there was little choice inside the store. There was no room to run, but at least those behind him would be facing the same issues and hopefully would have an encounter with the dog too — Edsel wrinkled his nose at the smell that threatened to make him puke.

Like I haven't had enough crap on me in the last few days. Ugh.

Edsel shook his head at things he really didn't want to remember, but knew he would for the rest of his life — however long that might be — then moved as fast as he could between the rails, most on their sides, little in the way of clothing left. The racked walls dedicated to footwear were empty, nothing there. He guessed the stock rooms would be the same, if not worse, as that way people could find their sizes. Walking quickly through the store to the back he grabbed a sweatshirt from the floor and pulled off his stinking t-shirt, wiping his hands as best he could, the smell still almost overpowering, his empty stomach threatening to purge foul acid.

What I wouldn't give for something to eat though, I can't go on like this.

The sweatshirt was a simple green thing, but the hood would be good against the rain and cold once he was back outside. Miraculously it fit — a little snug but it was better than nothing. His dark denim jeans would just have to stay on; it would take too long to even try to get them off.

A few mis-matched sneakers and more sturdy footwear littered the floor, and there were still quite a few kids shoes littered about the place. He scanned it quickly as he moved through the store, finding a left Adidas in his size.

He quickly unlaced his ruined Converse and put the new sneaker on. No time to search for the other one, it could be here or not, but at least he had something on his feet. The looser fit of the skater-style trainer was a welcome relief after the Converse he had luckily found only hours after he made his escape. They were the worst choice in footwear possible for someone that had just had their feet tattooed, but they didn't hurt as much when he first put them on as they did now — two days later.

Scabs had started to form, then got ripped off repeatedly — it was a never-ending nightmare of pain, running, thirst, hunger, downright dread, and worst of all not knowing if Kathy was safe. Alive.

His foot stank. The soaking sock was thick with lumps of dead skin. Uncovered, the sight of his foot and The Ink going up his leg almost made him cry. Almost. He didn't think he had any tears left now — he'd cried them all on the gurney as they ruined his body, branding him as belonging to everything he hated in the world.

What was wrong with these people?

With no better solution, he turned the sock inside out and was about to put it back on when he spotted a few pairs weirdly still on an upright rack. A bizarre slice of normality where all was chaos. He grabbed a pair, stuffing one in his pocket and putting the other on then quickly tying up the sneaker.

Aah. Bliss
.

Rails clattered behind him and he heard the voices of The Eventuals talking to each other; they were spreading out to cover the room as best they could. All three of them.

Damn. Time to go.

Edsel got to his feet and crouched low, moving fast to the back. These places always had a rear exit, they had to by law. He just prayed it was unlocked. He got behind the counter without being seen and crawled back into the rear of the building, hands and knees screaming at the pressure. There were people in the canteen, obviously still able to show up for work at one point — The Lethargy gripping them and letting them gradually die from starvation where they sat around a dirty off-white Formica table.

There was a microwave, fridge and coffee machine in the corner, mocking Edsel with their familiarity — a reminder of a once normal life. Well, it wasn't normal anymore; or it was, but it wasn't good. He supposed whatever happened made it the norm, it was simply a reality that was more like a nightmare was all. It said a lot about the people: they obviously had nowhere else to go.

Slowly he got up off all fours, the industrial grade carpet feeling like someone was rubbing sandpaper into his palms. His knees were already bleeding again. He went through a door and found himself in a stockroom, boxes strewn everywhere, the place a total wreck. Nothing much was left in terms of clothing, but there were all manner of other things: loads of exercise equipment, balls for various sports, gym equipment and any number of weights plates, kettlebells, rackets and...

Is that a baseball bat?

The weight felt good, the old fashioned wooden bat surprisingly warm and comfortable in his hand, the pain not as bad as he thought it would be. He took a practice swing. His torso burst into flame at the movement, skin chafing badly in the tight sweatshirt. Best to save the batting for when he had heads to aim at.

A door banged behind him and he knew they would be through into the stockroom after him soon. He had to go. Even with the bat he knew it was a risk to take on three of them — they had knives and maybe even a gun. Plus they weren't screaming inside with pain like he was.

