Helix: Three Novels: Helix

By Pat Flewwelling

Perfected by nature. Twisted by science. A miracle cure gone very, very wrong.

The complete Helix Trilogy, a tense science-fiction thriller series about Ishmael, businessman, agent of the Wyrd Council … and a shapeshifter.

Book 1: Blight of Exiles --  An abandoned forest resort should have been paradise for a creature like Ishmael. Isolated from civilization, so far removed from human eyes, Ishmael could have reveled in his true nature without threat of discovery. In this unholy quarantine, Ishmael is just another mouth to feed. And he’s no longer the apex predator.

Book 2: Plague of Ghouls --  Because of his crimes, his breach of quarantine, and his new and worrisome symptoms, Ishmael and his rescued Pack are pariahs among werewolves, loathed, and under constant suspicion. And yet, when bodies turn up in small-town Ontario, the Wyrd Council splits up Ishmael’s Pack and sends him to investigate. He’s hurried away from the safety and isolation of Varco Lake, and thrust into an anxious, tightly-knit community full of surveillance cameras, cell phones, and bad memories.

Book 3: Scourge of Bones -- Ishmael's few allies have taken shelter in a bunker in Halifax, waiting for him to recover, waiting for him to choose a course of direction. Half a continent away, a panic-stricken town is under military-enforced quarantine, and the situation is about to become violent, and viral. When the Pack decides to bring the fight to Jay and his Bone Tribe, they're halted by a new player in the game.

What people are saying about the Helix Trilogy:

“I'm amazed by the way Flewwelling keeps multiple balls in the air, effortlessly juggling shapeshifters, politics, science gone wrong, mysteries, and characters you can't help but like even if you suspect you shouldn't.” – Tanya Huff, author of the Henry Fitzroy Blood Books & the Confederation of Valour series

“The twist and turns quickly multiply keeping the reader on the edge of their seat in a roller-coaster ride that moves swiftly and smoothly to a fiery climax that begs for a sequel.” – Wendy, GoodReads reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyche Books
• Release date: Mar 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386003182

Book preview

Helix:

Blight of Exiles

Published by Tyche Books Ltd.

www.TycheBooks.com

Copyright © 2014 Pat Flewwelling

First Tyche Books Ltd Edition 2014

Print ISBN: 978-1-928025-07-8

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-928025-12-2

Cover Art by Galen Dara

Cover Layout by Lucia Starkey

Interior Layout by Ryah Deines

Editorial by M. L. D. Curelas

Author photograph by C2 Studios

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage & retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this story are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead would be really cool, but is purely coincidental.

Dedication

For Tobin Elliott, who drove a ten hour return trip in winter, just so he could attend my first book launch. Here's hoping someday I can return the favour–or even better yet: that I can pay it forward.

For Michael Lorenson, who never let me settle for good enough when it came to storytelling, and for the other two Second Cup (Ir)Regulars, Trish Davidson and Greg Stroll. Thanks for all the irreverent laughs when I needed them most, you guys.

And for all those who champion the cause of adult literacy across Canada and around the globe, with a special nod toward the participants, organizers, and volunteers at the Muskoka Novel Marathon, in Huntsville, Ontario. We write so they can read.

Be sure of this, O young ambition, all mortal greatness is but disease.

Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Chapter One

THE TRUCK LUMBERED up a steep incline, engine struggling, all tires rocking in alternation as the vehicle bumbled over rough terrain. Brakes squealed suddenly, and Ishmael rolled awake. His arms were aching and his eyes were swollen shut. He tried to sit up, but the slightest motion made the pressure in his head expand. The grinding transmission jerked into gear.

He could hear voices in the cab talking over the noise of the engine and of the rain drumming on the hood and roof of the truck. He couldn’t make sense of the words. He’d been thoroughly drugged.

Before they stopped and exposed him to the world, Ishmael had to know what state he was in. He couldn’t see his hands, because he couldn’t pull them from behind his back. Not only was he handcuffed, but the cuffs were locked to a bar behind him. His legs were shackled to a bar welded to the floor.

The truck banged to a stop, and crates slid toward the cab, crushing Ishmael’s legs. A wooden box slid off the top of the stack and crashed against the cab beside Ishmael’s face. The box broke open, pelting him with heavy, hard-edged tin cans. Voices exchanged brief comments. The truck parked, engine idling.

A door opened. Air rushed in, pushing toward Ishmael’s nostrils the scent of aftershave, deodorant, man sweat, cotton, and gun oil. Another door opened. The rain was falling hard on puddles and mud, and it was cold outside.

Ishmael brushed his cheek against his shoulder. He felt skin against skin, not skin against material, which was irksome, because he’d been well dressed when they abducted him. He rubbed his knees together and shifted his weight on the bench. He was as naked, bruised, and bloody as the day he was born. Very funny, Jay, he thought.

A thick tarp moved, and suddenly there was light. Ishmael averted his eyes, which hadn’t been swollen shut after all. His face was badly injured, but he could see.

Men spoke as if without moving their lips. Guns rattled, and someone coughed.

Come on, come on, said one of them.

Another crate came away. Ishmael had been bricked-in like the man in The Cask of Amontillado.

Do you have eyes on? someone asked.

A helmeted head appeared in the irregular block of light. The soldier aimed a carbine and gazed across the sights at Ishmael’s head.

