INK: Red (INK Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

Kathy, sweet Kathy, always full of life and hope, never giving up, always looking on the bright side. They were going to have a new start, go somewhere quiet, into the country, away from the madness, away from the ruins and the scavengers and the constant reminder of all that was lost since The Lethargy took away everything. He'd wanted to, anything for her. Anything.

Now the dreams were crushed, just like her head. Blond hair thick with still warm blood.

Her beautiful head, caved in and ruined. Just like their future, like everybody's future.

"Kathy, what have they done to you? My beautiful Kathy."

There's nothing left now. Nothing.

Edsel stroked her beautiful blond hair. He'd always loved it, and he knew she found it soothing, taking her away from bad memories of the past.

She wouldn't want this Edsel, Kathy wouldn't let you give up, even now. She'd want you to carry on, to make her death mean something. Get up, get up before it's too late and—

"Hello Ed, or should I say jty."

Edsel jumped, forgetting the fact that they were probably still in the house, forgetting for a moment the searing pain that ravaged his entire body.

It's now or never Edsel, make up your mind.

Thoughts whirled a mile a minute, then the decision was made.

"Don't call me Ed, and don't you dare call me jty, you freak."

The man just smiled at him, calm and confident. Bishop, the one he had trusted and told of his despair so long ago. A different life. Now his original name was stripped from him, replaced with the title Bishop, nothing more. There were countless Bishops, just as there were Cardinals, initiates and acolytes — all had their names taken, replaced with a random three letter moniker, taking away their identity, all part of the religion's way of ensuring those in the church accepted that they were meaningless, not worthy of even a name — there just to help bring about The End, to finish off what The Lethargy had started.

There was loud banging at the door.

It was the others, those that had pursued him, they were here now too. Bishop turned at the noise and Edsel made his move. He grabbed the poker as he let go of Kathy for the last time, bouncing to his feet as his body screamed at him. Scabs tore and nerves lit up like fireworks but he swung anyway, the poker making contact with a satisfying crunch; Bishop reeled back against the door jamb. Edsel shouldered into him as the front door crashed open — wood splintered, and glass sprinkled onto the carpet.

No time to retrieve the bat, the poker would have to do.

His two remaining pursuers were inside, crunching over the fractal shards as they took in the scene before them. Edsel ran down the hall toward the kitchen at the back of the small house.

Damn, damn, damn. Where's the key?

The back door in the kitchen was sure to still be locked — they never left it so somebody could just walk in — but he'd told her time and time again to always leave the key in the lock just in case they needed to get out in a hurry. She had a habit of moving it for some reason he never did get an answer to. At least the net curtain over the glass was still in place — it made the room gloomy but ensured privacy during the day. It didn't matter now, nothing did.

There, on the counter-top, next to the microwave they should have thrown out ages ago — no point having it when there wasn't any power. He grabbed the key and pushed for the keyhole.

Ugh, missed. C'mon! Try again. Quick.

This time it slotted in perfectly; he turned it and the lock clicked.

He grabbed the handle, turning it as a hand reached out from behind him, slamming the door shut again.

"Don't think so. You aren't going anywhere you traitor."

One of his attackers, one of the two that gave him The Ink, branding him forever as one of their foul believers in their sick and twisted religion.

Edsel shot an elbow back, the nerves raw as the red skin covered bone made contact and a satisfying
oof
swept warm bad breath over his neck. Edsel grabbed the door handle again and was out the door as he felt a hand clutch his sweatshirt.

The poker, you idiot, use the poker.

He swung backward blindly, but there was no aim and not much strength. He felt contact but it was soft and didn't help. He turned and aimed better, but he just didn't have the energy — he wanted to give up but he couldn't.

Kathy would kill me if I gave up. Haha. Get it together Edsel, move. Now.

Summoning up energy from he didn't know where, Edsel swung again, the poker smacking into the shoulder of the tattooist. What was he called? gbt, or something equally ridiculous. The strike reverberated up his arm and he could feel more skin weep across his chest where the swing had caused his arm to chafe. His armpit felt like a million biting ants were slowly eating his flesh; he could feel the sticky excretions begin to stain through his sweatshirt.

But he was free for a second.

He ran again.

All he did was run. He needed to stop, he needed to cry.

Edsel
was
crying. He ran down the garden, letting the salty tears fall freely until he had to wipe them away and let the salt bring pain flashing once more to his swollen, tattered hand.

He crashed through the overgrowth — the garden a mess of weeds and plants gone wild without any maintenance. The city was too dangerous to spend time outdoors at your home — the last thing you wanted was for anyone to know a property was occupied, especially by women. Edsel had been careful to hide Kathy as much as he possibly could — it was incredible how quickly men had turned back into cavemen and would drag off any female they thought was still Whole. Survival of the line became an obsession even as most of humanity curled up into a ball and slowly died.

Shit. Wall. This is going to hurt.

"Get him! Don't you dare let him get away again. What's wrong with you?"

Bishop was shouting at the two men. He could hear them crashing through the waist-high grass — they would be just as soaked as he was, but at least the rain had stopped. He didn't think he could have got any wetter but now his jeans were sodden and sticky seed heads were jabbing through the thick denim. It felt like he was getting The Ink all over again.

No time to think, just do it.

His heart hammered in his chest like it was going to explode; his legs were chafing horribly from the soaked denim, and now he had to get over a seven foot red-brick wall.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to brick up the door Edsel.

The new sneaker gave a little extra bounce as he leapt up, arms above his head.

The poker! Damn.

He was up though. He dropped the poker over the wall as a new pain joined with the old.

The glass!