He hunted around for the exit, not seeing a sign. There were doors at the far end on the right so he opened one and jumped back in shock at the sight of a demented looking shaved-headed man with eyes black-rimmed, two day stubble making his face look even more gaunt than it was.

Jeez, it's me! I look like death.

He pointedly ignored the mirror and headed down the short corridor until he finally came to the fire exit. The safety bar was across, but it would give him his freedom if he pushed down and it wasn't locked.

Beep beep beep.
The damn door had an alarm! What the hell? Power was out and had been for years, so it must have had some kind of weird backup. At least it was open, but his pursuers knew exactly where he was now.

The door led outside to a concrete ramp with a handrail on the left, then into a small car-park for staff for a few of the stores. There were two cars in spots outside the store he'd just left, no others.

The people inside. Poor buggers.

Shaking his legs into life, Edsel began running once more. It was all he did — run and run and run. The moving without running had actually energized him a little though. His heart rate returned to almost normal, well, as normal as you can expect when you are being chased by crazed religious freaks that want to make sure you die slowly at their hands for blasphemy.

Back in the street once more. A different one, a narrow one-way system with a tiny sidewalk almost too narrow to walk on and not spill into the road. Once the little businesses here made a roaring trade selling all manner of bespoke items from expensive jewelery to antiques — now the doors hung from fractured hinges and the jewels were taken before people realized they were less valuable than a hot meal; the antiques mostly stayed put. What use were they when survival was what mattered most of all?

Water bubbled up from the drains, unable to cope without regular maintenance for so long, and once again his feet, now in mismatched sneakers, were soaked. He heard his pursuers behind him and took a quick look. One was well ahead of the others, a stocky guy that seemed built for the chase.

Around the corner, another street, a chance maybe?

Turning quickly, and before the thick-set man had a chance to react, Edsel swung the bat with all the strength he had left, hearing a satisfying crack as it connected with the red bald head of the man. He staggered, clutched his head, then went down into a pile of tattered garbage sacks as his ear oozed thick blood.

Yes! Go.

Edsel ran on, winding his way slowly but surely back to all that kept him going in the world. Home to Kathy.

HOME

The door slammed behind him and he bolted it, in no mood to chastise Kathy for the mess in the hallway — she never was very tidy. Not that it made any difference — The Eventuals knew where he had been living and would have been here soon enough anyway, just to check if he'd risked coming home or not.

"Kathy, Kathy honey? We have to go. Now."

He ran into the living room and went cold. They'd already been, closing the door politely behind them on their way out, after they caved in her head with a poker from the unused fireplace. As if to mock him they'd then had the good grace to put the poker back in the coal scuttle where it was kept.

They're here.

Edsel didn't have any fight left in him — what was the point now anyway? Everything was gone.

Everything.

Kathy.

DESPAIR

Edsel's world crashed down around him in wave after wave of sick clarity. The bat fell to the floor with a soft thud, thick carpet soaking up the sound just as it had the blood of the most beautiful creature he had ever known.

The image of Kathy would forever be burned into his brain like a brand.

How could they? How could they do this to her? To me?

If only he'd got home sooner, made it across the ruined city a few hours or minutes quicker. But he'd done his best, hadn't slept in days, and assumed that they would make catching him the priority, not searching his home and finding Kathy.

How wrong he'd been.

She was all he lived for; his salvation; his hope and his joy. Without her there was nothing, nothing left at all. No family, no friends, no people he could turn to, nobody to trust or offer a shoulder to cry on.

All was emptiness.

He felt the weight of the crushing loneliness return and envelop him in its cold reality as it had once before; before he met Kathy. Now that twinkle in her eye when she listened to him, made fun of him when his thoughts got dark — all gone.

This was it, he may as well give up, there was nothing left now, nothing to do but to accept The Void and at least have oblivion to take away the pain.

Everything became too surreal. The rest of the room was neat and tidy, still smelling of furniture polish, the cushions still piled up on the sofa where they curled up together for warmth and company. The place where they had tried to make life normal, carry on as if it all mattered, would make things better.

He was cradling her, sat on the floor sobbing like a child, rocking her naked battered body, trying to soothe the corpse as if it would bring her back.