Thirteen Roses Book One: Before 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?

The flower seller sets up his stall on Embankment every day. Every day, he will serve only one customer. That person will be on the edge, teetering between heaven and hell, and it is up to him to steer them in the right direction.

But this week, it will be different. Because this week, someone is screwing with the flower seller. While he struggles to figure out who it is, and why they are doing it, something far bigger is occurring, something that will change the world forever.

A plague is about to strike mankind that will reduce them to mindless zombies, bent on nothing more than the regular consumption of flesh. The flower seller is charged with the task of saving humanity, a task he neither wants, nor cares about.

Without him, mankind is doomed. With him, they might just be worse.

But who is the flower seller? Why does he try to save the subjects? And how the hell is he going to save the world?

You could be forgiven for thinking this book was all about flowers. It's not. Click 'Buy Now' to find out how much blood you can fit in a book about some dude selling roses...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Cairns
• Release date: May 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781909699496

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

David Part One

The only thing worse than the shower being crap was the freezing cold bathroom he had to step into once he was done. He didn't have to put up with this at Steph's. She had the most amazing shower and towels thick enough to bury yourself in.

Today, he would do it today. It wouldn't be that difficult, not really. They'd barely spoken in the last few months, it wouldn't come as a surprise. He towelled himself as quickly as he could, shivering as he did the one-legged dance of drying. Content he wasn't about to freeze to death, he wrapped himself tight in his robe and sneaked into his study.

Amber was still asleep. She used to get up and have breakfast with him. They'd drink tea and talk about the day ahead and he'd leave with a kiss and sometimes a pat on the bottom, and his heart would carry him on wings to the station. His lip curled as he unlocked the top drawer of his desk.

The envelope lay where he'd left it, the solicitor’s name printed neatly in one corner. Every day he didn't press ahead with this meant another day of coming home to misery and another day of not knowing whether he'd see Steph. Why didn't he just do it?

He'd take the papers to work. He could check them one more time and have them ready when he arrived home. They could sit at the table they bought together from Cargo, giggling about spending more money on a table than their first car. And he'd explain that this was it and she didn't have to put up with him anymore and all she had to do was sign, sign and sign.

He slipped the papers into his bag and headed downstairs. Cornflakes. Bloody cornflakes. Was it so difficult to learn how little he liked cornflakes? They'd been married eight years and still she bought cornflakes. He hissed, shoved them down his throat as fast as possible and headed for the station.

He sent Steph a text on the way.

Hey sexy, what you wearing?

Moments later, his phone buzzed. It was like she was waiting for him.

Granny pants and pyjamas. I am the queen of hotness x

Why does that image give me a hard-on?

Because you're a weirdo. And because I've got that quarter cup bra you got me on underneath. You coming over today?

He stopped and adjusted his trousers, coughing and glancing about. He went to work early enough that the streets clung to the half-dark of dawn and entertained the last stragglers from an all-night fog party. She would be in bed, tousled and gorgeous. They made a good couple. He was tallish, short hair, sharp nose and easy smile. She was shorter, long black hair and pouty. Everything Amber wasn't.

He kept walking, staring at his phone. He was busy today. Too busy really. His fingers moved before his brain told them no.

Are you free at lunch?

Can be. What time?

David's heart leapt into his mouth and started thumping. He swallowed, forcing it back down so it punched his rib cage, demanding release.

Half 12?

My place xxx.

He thought about skipping and tapping his heels together. It would most likely land him on his arse, so he settled for a sort of embarrassed, middle-class English fist raise. The mental image of tennis players celebrating dampened the heat rushing around his body. He was shivering again by the time he reached the station.

The journey was long enough for his fantasies to run their course and when the train rolled into Paddington he had to stay sitting and shuffle about, picturing Andy Murray until he could stand up.

The day went horribly slow. Despite his busyness, every time he glanced at the clock the hands had barely moved. But every minute brought him closer to Steph, and he clung to that, until he finally decided he could lunch break without anyone frowning at him and he was out the door.

His mind was filled with the crappy advert that had taken up most of his morning. 'Who doesn't want a better life?'