Already brutalized forearms ripped, blood soaking through the sweatshirt, staining it dark. He'd bedded glass into the top just as an extra deterrent, but he'd forgotten. Feet scrabbled for purchase, and he scrambled higher onto the wall, but one of The Eventuals had his leg. He kicked out.

There goes the new sneaker.

He was up, belly scratching over the dislodged glass, sweatshirt riding high, deep gouges covering his stomach like the doodles of a child.

Over.

Yes!

The cold poker gave a welcome numbness to his hand as he picked it up and ran down the lane that divided the gardens of the rows of houses that backed onto each other.

Where to now? Why even bother?

REST

There was time, a little at least. But what was the point? What was he going to do now anyway? Edsel wasn't wallowing in pity, he genuinely had no idea. Without Kathy he just didn't know what he was supposed to do. If he was going to survive then he knew he had to get away from the city, but where to, and what for? What would Kathy want him to do? She would want him to keep his promise, that's what. Get away, to open fields and live a life they should have been living already.

It was increasingly difficult to think straight: he was too tired, too upset, and he hurt so much. It was impossible to think clearly; his head felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool, like nothing was making any sense.

Haha. Well, it hasn't for years now has it? Nothing makes sense, not one damn thing.

Edsel looked at himself in the mirror. He was going to have to do something about his skin — he wouldn't be able to keep moving like he had been. Already it had been what, almost two days since he'd escaped? It was only going to get worse as The Ink soaked deeper into the epidermis and The Fire — what they had called whatever it was they added to make the pain build and build for days — began to hurt more and more. More scabs would form from the tattoos and they needed time to heal, but he wasn't going to have the luxury of rest — they would find him again, soon. They always did.

Maybe I've got a few hours if I'm lucky.

Those that took The Ink voluntarily were kept from moving for days after the ordeal was over. He'd heard all about it, most people had, and they had gone in their droves to get the permanent marks, just so they could 'belong' before everything came to an end. Everyone was so lost that The Eventuals were all that were left for a lot of people; a sense of belonging to see out the final days of the human race as those that thought they had escaped The Lethargy began to succumb. It never relented, nobody was safe — populations were decimated, survivors worldwide became fewer by the day.

There was no way to know how many people were left, but while media, radio and the Web still worked, it seemed like it was only a few million across the globe. That had been years ago, now it would be much lower. The United Kingdom was like a ghost town. Streets were empty of everything apart from bodies, trash and rubble. Looting in the early days had emptied the stores and no services worked any longer.

Ugh. Look at me.

He'd run as fast and as far as he could, but he had to stop. He just had to. His body was screaming, his energy levels were exhausted, he was starving hungry, thirsty like he'd never been in his life. He felt like he was going to erupt — made of molten lava. He looked like it too. Worst of all, and what threatened to break him entirely, was that he was finding it hard to care.

He ran on, pushing himself past any boundaries, his heart empty, gone; broken. Alone again, just like before. Forever now — nobody would replace Kathy, nothing could.

Edsel ran, a hypnotic pace that numbed him to everything apart from just breathing. One foot in front of the other, just to get away, to escape from the nightmare his life had become. From his kidnappers, from the pain, from the emptiness. From himself.

When Edsel came back to reality he found himself in a warehouse district, a few miles from his home — a home he would never return to. He was free of them for a while, but they'd be back, they would find him. He wasn't in any doubt about it.

The bathroom was cramped, but at least it had a mirror and a few things that might be useful. And clothes, there were clothes! Dry ones.

Bodies too, just a few. He stepped over the decaying corpses and down a short corridor away from the foyer where a secretary had obviously shown up for work as she didn't know what else to do — she had succumbed right by the photocopier and eventually died sat leaning against the machine. Further on there was a man dressed smartly in shirt and tie who had probably just faded away where he stood, then finally crumpled unknowingly to the floor. Maybe they had both carried on showing up simply to act normal?

He'd seen it a lot, would have done the same thing himself if he'd ever had a job to go to. By the time he was old enough to work there was no such thing as a job any longer. He'd still been going to school until the teachers stopped showing up, the students too. Finally it was just him — sat alone at a desk, not knowing what else to do.

Back through the foyer there was a small canteen and a few other rooms for offices and a boardroom, then the warehouse itself. Nothing much of use was stacked on the rows of racking, just a load of electrical components that were now worthless. But in the lockers and in offices he'd managed to scrounge together some better clothes and footwear. Work clothes and a warm sweater.

All he'd had to do then was get his soaked and bloodied clothes off and try to think what to do, and how to cope with the life of being Inked and a wanted man by this Ward of The Eventuals.

What's wrong with them?

Shaking his head, he'd carefully tried to remove his clothes without causing too much more damage to his burning body.

It made him feel sick just thinking about what he was going to see — again.

When they'd secured him to the ceremonial table — in reality a gurney, probably from some kind of mental institute judging by all the leather straps — for The Ink to begin, then wheeled over the tables full of equipment, he'd squirmed and screamed and sworn vengeance on them for what they were about to do. They'd just grimly begun, telling him that they knew deep down it was what he wanted, that he'd thank them for giving him such an honor.

He didn't.

It hurt like he couldn't believe, and then it just kept on getting worse. They'd told him it would continue for days, each hour The Ink seeping deeper, slow-releasing the poison in the special additive, part of the ritual, part of the sacrifice, part of the proof that to still be alive was a blasphemy — a just punishment for those still remaining. It was holy, they'd said, blessed by Varik himself, to be mixed with the red Ink so that it opened up nerves to accept the pain that must be endured — an offering for their pointless lives. After a few days it would subside, then it would be just a matter of healing from the assaulted skin.

Scabs had begun to form even before they'd finished with his lower body, and he'd endured it, hour after seemingly infinite hour.