One by One

By Phil Tucker

For Peter, the end of civilization begins quietly with the disappearance of his mother. At the police station he learns that thousands of others have gone mysteriously missing overnight, and that tens of millions more are vanishing daily across the globe. Without explanation humanity finds itself facing its final year on the planet, and it is only then that Peter falls in love.

Her name is Sophia, and though both are haunted by loss they find in each other a passion that is as real as it is worth fighting for. As the government buckles and then collapses, as the darkest registers of human nature are sounded and a brutal demagogue rises to lead a reign of terror, they strive to find meaning and purpose in a world that is bereft of all certainties but one: that they too are fated to disappear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil Tucker
• Release date: Feb 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301531462

Phil Tucker

I'm a young Brazilian Brit living out in the woods of Western MA with my wife and small dog Simon.

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One by One

by Phil Tucker

Published by TransientMe LLC at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Philip Tucker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Version 2013.02.17

For Peter, the end of civilization begins quietly with the disappearance of his mother. At the police station he learns that thousands of others have gone mysteriously missing overnight, and that tens of millions more are vanishing daily across the globe. Without explanation humanity finds itself facing its final year on the planet, and it is only then that Peter falls in love.

Her name is Sophia, and though both are haunted by loss they find in each other a passion that is as real as it is worth fighting for. As the government buckles and then collapses, as the darkest registers of human nature are sounded and a brutal demagogue rises to lead a reign of terror, they strive to find meaning and purpose in a world that is bereft of all certainties but one: that they too are fated to disappear.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

About the Author

Excerpt from Vampire Miami

To my brothers

Acknowledgments

As always, this novel would not be what it is today were it not for the generosity of my friends. To Will, Paul, Kaitlyn, and Dan.

Chapter 1

In the kitchen the kettle was singing. The sound was thin and desperate and when Peter became aware of it he realized that he was unsure for how long it had been sounding. His fingers paused, hovering over the keyboard, and he cocked his head to one side, listening to the ongoing shriek of steam. His train of thought which had but moments ago been so urgent was now irrevocably broken, and with irritation he realized that he had forgotten what he had been about to write next.

Mother, he called. Mother get the kettle already, but there was no sound of shuffling feet and the thready song of the kettle continued. Peter straightened, sighed, dropped his hands to his thighs and looked up at the wall, staring blankly through it as a wave of irritation washed over him.

Mother, he called again, but with the continued absence of a response his irritation was replaced by fear and he stood, already imagining the worst. She’s had an attack of some kind, he thought, leaving his bedroom with long and urgent strides, a reaction to the medication.

Their apartment was small and well-lit and Peter saw that she was neither in the tiny kitchen where the kettle screamed nor in the small living room beyond, where the clear sunlight of late afternoon streamed in through the vertical plastic blinds and cast a white glow over the old but well-loved furniture.

Mother, he yelled, hoping that she would suddenly step into view, making a face at the ruckus he was causing, telling him to quiet down she had only been in the bathroom, couldn’t a lady take care of herself without his starting a riot? But she didn’t appear, and he turned back to the small hall and checked the bathroom door, hoping for it to be locked but it wasn’t and the bathroom was dark and empty. Another step and he looked into her bedroom but she wasn’t there either and he turned around, real panic beginning to flutter in his chest.

Stay calm, he told himself, think. Once again the sound of the kettle impinged on his thoughts, and with a scowl he strode into the kitchen and shoved it off the stove top, killing the heat so that even as he watched the cherry red circle upon which it had rested darkened to crimson and then burgundy and then faded into the scuffed gray of the stove’s smooth surface. The kettle’s song immediately grew weaker and he stared at its bright sunflower yellow surface as it gasped and then finally died. The silence was worse than the sound of the steam escaping and he almost returned it to the heat, but that would be irrational, he decided, he had to think.

She had probably stepped out into the hall, gone downstairs to the lobby in a stubborn show of independence to check for the mail, forgetting that the mailman had already come that morning. He went to their front door, saw that the locks were all locked from the inside, which they shouldn’t be if she had let herself out for a moment, no need to lock up completely with him still inside, but perhaps she was growing paranoid, the neighborhood was not what it had been, so he let himself out and began to descend the stairwell to the lobby below.

