Thirteen Roses Book One: Before: An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga (3 page)

A thought struck him and he lunged towards the nearest desk and grabbed the phone. He lifted it to his ear and listened to silence. There was no dial tone, nothing. He typed the number for home, knowing it wouldn't ring, but it did.
 

His heart leapt, sweat springing up on his forehead. What would he say? He listened, intent, eyes focused on nothing as he waited. And waited. She wasn't home. Was she gone, too? But the phone was ringing, surely that meant something? The line clicked and went dead. He slammed it into the cradle, picked it up and dialled again.
 

It rang and rang and he smashed it against the desk, again and again until the plastic shattered and fragments flew across the office. Once he'd killed it, he dropped to his knees and wailed.
 

The evening sun disappeared behind the Houses of Parliament. David stood on Waterloo Bridge, staring down into the murky brown waters of the Thames. His hands gripped the railing, knuckles white and shaking. He was dying. He was alone. He'd spent the last three hours creeping around the city.
 

He shouted for a time, screaming the name of everyone he'd ever known, just to fill the silence. But it made it worse. When he stopped, it closed in again, choking and blinding him. The silence was the worst part. He'd found a TV in a shop and turned it on, but the screen had resolutely refused to spring to life and he ended up putting his foot through it. Even the sound of the glass breaking had been muted and dull.
 

There was no way out of this. He didn't know where he was, or what he'd done, but he would die here. So why not choose the way he went? He couldn't die choking on his own innards, curled up in a corner somewhere. But the Thames was flowing fast and it would take him out to sea. With winter coming, it was cold enough to stun him when he hit and he'd barely know he was drowning.
 

He put a foot on the bottom rail and pushed himself up. If he'd known what was going to happen, he'd have stayed with Steph. He could still be there with her, where he should be. He choked back a sob and lifted one foot over the railing.
 

David Part Three

David fell back from the railing, landing on his arse on the concrete. He lay back and screamed until his throat gave out. The sky above was clear and the stars peeked through the light pollution, mocking him with their silent regard. Maybe everyone was out there. Maybe they were all on the moon, looking down at him and pointing and laughing.
 

He rolled onto his side and put a hand over his face. The floor was cold. He slept.
 

He woke once in the night and the sound of the Thames rushing below the bridge was so loud it made him jump. It faded just as quickly as he realised there was nothing else. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his face with the heel of his palm and waited. The waiting lasted forever and every second was filled with the silence but, eventually, he went back to sleep.

He woke to sunlight creeping over the OXO Tower and prying into his eyes. It seemed to welcome him back, as though he'd stood on the edge of death and been pulled away at the last moment.
 

He stood, feeling better than he had in days. Then the pain hit and the silence hit and he crumpled to the floor. He was pathetic. He couldn't even end it when the end was coming anyway. Why was he here?

It was the first time he'd asked himself that and it surprised him enough that he stopped shaking and sat up. The movement sent pain through his shoulder, spasms running up and down his back. He could barely move his arm. His throat was clogged and filled with gunk, and he hawked and spat over the edge.
 

Why was he here? The flower seller had given him roses for his wife and he'd given them to Steph. That was bloody stupid. He was in hell all because some weirdo got on his high horse. The word God floated through his mind and he snorted. Weirdo with some serious mojo was nearer the truth. Actually, was there much of a difference?

He wasn't in hell. Hell didn't exist, although he decided the guy who invented the whole fire and brimstone thing was a bit lacking in imagination. This was some kind of altered reality. Maybe there were drugs in the roses, something he smelled that made him think this was all happening. Or maybe he was strapped in,
Matrix
-style, to some giant computer. It was fake either way.
 

But he felt sick, there was no denying that. They could do anything with computers these days, though. He sniffed and pulled himself up the railings. It all felt so real. Well, if there was no one here, there was no one to stop him doing anything he liked. There was an Aston Martin garage in Kensington.
 

With his first smile in twenty four hours, David made his slow way over the bridge.
 

Doing ninety down Oxford Street was as much fun as he'd imagined. As was going on a shopping spree around Harrods and raiding the ice cream parlour. But every time he paused, the silence came flooding back like the tide running up the beach.
 

After a couple of days of living like a Sultan, it began to wear thin. There was no TV, no one to cook anything, no one to do anything with or to. And the silence kept coming.
 

After a week, he took to talking to himself, loudly commentating on everything he did. But his throat was hoarse and he soon ran out of words. He was supposed to be dying, but the sickness had frozen where it was, leaving him washed out and snotty all the time.
 

Everything had frozen. His beard stopped growing and his hunger soon went away. And after a couple of weeks, he found himself back before the flower stall. The flowers were still in bloom, bright and beautiful and the only things that smelled of anything anymore. He sucked in the aromas, clinging to that one small sign of his previous life.
 

His mind wandered. His thoughts became simple, images that meant nothing. He spoke out loud now and then, but the words no longer made sense. They were just sounds, with no one to hear them. His sleep dried up as well. He did everything he could to exhaust himself, but he'd fall into a light sleep that would last only a couple of hours at most before he woke.
 

The flower stall became his refuge and it was just as he was trying to remember why when someone appeared. In the dim recesses of his memory, in the part that still worked, he recognised the man as the flower seller. But he saw much more now. He saw the light surrounding him and the darkness hiding behind it.
 

'Hello, David, how are you?'

He stared blankly at the man, waiting for this David person to reply. When no one did, he thought that perhaps he was David. How was he? He shook his head, mouth hanging open and the man smiled.
 

'Have you learned?'

'Learned?'

'Why are you here, David?'

'Roses. Something, there were roses.'

The man sighed and shook his head. 'Perhaps I left it too long. No, it shouldn't have happened this quickly.'