It was wrong. It sucked and invoked entirely the wrong imagery but the rest of the copy was so strong and only worked with that headline. So he'd gone round it and round it and now he couldn't think of anything else. The Thames smelled today, salty with a hint of rotting food, but the sun was out and the wind brisk enough to throw in some roasted chestnut and candyfloss from the South Bank to balance it out.

The flower guy was there again. When was the last time he bought flowers for Amber? He flushed, then smiled as he glanced over the Thames. Just over there, tucked behind the IMAX was Steph's flat. He slowed as he reached the stall. He'd never bought Steph flowers, either. He never knew what to buy. Roses were so clichéd, but then, flowers were clichéd, weren't they?

He shrugged. How the hell was he supposed to know? He picked up his pace but the smell assaulted him as it always did and his footsteps slowed. The scent was amazing, overwhelming, and his nose wrinkled up. A bunch of roses thrust out at him from the table, the colour of wine in candlelight and open just enough to make him wonder what lay within.

Which was daft, because he knew what lay within. But he still longed to find out and found himself standing before them, entranced by the soft petals and pungent smell.

'They're lovely, aren't they?'

It wasn't the voice he expected. The guy had a shaved head and wore this over-sized coat that seemed derigueur for anyone selling flowers or gig tickets. His voice sounded like he'd just stepped off of University Challenge.

'Yeah, they're quite nice. How much?'

He wasn't going to buy roses, surely not? And red ones at that.

'I'm sure we can come to a price that's acceptable for both of us. Let me do you a dozen, and we'll call it ten pounds, sound reasonable?'

'A tenner? I could get them in Tesco for five quid.'

'But is ten pounds very much to spend to see the smile on your wife's face?'

'My wife's...'

The flower seller was nodding at his wedding ring. Oh yeah. 'Yeah, well, no I suppose not.'

'Splendid.'

The flower seller busied himself with selecting the roses and placing them neatly, one by one, on a clean sheet of paper and plastic. David stared, entranced despite himself by the smooth movements. The guy had done this before.

'Is that twelve or thirteen?'

The flower seller gave him a smile that made the bit of skin just behind his ears itch.

'Well spotted. You've heard of a baker's dozen, no doubt. This is much the same. You can take them all home to your wife and the thirteenth will ensure she gets her twelve, should one be damaged on the way. Or you can always give it to someone you meet, someone who looks like they might need it...'

His hands were still now, his eyes fixed on David's. 'Uh, yeah, right.'

The itching wasn't going away and he pulled out his wallet, suddenly keen to be somewhere else. He checked his watch. Fifty minutes of lunch left. They'd have time. They might be able to do it twice, but he should eat something as well.

'There you are, sir. I hope she enjoys them.’

He handed over the ten pound note, not really looking at the flowers. His eyes drifted past the man and over the river. It would be another ten minutes before he got there.

'Thank you, sir, have a lovely day.'

'Yeah, cheers, you too.'

He stomped away as fast as he could. He cradled the roses like they were precious, which at ten quid, they were. In six minutes he was standing, panting, outside Steph's. He took a few deep breaths and checked his hair in the reflection of the door, then pressed the buzzer.

'Took your time.'

The door clicked and he ran in and straight into the lift. As he waited for the doors to open he looked at the roses. What was he supposed to do with these? He saw his ring glinting against the paper and yanked it off, stuffing it into his pocket and flushing. He'd never forgotten before. Normally it was off before he left the office.

He looked back at the roses and the flower seller's face flashed through his mind. He blinked. He felt bad enough already, why should some random posh weirdo make him feel worse? Steph would appreciate them and they'd only wilt by the time he got them home.

The door opened and he almost ran down the hallway to the door that was already open. She wasn't lying about the bra. The pyjamas though, were nowhere to be seen. He got as far as 'I bought you roses' before she took them from his hands and replaced them with her hips.

The roses were still lying on the table as he hastily pulled his jacket on and headed for the door.

'Shouldn't you put them in water or something?'

She nodded, pouting at him between thick strands of long dark hair. She lay spread-eagled on the bed, cat-like, her skin sheened in sweat. He would tell Amber tonight. He had to. He pulled the door closed and wandered back to the office, adjusting his trousers as he went. He should’ve had a shower.

He lifted his fingers to his nose, catching the scent of her and smiling as he stepped onto the bridge. It was oddly quiet, the lunch time traffic absent for once. He nodded in relief. He'd get back to the office far quicker now. By the time he was halfway over, there wasn't another person in sight.

