Thirteen Roses Book Two: After the Plague - An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga

By Michael Cairns

What if the zombie apocalypse was a cog in the machine, one part of a plan far larger than simply wiping out the human race?

Luke and Alex have only days to stop the plague...

But for the rest of the crew, it's already here. The fog filled London’s streets and everywhere it went, people started dying. Now those the flower seller saved from themselves have a far larger, far hungrier foe.

Can Bayleigh and Layla survive the horror that has beset them? Will Jackson prove himself worthy of God's love? Will Krystal and Ed make it across town alive? Will Dave ever stop running?

As Luke and Alex make one last ditch attempt to stop the plague, they meet someone who changes Alex’s life forever, and makes Luke question everything he thought he knew.

Click Buy Now to step back onto the streets of London and discover the true horror that lies in wait for Luke and the crew...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Cairns
• Release date: May 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781909699502

Michael Cairns

Michael Cairns was born at a young age and could write even before he could play the drums, but that was long ago, in the glory days - when he actually had hair. He loves chocolate, pineapple, playing gigs and outwitting his young daughter (the scores are about level but she's getting smarter every day). Michael is currently working hard on writing, getting enough sleep and keeping his hair. The first is going well, the other two...not so much. His current novels include: > Young adult, science fiction adventure series, 'A Game of War' 1. Childhood dreams 2. The end of innocence 3. Playing God 4. Breathing in space 5. Escape 6. Gateway to earth > Urban fantasy super-hero series, 'The Planets' 1. The spirit room 2. The story of Erie 3. The long way home >Paranormal horror post apocalyptic zombie series, 'Thirteen Roses' 1. Before (Books 2-6 due for release in spring)

Book preview

Thirteen Roses

An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga

Book Two: After

by

Michael Cairns

Published by Cairns Publishing

Copyright © Michael Cairns (2015)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication

may be reproduced, distributed, or

transmitted in any form or by any means without the

prior written permission of the publisher.

1st Edition

Are you enjoying Thirteen Roses?

To get a free book, free short stories and updates on upcoming releases,

JOIN MY MAILING LIST!

Mum and Dad. You wouldn’t like this one.

Jackson

They were scratching. Like mice, scratching and gnawing at the door. Only they weren't at the door. They were everywhere. He groaned, tore another chunk of bread, and crammed it into his mouth. The sun would be up soon. It made no difference, but still, he needed it. He wondered whether he'd gone mad in the darkness, whether the food and the safety were all an illusion. Perhaps he was out there with them, scratching at the door, eager for flesh.

He wasn't, though. God wouldn't let that happen. He'd been chosen, picked out of the millions and raised up. He'd fought through the legions to reach this place, this hallowed place of safety, and now there was no stopping him.

He shoved himself to his feet and walked to the window. From up here he could see from the bridge all the way across Parliament Square. It was a sobering sight. They were all up now, every damned one of them, shambling and fighting and falling. They were like drunk children, too young to be in their parents’ liquor cabinets but too old to fall asleep.

And they didn't sleep. Jackson knew because he watched them. He'd picked out certain zombies and traced them, watched their back and forth. He spotted one by the front of Big Ben, where he'd last seen it a half hour ago. It got up, staggered across to the front of Tesco, directly beneath his vantage point. It scratched and banged on the door for a while then wandered off. Eventually it went back across to Big Ben and collapsed, staring at who knows what.

They were all the same. They weren't going anywhere. He'd expected them to slowly drift away, leaves on a hungry wind, or maybe hungry leaves on the wind. But they didn't act hungry. They acted bored. He'd almost stopped being scared of them. Almost. That had happened while the sun was still up. Then late last night, when the street lamps came on, he'd seen something that brought the fear back in a flood.

The thumping was loud as they strove to cave in the door to Tesco and eat him. He had his hands over his ears, staring out at the horror within the pools of yellow light. But despite the banging, which had been going on for some time, he was starting to relax. They couldn't reach him and showed no signs of doing much of anything.