Move, another man said, with a sense of urgency.

Other voices stated updates about their surroundings and about their progress. Voices tensed, rose in volume, and dropped in tone, as if they were alarmed by some encroaching enemy.

Aw shit, the armed man said. He’s awake.

Damn it, was the reply. Move—move out of my way.

Ishmael rolled his shoulders. The pain in his back wrenched a shout out of him, and he arched his spine. He didn’t remember when he’d gotten the laceration. He remembered most of the bruises though.

The second soldier, a scarred man, looked toward the back of the truck and asked for something technical by spelling it out in numbers and letters. He shoved the first soldier aside when another rifle was brought for him. He aimed and pulled the trigger.

A dart pierced Ishmael’s bloody shoulder. Numbness bled under the skin, down his right arm, up his neck and into his face. He gasped as if going under water. His neck gave out.

One by one, crates came away from around Ishmael’s body, while he sagged forward over his knees, succumbing to the deadening drug in his system. Drool dangled from his bottom lip. When they had cleared enough space, a man came in, squatting in front of Ishmael’s feet. By feel, the soldier unlocked the shackles; he watched Ishmael’s face with intense suspicion. The soldier looked like he’d learned many lessons the hard way: he had a deep circular scar from his forehead along the side of his nose, splitting his lip. A second scar ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth, as deep as the first cut, as if one quarter of his skull had been cut away and re-attached.

Ishmael’s foot slipped forward, and the soldier recoiled. Two other soldiers jerked their rifles up to the ready position.

Try as he might, though, Ishmael couldn’t kick the man. He couldn’t figure out how to make his feet and legs respond. His head dangled between his shoulders. It was a small mercy that he couldn’t feel his injuries, at least. They’d really worked him over.

They’d caught him completely off-guard and in public, and they’d outnumbered him by at least five to one. A by-the-numbers abduction, a bold, daylight kidnapping right out of the airport, conducted by men in paramilitary uniforms with full cooperation by airport security, FBI, and New York City Police. Ishmael hadn’t stood a chance.

They must have planned this for weeks, he thought.

The soldier reached over Ishmael’s shoulder and unlocked the manacles. Ishmael’s arm popped, and he fell sloppily to the floor, his limbs as heavy and awkward as garbage bags full of water. Get up. A boot nudged Ishmael’s bare thigh. Move! Get out!

Ishmael half-crawled, half-swam a few feet before he could move no more. Voices became drunken music in his dull ears, and he laughed to hear them. They slid him out by the arms. A loose screw dug into his hip as they pulled him along; they pulled with such force that his skin ripped and he bled across the floor of the truck bed. He fell out like a leaky sand bag onto the cracked, weedy pavement. Someone was ordered to disinfect the truck before anyone else went in. Ishmael rolled over, belly up on the ground, with his battered limbs splayed and dirt encrusting the open wound across his spine. Rain fell in his face. He closed his eyes.

He remembered a latte in a paper cup. He thought about it sitting around, getting cold at the airport. It made him angry. It had been a very good cup of coffee.

Sensation returned one pixel at a time. He took a deep breath.

No, a woman said. Then, urgently: Eyes front, eyes front! Incoming at two o’clock!

Ishmael groaned and rolled over onto his chest. A rifle shot cracked, and Ishmael covered his head with his arms. Someone shouted. More guns fired in three- and four-shot bursts. Ishmael took another deep breath, flexed his hands, gathered his knees under him.

The gun shots stopped. People were out of breath.

He’s gone, said one of the men.

You, the woman said. And you. Get back to it. Move quickly and move now. Ishmael knew her voice like he knew his own.

Ma’am, was the curt reply.

I told you we shouldn’t have waited so long to make the delivery, said the scarred soldier.

And I told you it was out of our control, she replied. His damned plane was delayed.

Damn it, Bridget, you were in on this too? Ishmael pulled his elbows under him, groaning as he moved. He felt the wind and the rain scouring the wide gash between his shoulder blades. Smaller cuts sluiced around welts and bruises. His stomach heaved.

Where are we?

Trampled weeds grew between the cracks in the pavement of a crooked road. He saw buildings on either side, white, blocky and falling down. Beyond that, there were trees. At the end of the road, a forest grew so thick it blotted out what sunlight the rain couldn’t hide. It was a forest as black as night.

Focus, said the woman to the others. Keep your head on a swivel. They’re wounded. That doesn’t mean they’re discouraged.

Ishmael coughed up blood. I . . . trusted . . .

Damn it. Get the dart gun, she said to someone.

I trusted you—

Someone slapped a fresh magazine into their rifle.

No! the woman said.

Stay down! Someone kicked Ishmael in the ribs, flattening him. He tried again to get to his hands and knees, but two more people joined the fray, kicking, beating him down with the butts of their rifles. Someone punched him in the open wound, and Ishmael jerked back his elbows. He found himself on his knees, surrounded by five soldiers.

Don’t do it, she said.

Ishmael threw out his arm, knocking over a soldier. Intoxicated and enraged, Ishmael lurched to his feet and punched another soldier in the mouth, but he had no balance. He fell against the soldier, pinning him to the ground. Hands hauled him up by the shoulders, yanking him to his unready feet. Ishmael shrugged off the grasp and ran for the trees. At least in the forest, he had a chance. At least there, he could—

A woman cut him off, hip-checking him sideways into a tumble. His left leg gave out and he collapsed to the grass and gravel. She stood over him.