An old man was making his way laboriously up the stairs, taking one step at a time, planting his walking cane above him and then with the help of the balustrade levering his whole body up one step closer to the first floor.

Mr. Parkin have you seen my mother? asked Peter, and the older man paused as if confused to look up at him with blank incomprehension. Peter was about to repeat himself when he saw Mr. Parkin slowly shake his head.

No I have not. Why, has she gone missing?

Peter didn’t answer and instead slipped by the older gentleman who turned carefully to track his descent, the lack of an answer troubling him more than the pallid color of Peter’s face and watched him run down into the checker-floored lobby and pause, looking about before opting for the front door and leaving his line of sight.

Outside the sunshine came down through the thin canopy of the trees that lined the narrow street, casting splashes of pale gold across the pavement. Peter paused, eager to begin running in some direction but uncertain as to which way to go. He looked up and down the street, tried to spot the familiar figure of his mother, the golden hair of her wig so similar to what her own hair had resembled but a year ago. There was no sight of her, though for long seconds he continued to study the spaces between parked cars, the distant corners where their narrow street intersected with a broader avenue. No sight of her and after all why would she have gone that far, for what reason would she have taken off without a word as if she were a prisoner making a break for it right under the nose of an inattentive guard?

Disconsolate, Peter saw that her car was still parked across the street where he had left it the night before, an older model Mercedes-Benz. She had not been capable of driving it for some months now. Growing frantic he turned back and let himself into the building, taking the steps two at a time so that he gained the first floor before Mr. Parkin—who still labored up the steps—managed to take another step himself. Down the hall he rushed into the apartment, the door having been left wide open, and then he stopped, moved slowly across the hall and living room to the balcony door that opened to the central courtyard. Could she have jumped? He saw her vividly in his mind’s eye, his imagination always ready to supply him with the worst and most morbid of possibilities. It was a short fall but sufficient for somebody to kill themselves if they were determined about it. He opened the door and stepped onto the small balcony which was crowded with boxes of herbs, a small and aromatic jungle that had always been his mother’s true domain. Nothing appeared to be disturbed, none of the window boxes had been knocked off the balcony’s edge, but still he paused, closing his eyes to gain strength before peering over the railing at the courtyard below.

The courtyard was of course empty and he felt immediately a sense of relief, embarrassment, and a subsequent increase in fear. Where was she? he asked himself, turning to regard the small apartment, a place that had always seemed a corner of intimacy, love, and security but was rapidly gaining a strange and oppressive air of menace. Never before had the furnishings, the small rooms, and the very air of the apartment seemed so indifferent to him, inimical to his desires.

Not knowing what else to do Peter took up the house telephone, thankful that his mother had insisted on keeping a land line despite his buying her a cell phone shortly after he arrived to take care of her, and dialed 911. The phone rang and continued to ring past all measure of reason. Peter thought, If I were being attacked by an intruder I would have died long before somebody answered, this is ridiculous. Had he any other course of action he would have hung up, but not knowing what else to do he hung on, staring at the bright yellow kettle, the last indication of his mother’s presence in the apartment.

What is the nature of your emergency? asked a voice.

My mother has disappeared.

Do you mean she’s gone missing?

Yes, she seems to have vanished.

Is there a difference?

She’s sick you see, she can’t move around very well but she seems to have disappeared completely.

When did you last see her?

About fifteen minutes ago she said she was going to make tea and put the kettle on and now I can’t find her.

I’m sorry but did you say fifteen minutes?

Yes.

Well it’s possible she might have stepped out, why don’t you wait a little longer?

I know it sounds silly but she’s sick, she can’t have disappeared, she never leaves the apartment.

Sir, you can come down to the station and file a missing person report but I’d recommend you wait a little longer.

Fine, thank you.

Not a problem, goodbye.

The woman’s advice made sense, but did nothing to reassure him. Instead he picked up the phone again and dialed his aunt.

Hello?

Hi Susan.

What’s wrong?

Mother’s gone missing.

What do you mean missing?

I mean she’s vanished.

Vanished?

Yes, yes, that’s what I said, she’s vanished, gone and done a disappearing trick that would do David Copperfield proud.

All right, calm down, she can’t have vanished.

I checked the street, the lobby, the bathroom, even the courtyard but she’s nowhere at all. Peter ran his hand through his hair. Did she say anything to you the last time you talked, did she mention any plans to go anywhere?