Then one stumbled across the road, a man in a suit, and bumped into another. It was happening all the time, but something was different about this particularly incident, because the man in the suit turned on the other zombie and started slamming his fists into it.

The switch from nothing to absolute violence wouldn't have bothered the old Jackson in the least, but it did now. He clapped one hand over his mouth as a wild fist caught the zombie in the face. The skin split and the flesh beneath coated the zombie's knuckles. Something about the smell of blood or rot, sent the others into a frenzy and Jackson got a look at what happens when sharks scent blood.

They fell on their hapless comrade. He was dragged to the ground. One emerged from the melee with an arm and sank its teeth into it. Thin, watery blood streamed from between its jaws to the pavement. That set off others who grabbed parts of the arm and pulled. A tug of war ensued that ended with the hand tearing free of the arm, spraying more blood in all directions.

The armless zombie was torn apart. His stomach had been ripped open and soft, yielding innards were pulled out and dragged about the road. Yet more zombies scrabbled for them and crammed dirt-covered bits into their mouths. Even from up here, Jackson could tell the flesh beneath its skin was weak and squishy. It was as though they were rotting from the inside and the skin was a sack keeping it inside.

The zombies broke apart, stumbling away. Left behind was a stain on the floor and some bones, stripped clean. It was like piranhas had made a visit to Parliament Square. His hands were pressed against the glass and shook and shook until he sat and put his head between his legs.

That had been last night and he hadn't slept since. Now the scratching was getting to him. He chewed the bread that sat like bitch's cooking in his mouth, dry and unsatisfying. He blinked. Where had that come from? How could he still be thinking those terrible thoughts? Being rescued by God should have saved him from himself, but apparently he had more work to do.

Mam had taught him how to deal with unclean thoughts. He knelt before the table and rested his head against it, then pulled the belt from his trousers. He held the buckle in his hand. He raised his head and looked at the wall. He'd called her a bitch. Not once or twice, but habitually, like it was his right.

He turned the belt round and held the soft end, the buckle swinging back and forth. The first blow was softened by his shirt. The second tore it open and the third split the skin. By the fifth his lips were open, spit running down his chin as he clenched his teeth. Breath hissed in and out between them. By the seventh, his arm was weakening and he swapped to the left. But he had no power and gave up, hands hanging by his sides, forehead taking his weight against the table.

The scratching stopped and was replaced by thumping and banging and crashing. He scowled as he realised his mistake. They could smell the blood streaming down his back. He stood, wobbled, took a step, and slewed to one side as his vision blurred. The pain hit then, like a fire had been lit on his back, and he dropped to his knees.

His head rocked back and he stared at the ceiling, mumbling words that came from somewhere else.

'Dear Lord, I beseech thee, bring thy mercy upon me. I am a sinner, I have sinned so bad, but I give myself to you now, a tool with which you can smite the curse that has befallen us. Have mercy on me, Lord, have mercy and save me.'

He collapsed, face pressed into the floor and shoulders heaving. The banging grew louder and was joined by a different sound.

A crack.

There was another followed by a sound he knew all too well. The glass smashed and the zombies were in.

Jackson raised his shoulders, heaving up the enormous weight that now rested on his back. It was a weight made of fire and earth and it was put there by the Lord. It was a test, the same as the rest, and he would overcome it.

He could hear the clumsy thumping of feet on the stairs.

With both hands flat on the floor, he pushed until his knees came off the carpet. He stood, wincing as blunt knives scraped down his back. His fingers shook and it took four attempts to get his belt back into the loops, but eventually he cinched it closed and nodded.

His vision blurred again and he stumbled, but caught himself on the table. It was a test. He picked up one of the tired wooden chairs and brought it down hard on the table. His strength was all but gone and it bounced off. With a growl he brought it down harder but with the same result.

He howled and swung and swung until, without knowing when it happened, he stood with a stump in his hand. Two feet of wooden post, sharp at one end and wonderfully comfortable in his hand. He'd used one of these before and couldn't ignore the frisson of pleasure that ran through him at the memories.