His throat was raw. But . . . I trusted you.

He saw her fist.

Chapter Two

ISHMAEL GASPED AT the sting of acidic sandpaper rasping at the edges of his wounds.

Sh, a woman whispered. It’s all right.

He was lying face down on a military cot with his knuckles brushing a dirty, concrete floor. Oh God, what has she seen?

Try to relax. I’m almost done. She dipped the gritty, stinging cloth into the deepest part of the wound, and he grunted between his clenched teeth. There.

He tried to roll over, but she was sitting on his lower back.

No, don’t move. I need to reapply the bandage.

Something soft and cool pressed against the gouge, making him flinch and inhale sharply. She murmured gentle words of encouragement and patience. She pulled surgical tape from a spool and applied it firmly around the edges of the gauze. I’m going to give you something that will help you sleep.

No, he moaned. I’ll be fine, need to . . .

You need your rest.

Need to leave . . .

I’ll watch over you tonight. It wouldn’t be a fair fight. Trust in me. You’ll be safe.

Need to . . . trees . . .

Sh, she said again. She pinched the back of his arm.

No.

It’s just to help you rest, she said. She pierced his skin. There . . . She withdrew the needle and applied a fresh bandage. There. Now just breathe. He felt her hand over his shoulder. Breathe and sleep. I’ll be here. You’re safe.

Where . . . ?

Sh . . .

Where’m I?

She caressed his shoulder. You’re in hell.

HE WOKE IN the night wearing a scratchy horse blanket. The darkness was stifling, impenetrable, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He rolled over in search of any sign of light. It was still raining. He followed the sound of it, hoping for a window on the world. He shuddered from the cold. Someone had given him a pair of pants, but no shirt, and no shoes, so he wore the horse blanket like a cloak. He stumbled when he stepped on a tin can, which he kicked out of his way. He had no idea of the dimensions of his room, only that the floor was as cold and gritty as rough concrete, and there were leaves and twigs all over the place. He remembered the forest, the truck, the airport, the surprise arrest, and the bludgeoning from a hundred different angles; he remembered falling out of the truck, and the soldiers shooting their guns.

He didn’t know if he was still in the States.

His cautious toes found the wall. He followed it sideways until he found the window. The air smelled of pine and wet rocks, with just a hint of frost. It was a wide window, with no glass in the rotten wooden frame. Through it, he saw a pinpoint of yellow light that flickered and danced like a distant campfire, or like a swaying flashlight.

He’d been hours away from closing a multi-million dollar deal on behalf of his company, sipping on an expensive drink and brushing a speck of dust off a fine Italian suit. Now he was all but naked, wearing someone else’s baggy jeans, he was freezing, wet, bloody, bruised, sore, lost, and hungry.

This was beyond prank.

Sheet lightning illuminated the contours of a town surrounded by towering trees. Someone was in the street below: a hunchback running under the torrential rain. Lightning flashed again. The figure was gone. Thunder rumbled along the underside of mountainous, flickering clouds.

In the distance, something cried out like a woman in labour, and Ishmael’s hair stood on end. He listened intently. He didn’t hear it again.

He stood shivering beside the window, despising the rain, hating the pressurized dampening field of drugs on his brain. His feet ached from the cold floor, so he went and sat on the cot, listening, waiting for the lightning to brighten his cell, wondering if the girl was still in his room with him.

I’m not alone, he thought, which gave him comfort and made him afraid at the same time. I’m in a prison camp. Half-formed suspicions whirled like murky water around a clogged drain. Jay, he thought, but this was beyond his mischief. This was big. This was well planned. Organized.

Expensive.

He curled up on his side. There was no sign of his lady guardian angel, and he didn’t feel like getting up again to go find her.

He’d lost his contract bid. He knew that. He’d probably lost more than that, too: police wouldn’t have interfered with the abduction, not if they considered the arrest legal and there was substantive proof of something. Some heinous crime.

He needed out. He needed to find who’d set him up, find out why. There was far more at stake than a few million dollars; but that money was spoken for, too. It was his contribution to a mutually beneficial cause—if they’d been smart, they would have left him alone for one more day.

One more day, that was all he’d needed.

Whatever the reason for his abduction, it must have been urgent. And that meant something very bad was on the horizon. All the more reason, he decided, to weasel out of captivity and get back to business. Escape, recover, come back fighting.

He’d have to find better pants along the way, and get his wallet back, somehow . . .

The rain coaxed him back to sleep.

HE AWOKE TO the smell of baked beans in maple sauce.

It had rained through the night. The morning was grey and dark green, and it smelled of worms and wet Christmas trees. The baked beans, however, made his stomach growl. He sat up slowly on the edge of the cot, feeling cuts stretch and bandages pull against the hairs of his back. The sleep had helped, but he was a patchwork of bruises and untreated cuts. He wasn’t afraid of infection so much as he wanted to avoid an unpleasant reaction. His toes curled, repulsed by the cold floor. There was a can opener on the floor between his feet, and it was by luck he hadn’t stepped on it in the night. He ran his hand across his belly; it ached, but he had to eat. He found a tin can crushed in the corner. It was still sealed, but it was soup and it was as cold as the floor.