He leaned closer, pursing up his lips. Finally he spoke. 'When you wake, examine your life. And if you are in doubt, remember that you can always come back to this place.'

The flower seller took careful steps backwards to stand beside his stall. There he froze and the scene faded until David stared at the blackness and wondered why he was suddenly so warm. He reached out a hand and pressed it against warm flesh.
 

The person sighed and rolled over, dislodging his hand and his eyes flew open. The first thing he saw was the bedside clock, the numbers 5:32 glowing gently in the darkness. Almost time for work. He blinked, expecting to drift back off. But he felt oddly awake and stretched, revelling in not feeling crappy at half five in the morning.
 

Amber rolled over again and he stared at her face as it came into view. How had he ever loved her? Just the sight of her grated and made him want to leap from the bed. With a grunt he rolled back to stare at the alarm clock. There was something on top of it and he reached out a hand.
 

He hissed as his fingers closed around something sharp. He jerked them away, then took it more gently and lifted it to his face. It was a rose, a single red rose and it smelled wonderful. It made him think of Steph. He reached for his phone then looked again at the time. She wouldn't thank him. Maybe he'd text her on the way to the station.
 

As he stepped into the shower, he wondered where the rose had come from. A voice inside told him he knew exactly where, but he couldn't remember. Didn't matter. Dammit, the shower was bloody freezing. When he stepped out of the house, he didn't notice the silence. It was only when he reached the train station and found it dark and empty, that it came flooding back.
 

Interlude

That was a shame. He'd expected more. Some people just weren't ready to change. Now that sounded like he was making excuses. It was another in Purg, though, and they all had to be accounted for. Which meant more paperwork.

Was he losing his touch? The last three had all gone to the dogs and he thought his choices were perfect. Maybe he should listen to Seph and do what he suggested. Take the easy ones, get your quota, and get ambitious at the end of the month when it wasn't so important.

But that didn't work. What was the point if they weren't on the edge? And there didn't seem to be any easy ones. There were easier and harder, but no shoe-ins. That wasn't how Seph told it, though. To listen to him over a beer, he was swimming in easy subjects, lining them up and knocking them down.
 

Luke picked up his list and stared at it. Were they getting the same list? Several names faded in the minute he looked at it, so they were working from the same sheets. Was he losing his touch?

He swung around in his chair and gazed out the back of his chamber. The Flights were quiet. Most of them were still at work and the rest down at the Dome. He peered over the edge and stared down through the stars, past the thousands of chambers to the Dome. He could go for a beer.
 

His eyes were heavy though. Keeping David in Purg for that long without the Engine was hard work. He'd rest and start again tomorrow.
 
 

Bayleigh Part One

They were just flowers. He was there every day, and every day she slowed as she walked past and took deep breaths and carried the smell with her all the way to the shop. And every day she thought, 'I'll buy some today.' And every day she walked past without buying them.

But every month when she checked the bank statement she was happy she'd resisted. Because every month a little more money went into the account and she moved one step closer.
 

Today was particularly difficult. There were roses, the most beautiful red roses that smelled like a holiday, and were the colour of romance and belonged on a table in a tiny café in Paris. She would sit and smell them, her dyed-blonde hair tied up atop her head. Her too-thin lips would be made full through the arty application of lipstick that matched the petals, and brought out the green in her eyes. A gorgeous man in tight jeans would part them and lean through, and murmur how much he loved her tiny snug nose as their lips pressed together.
 

She shivered, turned her eyes from the stall and breathed deep. The morning traffic was thin on the ground when she opened the shop and went in. The alarm beeped a good morning and she scampered to the back and punched in the code. She imagined, as she did at least once a week, that she'd just prevented the explosion of a number of bombs placed all over London. With her simple action, she averted a terrible crisis.

The front door binged and Ali bustled in, the scent of freshly baked bread coming with him.
 

'Mornin' Bay, you're late today?'

The question was almost buried beneath his normal jovial tone. Almost, but not quite. She blushed, knowing full well why he asked. 'Bed was comfy this morning.'

'Don't know how a big bed like that can be comfortable. You must get cold.'

If he hadn't shared that bed a few times in the last month, it would be harassment. As it was, the butterflies in her stomach grew wings and learnt to dance, as her cheeks grew even hotter. 'I get hot when I sleep, normally throw the covers off altogether.'

She turned as he thumped the first crate down on the counter. He strolled down the shop. The sides of his hands were still covered in flour and he smelled like his bread. She took a deep breath, the smell of roses replaced with the scent of fantasies made real.
 

'We can make it hotter, if you like.'

She giggled and walked past him, brushing against him just enough for her to shiver and slow. He would grab her and spin her around, his flour leaving marks on her arms. He'd push her back against the glass cabinets and force his tongue into her mouth. He didn't, though.
 

Which was a good thing because the door binged again and Layla walked in, giving them both a cheery 'morning' before disappearing into the back. Somehow, Bayleigh's cheeks grew hotter still and she rushed behind the counter, putting a safe distance between them.
 

'Well, you know, offer's there. Let me get the rest.'

Ali strolled from the shop and Layla appeared from the back, apron on and hair tied up. 'You two still shagging then?'

Bayleigh gasped and frowned at her. Layla, completely oblivious, opened the till and began to sort the money from the safe. 'Not that I'm prying or nothing, just think you could do a lot worse. And, you know, he knows about Jeff and everything.'

He did and that was worth more than his kindness or his strong arms and soft hands. He didn't know about the bank account though. No one knew about that and no one would, not until it was too late.
 

Layla was staring at her, waiting for an answer. Had she asked a question? Not really, but she'd still want an answer. Bayleigh blinked, then twined her finger in her hair and blushed, shrugging. 'Yeah, maybe. I dunno. He's nice and all, but…'