No, nothing like that, that wouldn’t make any sense given her condition.

I know, but what else am I to think?

Look, you don’t sound too good, I’m coming over.

Okay, that might be a good idea. When he hung up he set the phone down carefully and decided he might as well be thorough about the situation. Moving into the kitchen he scrutinized the countertops, saw that two mugs had been set out, each with a tea bag lying within it along with a stick of cinnamon. The cupboard door was open but his mother hadn’t taken down the sugar or the box of chocolate biscuits she loved and neither had she taken out the small silver spoons to stir with. There was nothing on the floor, no sign of spillage or indication that she might have fallen, sweeping something down as she went, so he drifted out of the kitchen into the living room and stared at her armchair, the place she spent most of her day draped in a blanket, saw that her book was resting open and face down on the arm, that the blanket had been folded back and left neatly piled on the footrest.

From there he tracked into the bathroom, feeling faintly ridiculous and proud of himself at the same time as he checked the sink and found it dry, the toilet bowl empty, her toothbrush similarly dry and untouched. Not sure what he was seeking to prove but unwilling to remain still he then went into her bedroom, stopped in the doorway and dragged his gaze slowly across the bed, observing the neatly made covers and the abundance of useless decorative pillows, the nightstand with her silver hairbrushes laid out, the dresser and photographs of all their family members and closest friends crowding the wall, looking down with blind smiles and sightless eyes.

What did detectives search for, what would Sherlock Holmes do in such a situation? Peter stood still and realized that he was listening, waiting for the shuffling step of his mother as she moved from one spot to another, a sound he had grown used to like the touch of clothing on one’s skin, so constant and gentle that eventually one tuned it out. The silence was unnatural, strange, for though his mother was generally quiet and not given to drawing attention to herself the apartment now had a dead and empty feel to it, the silence indicative of absence in a novel and unwelcome manner.

Returning to the kitchen he took up the kettle and poured water first into his own large red mug and then into his mother’s own blue and white china one. It was a gentle act of protest, a denial that felt at once futile and necessary, and he finished drawing down the objects that completed their customary ritual of tea time, setting sugar, stirring spoons, and the biscuits on their own special plate. He took them all out to the living room coffee table and set them down where they had their tea every day. Once seated he stared at the assembled mugs and plates and fell still, hands in his lap, and it was in this posture that his aunt found him when she let herself in, tears running down his face as he stared at the empty armchair that for the past year had held his mother’s frame as it grew ever more gaunt and unrecognizable until now it seemed to have swallowed her altogether and she was finally and irrevocably gone.

As if she did not believe in his abilities to search the apartment properly his aunt immediately set about entering each room while calling her sister’s name in a loud assertive voice, a no-nonsense call that seemed to imply by its brassy and stern tone that the game had gone on for long enough and it was now time for everybody to behave as adults and for her to appear. His aunt checked each room twice, trying Peter’s patience but he still had no better suggestion so he forced himself to wait in the kitchen, holding his mug of tea which he had finally begun to drink, his aunt’s appearance restoring his ability to act as if she had wound a key in his back and set him moving once more.

When his aunt joined him in the living room he could tell that she was doing her best not to appear flustered, determined as he had been to discover the rational explanation or at least to attempt a sane course of action in resolving this increasingly frightening puzzle.

Does she have any friends in the building she might have gone to visit? asked his aunt and Peter set his mug down, suddenly buoyed by this idea.

No, not that I know of, she never really speaks to the others much, you know how she is.

But still, it’s possible.

It’s possible.

Then let’s check.

They went from door to door in the four-story building, knocking and waiting for each occupant to answer, both intent on projecting an air of casual normalcy which faded and grew more strained with each negative, whether it was a denial of having seen her or a door that failed to open altogether.

Hi, how are you, good thank you, it’s a strange question I know but has my mother come by to visit or have you seen her within the last hour—no? Thank you all the same, no everything is fine, of course, these things happen, she’s been ill, yes, no, nothing serious, I’m sure we’ll find her in a moment, you know how these things go, thank you good evening.