Someone coughed downstairs. Ishmael doubted it was room service. It was a man, and he was covering a song by the Village People, one octave too low.

Ishmael checked the rest of the room for any other cans, but that was it: one soup can, one can opener, a cot, and a blanket in the middle of an 8’ by 10’ concrete room, one that had no glass in the window and no door in the frame.

Outside his window was a brick and cinderblock ghost town, and he was on the second floor of a stained, white building. There was a main street that ran along under his window, pockmarked with missing chunks of asphalt and filled in with grey pools of rainwater. A rudimentary ditch ran along either side of the road, and those too were filled with rain.

An old cottage resort, maybe, he thought.

There were street lamps here, too, placed only at the intersections; either the power had gone out in the night, or they didn’t work at all. Hydroelectric wires had frayed and hung from the faces of buildings and from age-curved poles. He wondered if there was a working phone line anywhere, or a gas station, or cell phone reception.

Other unkempt streets formed t-intersections, and at every corner, there was another big building. Off to his left was the biggest of all the buildings, though the walls sloped and the roof was almost all gone. It had been painted barnyard red and olive green at some point. Above the double-doors, someone had painted a yellow pentangle with a cross in the middle. He’d thought at first maybe it had been a church, but there was another chapel off to the right. That was marginally well-maintained, painted white and sky blue. A flock of birds flew out of the broken belfry.

Ghost town? he wondered.

The road simply stopped after two more buildings off to his right, and there, the forest began. To his left, the road dropped off downhill and out of sight behind a screen of more trees.

Throw me into the middle of nowhere and expect me to walk home? he thought. Well, okay, if you want to play that game . . . But why? Why now? And why all the drama?

He stepped out of his cell into a wide hall, with rooms in all directions, and a landing leading to broken concrete stairs. He stood at the top of the cracked steps and listened. He was alone in the upper storey. A quick glance in each of the rooms showed they were all deserted. The other rooms were larger, with holes in the floor and piles of burned material in the corners. One of them had the frames of a dozen old baby cribs; the mattresses had been gutted by birds and rodents. A hairless plastic doll lounged in a corner wearing a skirt of last year’s leaves. A plant grew in a sunny spot, its roots in the concrete. The walls were black with mildew.

Prypiat, he thought. He’d never been to the abandoned city outside Chernobyl, but he’d seen plenty of pictures. But he didn’t remember the city being so well surrounded by thick forests. Abandoned psychiatric asylum?

Ishmael limped down the stairs with one hand on his ribs. The bottom floor was in worse repair than the upper storey. Pillars had broken in the far corner and the ceiling had collapsed, spewing electrical wires, insulation, and bits of plaster. There’d been a kind of bar here, and an open kitchen with green appliances from the sixties or seventies, though nothing was plugged in and everything was rusted off-kilter. Birds had nested in one of the windows.

There was a very large man in rags standing in the middle of the lobby, singing Hot Cop.

The music stopped.

The man turned his head, listening over his shoulder. This was odd, because as a habit, Ishmael made no noise when he walked, especially when he walked barefoot.

Morning, the stranger said. His shoulders were far broader than his hips, his arms thick, his chest barreled and his back hunched. He steadied his balance with a wooden cane. Smoke and steam rose from a little camp stove he’d set up on the floor before him. He stirred his baked beans with a long, thin stick. Took you long enough to get up. He wore a shredded overcoat, oilskin, like what an Australian cowboy would wear during the final days of the zombie apocalypse.

At least he speaks English, Ishmael thought. Where am I? he asked.

I don’t know, the man answered. Do you?

Ishmael stepped on an angular pebble. His stumbling weight put pressure on a bad knee, and Ishmael reached for the nearest wall. Last I knew, I was in LaGuardia, waiting for my luggage.

When was this?

I don’t know, Ishmael answered, picking the stone from his sole. What day is it?

How should I know?

You always answer questions with more questions? Ishmael hobbled closer, because the smell of the beans was driving him mad. I’ll trade you that for this, he said, presenting the soup can.

Tomato? the other man asked. He grunted. I’m allergic to tomatoes.

Then can I use your stove?

Get your own.

Ishmael smiled and said, I won’t take it anywhere, I promise.

The other man put his thoroughly bandaged hand on Ishmael’s chest and pushed him away. Ishmael blinked at him, but the older man turned his massive back, the tails of his overcoat wagging around his ankles. Over his shoulder, the other man said again, Get your own, I said.

Where?

Wherever you find one.

Ishmael looked at the soup, but his nostrils were full of the smell of meatier stuff. He needed food. His body couldn’t repair itself without it. I hate tomato soup.

Poor you.

Ishmael rolled his eyes and went to sit under the concrete stairs and opened the tin of tomato soup. It had a disappointing smell to it, and it was concentrate, the kind of soup that needed two cans of water to go with it. But there were no pots around, and even the old man cooked his beans right inside the can, like a hobo of old. Isn’t there some place I can buy something better than this?

The old man laughed. Oh God, you really are lost, aren’t you?

I wouldn’t be, if you told me where I was.

Can’t tell you what I don’t know myself. He glanced over his shoulder again. He had greying hair. Not that I care to know.

You don’t know, Ishmael said. He snorted a laugh.