That, too, was a test.

He opened the door and peered out. The tiny corridor was windowless and dark, and the smell wafted up the stairs. Jackson settled himself at the top, legs braced apart, chair leg resting in the palm of his hand. The smell grew stronger and he swallowed and wrinkled his nose. It became stronger still and, in the gloom at the bottom of the stairs, he saw the first zombie.

It saw him at the same time and didn't pause to think. It scurried like a rat as it came up the stairs, moving faster than he expected. But he was ready. He watched it come, saw the emptiness in its eyes and the dirty grey spittle that seeped from the sides of its mouth, and felt no fear.

It came within range and the chair leg exploded across its temple. It staggered, swayed and tipped over backwards, slamming back down the stairs with a series of comedy thumps and bangs. It lay still and Jackson punched the air and nodded.

Then it moved.

It pulled itself up using the wall until it stood on its feet. The creature swayed then came right back up the stairs. Its shoulder hung at a funny angle, either dislocated or broken, but it wasn't at all bothered. It bared its teeth as it drew closer.

It would take a head shot. He knew that, he'd seen the movies. It obviously had to be a big shot. Hefting the chair leg like a javelin, he crouched on one knee. The zombie sped up as it closed and he almost didn't make the shot, but as its hands came for him, he rammed the sharp end of the chair leg through its left eye.

It made a soft, flatulent sound, like pushing a knife into soft cabbage. The creature froze, hands still reaching for him. He stood, gripped the chair leg tight, and put his foot on the zombie's chest. He kicked hard and the body fell off his makeshift weapon and tumbled back down the stairs.

Jackson heaved a huge breath and stared at his shaking hands. At the bottom of the stairs, more zombies appeared. He readied himself, but they only had eyes for their breakfast. They fell on their slaughtered comrade, one shoving its fingers into the hole left by its eye and dragging fragments of brain out to stuff into its greedy maw.

Jackson heaved and turned away, hand pressed to his mouth. On the bridge yesterday he had been reacting, existing on pure adrenaline. But here and now he was thinking about it, really thinking. The reality of what he'd just done and what he still had to do hit him like the back of Mam's hand.

The shakes got worse but he wrapped both hands around the chair leg and gripped it until his knuckles went white. He was wondering how long the body would keep them busy when he heard the creak of the stairs and turned to face his next attacker. Behind it, hundreds more lurked, eager and hungry.

Bayleigh

The blood was still smeared on her arm. She hadn't noticed it the first three times she scrubbed them and every time since she thought she'd got it, only to spot more when she looked in the mirror. Why she was looking in the mirror she had no idea. She looked awful, wan and pale and pasty and ill. There were more words than that but they pretty much covered it.

She glanced at Layla and bit her lip. Her friend was shaking, shuddering beneath the bedclothes and showing no signs of recovery. Bayleigh wasn't the type to watch zombie movies. In fact, the only thing she knew about zombies was that they didn't exist. She knew that, which made explaining the thousands of moaning, scraping undead creatures outside horribly difficult.

She tried, for the 15th time that morning, to piece together the moments after Layla got bitten. She'd dragged her to the staff area at the far side of the shop. How had she dragged her that far? She wasn't weak, and helping Dad around had built more muscle than most people, but Layla was tall and still she'd pulled her across the entire shop.

She’d lifted her so her shoulder rested on the tiny sink and blasted boiling water into the wound while trying to ignore her whimpering. Her eyes stayed closed like she was unconscious, but the sounds still made Bayleigh cringe. The blood hadn't stopped running and after a while she turned the tap off. If the wound was going to clean out, it would have done so by now.

She remembered lowering her to the floor and leaving her there while she rooted around for a first aid kit. It was one of those that contained no pills of any sort and lots of normally useless bandages. The first two went on and were so blood-soaked she pulled them straight off, then put the rest on as fast as she could.