By the time they had finished the last door on the fourth floor they had been away from the apartment for at least twenty-five minutes and both were suddenly seized by the attractive idea that she might have returned while they were going from door to door, have allowed herself inside after having decided to walk to the farmer’s market perhaps and was even now wondering where Peter was, why he hadn’t left a note, pouring her cold tea into the sink and setting the kettle on to make another mug. They raced downstairs, Peter abandoning all pretense while his aunt sought to retain some measure of calm but when she entered the apartment through the front door that he had left open in his haste she found him standing alone in the living room before the empty armchair and they held each other’s gaze before he dropped his and said, We have to go down to the police station, there is no other way about it.

The drive was a short one but made longer by his aunt’s insistence that they loop around all the local blocks, both of them craning and peering about the streets as they slowly rolled by, searching for some sign of her. Disconcertingly enough they became aware of another car, a small, faded blue Fiat that was also circling the neighborhood with another pair of people within who were also clearly searching the streets. They passed each other once, twice, three times and on the last Peter was forced by some embarrassed sense of familiarity or at least sense of common purpose to raise his hand and wave but the driver of the other car simply stared at him blankly and drove past.

The police station was crowded but that was to be expected, it had once been an upstanding neighborhood but had since fallen on hard times such that the rate of crime had increased within the last few years, cars being burgled or stolen where they were parked at night with only a splash of broken glass on the pavement to mark where they had been, and even word of several assaults and break-ins. Not enough to precipitate flight to another neighborhood but sufficient for residents to place new locks on doors, to check their windows each night and consider installing alarm systems where previously none had been needed.

Peter parked the car a few blocks away and then together they approached the station, expressions tight and chins raised, prepared to brave the mild disbelief or outright scorn that their report might engender. Peter had already received a taste of it over the phone and little time had passed since that early skeptic had bid him wait and in so doing disagreed however politely with the urgency of his case. They entered through the broad front doors beneath the austere mantel in which had been carved lions rampant about an unfamiliar crest, a sign that the building had once belonged to a bank or other institution of august nature, a palimpsest that manifested its elegant past in such subtle touches as crown moldings along the tops of the walls and the scuffed marble floor that had not been polished for years.

The entry room was large and at first reminded Peter of the many hospital waiting rooms he had visited with his mother within the past few months as her illness had taken a more severe turn, the hard plastic chairs lining the walls beneath cork boards and posters, a large counter bifurcating the space beyond which were desks where policemen and women worked though there were not many in evidence. A tired but efficient looking woman was manning the desk, a strange term and perhaps not one that she would have appreciated but there it was, the holdovers of an older sexism were apparent in even the most innocuous of words.

His aunt asserted herself and told him that she would wait in line and that he could sit, he must be tired, worn out by the experience and for once he chose to not argue. There were few seats available, the waiting room being fairly crowded, and he selected a chair next to a slender young woman whom he did his best not to study despite her subtle attractiveness. Not having thought to bring a book and lacking the desire to search for a magazine to thumb through he simply sat still, fingers interlaced in his lap, watching his aunt as she stood in line behind five other individuals, and then allowed his gaze to drift across the assembled faces, attempting to divine from their expressions what might have brought them here.

The similarity between the emergency room at the hospital and this police station only grew more evident in that there was a layer of quiet desperation over a core of efficiency and cheerful indifference.

What are you here for? asked the girl beside him and he started, turning to look at her and blinking rapidly as he did so.

Excuse me?

I’m sorry, I’m being nosy, I’m just trying to distract myself.

No, please, that’s okay, I was just surprised. My mother has disappeared and I’m here to file a report.

Really? How strange, my brother has vanished as well.

Vanished or gone missing? asked Peter, remembering the operator’s question and the girl gave an apologetic smile.

Vanished does sound rather dramatic.

Actually my mother has also vanished.

Oh, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry too. They sat still, both aware of each other but looking straight ahead, Peter searched for something to say, some way to break through the sudden silence even as he watched his aunt take another step forward and then he shook his head slightly, reproofing himself, how could he think of chatting up a girl while his mother was missing, was he really so shameless?

My brother is seven, said the girl. He was in his bedroom one moment and then he was gone. She seemed to be speaking almost more to herself than to him, her voice distracted, eyes wide as she looked at the floor.

It doesn’t make any sense, does it, he asked, voice low, and they met each other’s eyes, both finally recognizing a similar bafflement and desperation over what should have been an impossibility.

No, it doesn’t make sense at all, though everybody keeps coming up with rational explanations.

I know what you mean, and Peter was seized by the