What I can tell you is that if you’re in here, it means you’ve done something very, very wrong.

Ishmael tipped up the can over his mouth, but the tomato soup-paste wouldn’t budge. His hands were filthy. Can you be a little more specific? Dirt or no, he plunged his finger into the soup and scooped it directly into his mouth.

Son, the man said, if you don’t know why you’re here, it won’t take you long to figure it out. He carefully guarded his balance as he angled a top-heavy body over the stove and picked up his can of beans. He ate the hot contents in a couple of greedy gulps, always keeping his back to Ishmael. When he was done, he belched and crushed the can in one hand.

Ishmael watched the bean can fall and roll away. The old man had crushed it into the shape of an apple core.

Ishmael narrowed his eyes. You never tried to leave?

Of course I tried. We’ve all tried. The smart ones stop trying. Believe me, you can check in, but you can never leave.

There was a woman here last night, Ishmael said. A girl. Where’d she go?

She left, the man said. Asked me to guard the place while you slept.

Left? Left town?

The man chuckled. You’re up, you’re still breathing. That means I’m done here. He closed up his Coleman stove and collected it from the floor.

Wait, Ishmael said. Can’t you at least tell me your name?

The hunchback slowed to a stop. One eyebrow ridge was swollen. Everybody calls me Shuffle. With that, he exited through one of the two empty doors into the mud and spitting rain, leaving Ishmael to his soup.

Chapter Three

ISHMAEL NEEDED MORE food, and there was a forest nearby. He could solve a lot of problems at once, but he needed to know his area first. The paramilitary soldiers had shot at something, the day they brought him to this place, and Ishmael couldn’t risk getting caught with his pants down. They were the only pair he had, and they weren’t even his. He wore the blanket like a poncho, but it wasn’t enough, and when it rained, the blanket became heavy and cold.

Really does look like Chernobyl, he thought as he walked through the town, only this place had the appearance of a failed colony, and less like an established town. There was a church, a broken meeting hall, a dozen featureless dormitories like the one he’d slept in, and a smattering of smaller houses. No funfair. No swimming pool. No parking lots.

And not one sign of life along the main street.

Tomato soup wasn’t what he needed. He needed something solid, and he needed to get away from town. But first, he needed to know where he was, which direction he was facing—which way was out. Dropping him into the middle of nowhere without shackling him or locking him up, that posed no challenge. If he was free to walk it off, it was most likely that his abduction was a cruel and petty prank. One that was poorly timed. But if he wasn’t free, then he had many questions to answer before he tried returning home.

To better get his bearings, Ishmael went into the church in search of stairs to the belfry, which seemed to be the highest point in town. Within, wooden pews had been pulled out, leaving only one or two near an empty altar place. The floor was caked with dirt and years of leaf clutter. Cobwebs and shadows clung to the rafters. In the corner, though, there were signs of habitation: leaves had been piled into a large nest, too big even for a racoon. The nest looked slept in, and when Ishmael hovered his hand over it, he felt warmth, as if someone had been sleeping there and only recently evacuated. Ishmael turned where he squatted, sensing eyes but seeing no one. He was about to stand up when he spotted something on one of the remaining pews: a clean but well-used Bible, free of mold and smelling like a campfire. A bird flew out from the rafters, along the length of the church and out the broken front door.

Ishmael stood up, painfully, and went in search of the stairs to the belfry. They were behind the baptistery. There was a bell, but no rope. Timbers groaned miserably underfoot, and Ishmael wished himself as light as a feather, so as not to fall through the floorboards and bring the bell with him.

His little town was set like a tumbled handful of black and white dice thrown into a clearing nestled between tree-covered peaks. Pink and grey granite cliffs, stained black by the rain, rose between and above the trees like eroded Mayan pyramids. The town itself did look like a planned community that had been abruptly deserted; the main road was arrow-straight, and six roads split off from evenly spaced t-intersections, one off to the left, the next off to the right, the next to the left, and so on. Behind the town-hall structure, there was a large park, complete with a sand pit and a swing set. Beyond that was another building painted entirely in green, with a rear balcony wide enough for tables and chairs. Restaurant, he thought. Has to be food there. That’s where they got the cans from.

But that didn’t quite ring true. Ishmael had been brought to this place with a shipment of supplies, like the crates of tin cans that had fallen open in the truck.

How long have they been here?

He needed to go higher. He couldn’t see the forest past the trees.

He emerged from the church. Across the road, someone ran out of view, and Ishmael’s eyes flashed open in alarm. He steadied himself against the church door frame and squinted across the way. The figure had disappeared into the trees behind one of the dormitories.

A splinter dug into his palm. When he lifted his hand, he saw bullet holes. He brushed aside the fractured bits of wood with his thumb.

There were three bullet holes in the frame. In the shrinking, rotten black mortar between the bricks, he spied the flattened end of a bullet. He wondered if these were new additions, or if they’d been the reason why the town had been abandoned in the first place.

There’d been six or seven soldiers, the day they brought Ishmael into town, and they didn’t use their guns to threaten. There was something here worth shooting at.

And Ishmael didn’t have so much as a shirt with which to defend himself.

He didn’t have underwear either.

He clenched his fist and flexed his fingers. Tension was building between his shoulders, and not just because of the sense of being followed and watched. Ishmael was running out of time, and because he didn’t know what day it was, he didn’t know precisely how much time he had left.