When he reached the top of the stairs down to Embankment tube, he paused and frowned. He hadn't heard a train the entire way over and now, peering down at the street, he saw not one car all the way up the river. Where the hell was everyone?

He took a few steps down and stopped. There was no one on the river, either. No boats and none of the ferries were moving. He thought about shouting 'hello' and blushed, laughing at himself. He opened his mouth to do exactly that when a voice stopped him.

'Welcome, David. Thank you for visiting me. Tell me, what is your greatest fear?'

His mouth closed with a snap. He knew the answer to that. He turned, scrambled up the steps and ran back across the river.

David Part Two

His feet thudded on the bridge, knees complaining with every impact. Running in these shoes was like trying to chop down a tree with a bread knife. He reached the steps and went down them two at a time. He was ten steps from the bottom when he lost his footing and went flying. His shoulder hit first, slamming against the step and sending him sideways.

His body caught up and drove him the rest of the way. He tried to twist and curl but his face hit the stone at the bottom. Fire shot through his chin and cheek. He'd been hit in the face once or twice, but this was far worse, sharp stone biting through his flesh. Every muscle in his body jarred as he crumpled up.

He lay still, waiting for the pain to end or get worse. It stayed about the same and he didn't want to move for fear of dying. Eventually, the silence got to him. He shifted slowly, expecting a bone to pop out of somewhere at any moment. It didn't though and he climbed to his feet. His face throbbed and he'd collected a headache bad enough to make his eyes water.

He limped slowly around the bottom of the bridge and headed for Steph's. He knew she was there. She had to be there. But where the hell was everyone else? He was denying the voice. He hadn't heard it inside his head, calling his name in the same eerily well-spoken tones of the flower seller. If he admitted to hearing it, he would have to admit to the silence being something other than a freak occurrence.

Maybe there'd been a bomb threat and he and Steph had been too busy boning to hear it. She was loud. That brought a smile to his face that made him gasp and cup his bruised cheek. His fingers came away bloody.

He reached the block of flats and pressed the buzzer. He waited. He waited some more. He pressed it again and then again, and then he hammered on it, smashing it as though the sheer intensity of his blows would somehow magic Steph into being. But she wasn't there. Or maybe she wasn't answering.

He tried the door, tugging and shoving on it, but it was solid. With a groan he barely recognised, he put his back to the door and slid down until his arse touched the cool concrete.

The flower seller! How hadn't he thought about it earlier? He clambered up and set off. He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked up at them for a while. They seemed to leer at him, inviting him to risk them a second time. Sweat trickled down his temple and stung his cheek where the skin had been ripped off. With a deep breath, he mounted the stairs.

He reached the top and crossed the river. In the centre of the bridge he paused and stared across London. There was nothing. No movement, no noise, nothing. Even the pigeons were quiet. He was alone, utterly alone. He sniffed and scrubbed a hand across his nose. His eyes were stinging and it couldn't be from tears, but they came running down his face just the same.

He rubbed them away and stomped on, left leg aching and dragging behind him. He took the stairs down as slowly as he could. Once he saw the flower seller standing behind his table, David couldn't help but speed up, ignoring the stabbing going through his leg with each step.

He reached the bottom and stopped, gasping and blinking away the spots before his eyes. He was fit, why was he struggling so much? The fall hurt like a bastard, but it shouldn't make him suddenly ill. Still, his sides hurt and he couldn't draw breath. He meandered down Embankment to the flower seller and stopped, hands on his knees.

'Hello, David. You don't look so well, perhaps you should take a seat.'

The flower seller motioned to a bench and David dropped gratefully into it, grunting as his leg jarred.

'What have you done?'

'Me? Nothing.'

'You lying bastard. What have you done?'

'Did your wife enjoy the flowers?'

David ground his teeth together, eyes getting wet again. Who was he? And where the hell were they?

'Where are we?'

'London of course, the most beautiful, wonderful city in the world. You know why I like London so much, David?'

'Stop using my name, stop calling me that.'

The flower seller went on, as though he hadn't spoken. 'You can meet anyone in London. You can just be walking along, enjoying the sunshine, or the rain, and bump into someone remarkable. Don't you think that's great?'