Then she’d pulled Layla back across the shop and into one of the overpriced beds. She covered her up and watched her friend shake and sweat until her stomach forced her back to the Tesco's bags. She ate guiltily, staring at Layla. What did it mean to get bitten by one of those things? Layla wasn't just suffering from a bite wound, she'd have woken up if she was.

The night had passed like a snail and every time she nodded off, a growl or moan from below would wake her. She'd grab her weapon and wait, sweat prickling beneath her arms. Then finally she'd put it down and her head would nod. She'd stretch out at the bottom of the bed and get five minutes before another growl woke her and the process would repeat.

With the sun finally up, she kept rubbing flakes of blood off her arms and watched her friend. Bayleigh laid her hand on Layla's head and groaned softly. She was cool. Not cold, not yet, but getting there. She was, she realised, becoming quite proficient at lying to herself. Zombies didn't exist and her friend wasn't turning into one.

She scrambled off the bed and ran to the window, staring down to the street below. They could smell Layla. A crowd had gathered overnight, pushing and shoving, eager to get inside. The door was keeping them out for now.

There were two zombies inside the shop downstairs and they'd lurched up to the barricade. One had almost got over but she knocked him off and filled in the hole. Now they pushed against it and grunted now and then. She was used to them, more than the massive crowd outside.

She wanted to think about how to escape, but that meant accepting Layla wasn't coming with her, and that was further than her brain could stretch. She'd read about trauma victims, people living for years in shock without realising it. Dad had toughened her up. She'd lived with him for so long and gotten used to the manic episodes and the sudden violence. But she wondered just how deep in shock she was. Because living with a crazy person didn't in any way prepare you for zombies.

She didn't think anything prepared you for zombies. Except maybe watching The Walking Dead, which she now wished desperately she had.

So she was in shock. She knew because her hands shook every time she held them up, and her brain would take strange corners and drive her off down cul-de-sacs slap bang in the middle of thoughts. What would happen when the shock died away and she came back to herself?

She paced back and forth across the shop. Layla growled and she jumped and raced back to the bed, lifting her weapon with those same shaking hands. She looked at the blood-soaked blades and then at her friend, whose face had grown paler still. There was no way she could kill her, not like that. There had to be another way. And that was when the plan for escape popped, fully formed, into her mind.

She crouched beside the garden equipment and found some small plastic bottles of lighter fluid. They weren't very large, but there were twelve or so on the shelf. Importantly, just above them were the little long-handled clicker things people used to light barbecues. She took a moment to question the wisdom of storing the two things so close together at knee height. She should write a letter.

Grinning wanly, she grabbed the bottles and carried them to one of the beds. She unscrewed the first and headed for the barricade. The two zombies still flailed ineffectually against the cupboards and drawers she'd shoved up there. After Layla got bit, she'd piled stuff almost as high as the ceiling. It wasn't very stable, but it was keeping them out.

She knelt, put her shoulder against the bed, and gave an experimental push. It shifted a little and she nodded. No guarantees, but she thought she could do it. And if she couldn't, she was going to die anyway. She emptied the first bottle over the barricade and a second, then tossed a couple more into the cupboard at the bottom of the pile.

She went around the top floor, spraying fluid over anything vaguely flammable, until the smell caught in her nostrils. She bent double, coughing and hacking until tears streamed down her face. Layla was paler still and her eyes had sunk in, dark, bruised lines appearing beneath them.

She paused by the bed, half empty bottle in her hand, and stared at her friend. Work friendships were often weird. You spent all day every day with someone but never saw them any other time. Layla had been the perfect partner to have in the shop. She was amazingly dedicated for someone with no stake in the business, and she was the definition of easy going and caring and lovely. And they had seen one another on weekends. They had drinks and Layla came over to help out when Bayleigh was struggling.

Her eyes were wet and she booted the side of the bed. The pain in her toes made it clear it was a bad idea, but she did it again anyway. Screw it. Screw the men in their trucks and