He needed higher ground, and that meant getting to the edge of town. He’d misplaced all the cardinal points, because the clouds had blotted out the sun, but he knew where to find the highest hill near town, and that meant passing by the crumbling town hall toward the building that looked like a resort-town restaurant. He cut across the park. Once upon a time, the sandy area might have been a sandbox or a horseshoe pit. Beside it, there was an old, red and white tricycle, its front spokes bent and one rear wheel missing. Bindweed wrapped around the back axle, trapping it in the knee-high weeds.

Definitely the zombie apocalypse, he thought. And who better to send in to deal with the outbreak? Still, it was bad timing, and all they’d had to do was ask.

He struck off toward the end of the cross-street, where the forest enveloped the last dregs of pavement. As soon as his feet stepped off the paving onto a beaten path through the trees, he heard someone shout, Hey!

Standing in the doorway of the restaurant, there was a young man wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and an old pair of running shoes. He leaned against a porch column with his arms crossed.

You sure you want to go out there? the young man asked. He had a strange inflection to his words. French, Ishmael assumed. He had shoulder length, light brown hair, which he’d pulled back into a loose queue, tied by a frayed string. Hey, new guy? He was smiling when Ishmael approached him. He was taller than Ishmael by about a hand’s width, and skinny, and he had a habit of lifting his chin as if to increase the height difference between them. He looked Ishmael over, pointed at Ishmael’s belly and laughed. Three days? I doubt it. He was missing two front teeth, one upper incisor and one bicuspid.

What?

The going bet is, the young man said, as if Ishmael was stupid, three days.

There were holes in the man’s t-shirt, which bore a badly faded Hard Rock Café logo.

And are you betting for me or against? Ishmael asked. He had a twitch between his shoulder blades, and the sudden movement made his wounds weep.

I’m the bookie, he answered with a shake of his head. But if you want to increase your odds . . . He looked Ishmael over. I wouldn’t go into the Park so soon. Not unless you need to.

Which Park?

"The Park," the young man said, pointing with his nose at the trees behind Ishmael.

Inside the building, a woman’s voice said, Dep? I wanted to know if—whoa shit!

Ishmael moved to see who was within, but the younger man stood in his way. Ishmael moved to the left, and the other man uncrossed his arms and stepped in his path.

You won’t find anything here you need, the young man said. Nothing for sale today.

Depp, is it? Like Johnny Depp?

Dep, was the answer, "like dépanneur."

You’re Canadian, Ishmael said. Is that where I am? Back in Canada? His neck twitched.

Dep shrugged. "You know, if I was betting, I wouldn’t give you three hours."

Something was very, very wrong. Ishmael was sure he was good for at least another day, but it was already upon him, well ahead of schedule and with lots of momentum.

You’re not doing so well, Dep warned.

I just want to know . . . Not now. Ishmael stepped back from the porch, breathing deeply and keeping his fists on his hips. He stood in the shadow of the trees under the drizzling rain, and it helped. He turned his face to the sky. Not now. Not now. I just want to know where I am, you know? The wind shifted, and muscles across his chest contracted. What had healed somewhat overnight now split, and hot blood soaked through his bandages. Not now. It’s just pain. Let it go.

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

Let it go.

What’s the problem, new guy? Dep snickered. There was no humour in the laugh. You’re not feeling well?

He knew people were watching him. He could hear them breathing. He couldn’t place them, but they were off to the sides in the trees, and they were in the buildings behind. Whispers passed between mouths and ears.

Let it go. Later. Tonight. Under cover of darkness, like in the old days.

Muscles twitched and relaxed. He crossed his arms against the chilly wind, and with his head down, he exhaled again, dumping tension.

There were whispers among the trees. Men. Women. A child. A laugh.

Ishmael turned.

The whispers stopped. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

But at least for now, the crisis had passed. Dep pulled his eyebrows together, curiously and thoughtfully.

Canada? Ishmael asked again.

Dep shrugged. Nobody knows.

Why, because you were all abducted? Or because you’ve all managed to lose your power of recall?

Dep scratched his chin. Not everybody lost their memories.

Ishmael asked helplessly, Isn’t there anybody who knows what the hell is going on, and where? Who’s in charge here?

No one, Dep answered.

There’s always a hierarchy, Ishmael said. Never mind. I’ll find my own way out.

Dep shrugged. If you want. Good luck. But you should take a big stick with you, maybe. It’s no fun out there. But maybe dey’ll leave you alone. He sneered and said, Maybe dey’ll just fall over laughing at you.

They?

The Lost Ones.

Ishmael smiled. Let me guess. Vampires.

"Lost Ones, not Lost Boys. Dep waved his hand dismissively. You’ll find them on your own." He walked inside the restaurant and closed the door.

Ishmael tried the knob. Hey! The lock didn’t work, but the door was barred, as if the building was more castle than eatery. He leaned against the door, then rammed it with his shoulder. It wouldn’t budge. Hey, Dep! Come on, I just want to talk. The windows had been boarded up, too, and the ground floor walls were made of field stone. Can you at least tell me where to find water? Ishmael shouted through the door.

Open your mouth and look up! Dep replied.