His head was spinning and he rested it on the back of the bench. His voice seemed to come from far away.'What's wrong with me?'

'Tell me, David, wh--'

'STOP CALLING ME THAT, STOP SAYING MY NAME.'

'Goodness. Well, I'm not sure that's entirely called for. What would you have me call you? How about D?'

David blushed and clenched his fist. How did he know? Was it a lucky guess? He knew it wasn't, though. He knew, somehow. He hated D, almost as much as he hated David. It was one of the many things he wouldn't miss about Amber. It was like the cornflakes. She knew he hated it, but still she did it. What made it somehow worse was that she didn't do it to deliberately annoy him, she just didn't think. Or she didn't think it mattered.

'My name is Dave.' He snarled between clenched teeth. The flower seller looked understanding.

'I see, well, of course. You asked a question, I believe?'

He made it sound reproachful and David sat silent, staring at the ground in front of the bench. The silence stretched out and he caved in. 'What's wrong with me?'

'Well, as I was saying, what's the one thing you're most afraid of?'

The flower seller finally came out from behind his table and stood before him, nodding and smiling like he'd just sold him a car. David frowned. He'd never really thought about it, not properly. He didn't like spiders all that much, but then, who did?

He didn't like heights but he could handle them. He'd always found woollen jumpers a bit creepy, but so long as no one in the room was wearing one he was fine. There was something else.

He ignored it and shook his head. 'I don't know. Nothing, really, I guess.'

The man raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. David stared back, determined not to crack first. He did, though. 'Okay, so maybe there is something.'

He looked around at the long empty expanse of street and the deserted river. He looked across at the London Eye, still spinning and entirely empty.

'You already know, so why ask me?'

'Just curious. It takes a certain courage to admit to one's fears. Just as it does to live a lie.'

The flower seller turned away and wandered back to his stall. David raised a hand and dropped it again.

'Fine, fine. I'm scared of dying alone.'

The flower seller stopped, hands clasped behind his back, and faced him, face sombre. 'That's right. And you always have been, haven't you?' A smile lit his features. 'Well, what you're feeling is an advanced case of pneumonia. Given the right medical treatment at this moment, you might live. It's probably fifty fifty, if I'm honest.'

David sobbed, his chest tightening, his throat burning and filling with mucus. The flower seller nodded, smile still painted across his face. David loathed him. At that moment he thought he'd be happy to kill him, to beat him to death. But he could barely lift a hand.

'Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be anyone around to help out. Which is a shame, isn't it?'

'What do you want from me?'

'Why do they always assume I want something?'

The flower seller tutted and strode past David to the black railing above the Thames. David twisted his body so he could watch him. The man, or whatever he was, stared down into the water. David was about to speak when the flower seller nodded, turned to him and smiled.

'Normally at this point, I'm tempted to say goodbye and leave you to it. But alas that's not the gig. I'll never fill the quota beginning the week like that and you're a good bet. Still, I've been wrong before. Perhaps a little time to think...'

He waved a hand and strolled back to his stall. David watched him all the way, but somewhere between the river and the flowers, he seemed to fade. One moment he was there, the next David could see the bridge through him, and then he was gone.

The silence closed in like the arms of a particularly greedy aunt yearning for a goodbye kiss.

The bench was cold against his trousers and his legs were stiffening up, so he climbed to his feet. He felt about a hundred, every bone in his neck cracking as he moved his head. He took slow steps towards his office but got only a few yards down the road before a coughing fit overtook him and he doubled up, one hand pressed to his mouth and the other resting on the road.

His eyes were watering when he straightened up and resumed walking. A movement to one side caught his eye, but when he turned he saw nothing. The sharp movement made the world spin and he stopped, setting his feet and holding his arms up. When it steadied, he walked on.

The office was empty, every desk just as it had been when he left for lunch. A few bore evidence of other people's lunch, open foil and empty lunch boxes beside half-empty cups of coffee. They'd all just gone. Everyone had gone.

It hit him, properly, and he sank to his knees. His face pressed against the carpet and he sobbed. His shoulders heaved and he hated every second, but he couldn't stop. He was alone, completely and utterly. He was dying too, but that seemed somehow far less important than the silence.

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