Ishmael looked the building over. There were no other obvious doors. There were huge balconies front and back, though, and plenty of glass windows upstairs. He’d return in the night, he decided, when there were fewer eyes.

Ishmael quit the porch under a fresh surge of rain and thunder. He jammed his hands in his pockets and curled his cold shoulders forward under the ragged, smelly blanket. The forest urged him on. Lost Ones my ass. Besides, if there was one person in the world who needn’t worry about things that go bump in the dark, it was Ishmael. If worse came to worst, he could handle himself. They wouldn’t attack twice.

He decided to leave the blanket behind the restaurant, well hidden in case of sneak-thieves and pranksters. If he was going into close quarters in those woods, the last thing he wanted was a blanket to get hung up on things.

Walking into the woods was like walking into a train tunnel full of mosquitoes. Morning became spruce-green night. Mosquitoes buzzed around his head and landed all over his torso and arms. They even bit through his jeans. Canada, he thought, I have got to be in Canada. He slapped a mosquito against his neck. Couldn’t you go for the blood that’s already coming out of me?

The path was well-trodden but not paved, and it was littered with pine needles that jabbed into his feet and toes. After a short, painful, bug-ridden walk through the narrow passage between ferns, the path split. The left fork led toward what looked like a large wooden box that smelled like a latrine. To the right, there was a cabin, and smoke was coming out of it. He took the right fork. Where there’s smoke, there’s bound to be food. Here, there was a hole in the forest canopy, which allowed the smoke to escape to the low-hanging clouds overhead. The wind blew, and leaves tipped, spilling captured rain water; but so long as the wind was still, Ishmael could stay relatively dry. Unfortunately, the breeze was the only thing sweeping away the mosquitoes.

The wind shifted, and Ishmael involuntarily reared back his head. A foul smell came out of the cabin—a cross between rotten chicken and burning plastic—and it made him retch. He pressed on toward the cabin, hoping he could at least find someone sane working inside, but the smell stuck its fingers down Ishmael’s throat. It was an oily, greasy stink that clung to his pores. He stopped several feet away from the building, waving the air away from his face. Hello? he shouted. A fuel tank outside the building was hissing. Hello! He tried breathing through his mouth, but instead of preventing him from smelling the stench, he tasted it instead.

Clutching his nose and holding his breath, Ishmael tried the door. It was open.

There was a large furnace within, front loading and locked up tight, with red flames glowing through an upper air intake grate. To one side, operating the controls, there was an old man with a leathery face full of character, like the picture of a Depression-era farmer. To the other side was a short, wiry man wearing glasses, a black shirt, and matching jeans, clutching a small crucifix that hung from a chain around his neck. He was praying with his eyes closed.

The farmer noticed Ishmael standing there. He turned, grabbed his shotgun, aimed, and fired in the time it took for Ishmael to leap outside.

The hell! Ishmael shouted.

The farmer punched himself in the shoulder with the butt of his rifle and fired again. Ishmael’s ribs burned, singed by the passage of the slug. Go on! the old-timer roared. He dug another cartridge out of his flannel jacket pocket. Get! He reloaded.

Stop it! I need help!

The old man aimed again.

Damn it, will you listen to me? Ishmael held out his hands.

The shorter man in black slapped the barrel of the gun out of line from Ishmael’s head. Save your ammunition, he said to the old-timer. Look at him.

Ishmael kept both hands raised chest high. Please, Ishmael said. I’m just trying to find my way out of here.

Look at him, the shorter man said again. He adjusted his glasses. He won’t last long in that condition. Let the Lost Ones take him down.

The farmer slung his rifle over his forearm, pointing its muzzle at the forest floor. He was muttering.

Bad enough we’re low on fuel, the shorter man said. After giving Ishmael a bleak look, he returned indoors. Ishmael coughed when the breeze washed across his face.

The farmer leered and said, Best get used to that stench. It’ll be the last thing you ever smell. He spat between them, went inside, and slammed the flimsy door.

You people have a hell of a welcoming committee! Ishmael told them. Cursing the town, cursing Jay, cursing Bridget for having brought him here, Ishmael went back the way he’d come, and instead of taking either fork, he took his chances on going straight through the untamed forest toward the hill he’d seen in the distance.

Ravens cackled in the canopy. When they were quiet, Ishmael heard the patter of light rain on broad oak leaves, and the creak of old trees waving and clacking against one another. He pushed on through thicker underbrush, following the sounds of a trickle of water. He stopped frequently to drink wherever the water was deep enough to slide his hand under the surface; but whenever his head was down, he heard something breaking through the brush. Something was following him.

Something was about to get a nasty surprise, if they came too close. The old familiar tingle in the base of his skull made him flex his back and chest, despite the ache and his open wounds.

The problem was, Ishmael had a bad case of stage fright. He hated being watched.

After what must have been half an hour, Ishmael stopped to catch his breath and fan away the maddening mosquitoes.Undergrowth gave way to nettles, and thorns gave way to mossy rock. Trees thinned, and the ground went straight up. Ishmael found a path around the natural granite pyramid, but when the ledge was too narrow, he had to rock-climb. He didn’t get far. The pain in his sides and his back were too much. He came down the way he’d gone up, and he walked the other way around the rock.

Where the trees stopped, sky began.

Ishmael stood on the lip of a cliff. The land fell away in a curtain wall to a rocky shore fifty feet below. The enormous outcropping of stone had split as if struck by a god-sized chisel, and the loose half leaned over the rapids like the prow of a ship. Below were jagged, upright arrowhead formations of rock, over which white water rushed. Whether this was a winding canyon or a more complex system of rivers, Ishmael wasn’t sure. But there were tall islands and land formations as far as the eye could see, each surrounded by water, each as imposing as Alcatraz Island, and each made of the same unforgiving rock as the land Ishmael stood upon. If he had rope and climbing gear, he could safely rappel and swim to civilization; but without it, especially in the rain—and being in as rough of shape as he was—there wasn’t a chance he could make the descent in one piece.

He heard the sounds of a motor; for the most part, it was one long droning noise, but in short bursts, the engine whined and was muffled again. It was a speed boat, racing across the chop. Ishmael lay beside the rock, his head low to the ground.

On the boat, there were people in black uniforms and orange PFDs, and one was looking up at the hill through the scope of a rifle.

We’re being hunted? he wondered. Some perverted game preserve?

Ishmael slinked down the rock, staying only as close to the edge as he needed to peer over the pebbles. A stone broke away and clacked down the rock face. They didn’t seem to hear it over the noise of the engine. The boat came about and cavorted upstream like a young mountain goat, fighting the currents and the waves.

He hadn’t been airlifted into the town. He hadn’t been brought in by boat. They had driven him in. The truck had gone up a very steep hill into town. Therefore, there was a road downhill and out of town.

The mosquitoes found him. They buzzed in a cloud so thick around his head that Ishmael inhaled a bug and coughed it out again. His blood and sweat were attracting them. He couldn’t afford so much blood loss. Drinking water had helped, but it wasn’t enough. He had to staunch the flow, and there was only one fast and sure way to do it. But for that, he needed food, something more substantial than a tin can of cold tomato soup.

He carefully backed away from the cliff face, catching pine boughs and tree trunks as he negotiated his way over the exposed roots and sharp bits of stone, and once he was in a clearing, he froze.

Something had snapped, and all the ravens fled.

Ishmael’s skin prickled. He hunkered down, making himself a smaller target in case someone else wanted to shoot him.

A twig broke. Fallen leaves were brushed aside.

Deer, he hoped. Let it be a deer.

A branch broke, and Ishmael clenched and opened his fists. He breathed deeply, charging his muscles for what had to come next. Here, the air was cold, clean, and it nourished his flesh.

It wasn’t a deer. The wind shifted, and Ishmael was awash in the smell of decaying flesh and burning plastic, a smell almost as rancid and pervasive as the smoke that came from the farmer’s cabin.

It walked like a wounded chimpanzee, except that it wore an open hoodie and torn jeans. It kept one arm across its belly, as tightly as if that was the only thing keeping the torso attached to the pelvis. Pwee, it said. Foo.

The creature extended what should have been a hand. Two fingers as black and as limp as rancid hotdogs hung from his wrist; three more fingers had fused into one arthritic flipper; the thumb was nearly as long as his forearm, and it was broken—six digits in all, and none of them worked. Pwee, it said again. It raised its mangled hand to the shadow under the hood. Foo.

One of the dead fingers fell off with a splat onto a leaf, and black ooze dribbled out from the wound. The same foul-smelling ooze leaked from under the hood, and the creature made smacking noises with its mouth. Ishmael backed away, and the creature chased him down, running after him on uneven legs. Ishmael retreated, surprised by the speed of that ungainly, ungodly mess of tainted flesh.

Hep! it yelled. It was a boy’s voice. Pwee. Hep. Me.

Ishmael found himself backed against the rock, bracing himself for a fight and yet recoiling in horror and disgust. The boy wasn’t holding his arm against his belly. Ishmael could see that now. The boy’s arm had fused to his stomach, so that only the elbow and wrist were completely visible. Everything in between was indistinguishable from the skin of his belly.

The other finger fell off, and it landed on Ishmael’s foot.

Get away, Ishmael said.

Foo, the boy pleaded. He pressed his remaining fingers against his thumb and pointed them at the hidden mouth under the hood. Foo.

A voice overhead echoed the cry: Food, it said. Ishmael angled his head and saw another abomination squatting on the rock above him. From the waist down, it was covered in mangy skin and hair, with yellow, seeping sores along its naked groin. Food!

A third creature ran over the sloping terrain toward them.

Shit.

To his left, there was another creature, this one covered in patches of black hair, with leaves, feathers, and twigs sticking out of a Caucasian afro, and she was quite obviously pregnant. When the baby kicked, skin stretched too tight. Food!

Ishmael bared his teeth and shoved the boy out of his way. The boy fell, his hood tipped back. Hep, he said. Hep me! The left half of the boy’s face was utterly human, with one blue eye crinkled with pain. The other side was shrunken to half its proper size, but with overgrown teeth fused together and bleeding. His right ear was stretched backward and taut, like the ear of a German Shepherd, only cockeyed and ragged, as if torn by a shark. He had no matching eye, only a dent where an eye socket should have been.

Food! a woman screamed. Her left arm was locked and stiff out in front of her—except it wasn’t an arm at all. She looked as though some mad Moreau had amputated what had once grown naturally from the shoulder, and in its place stitched the foreleg of a dead dog.

A fifth voice cackled at him. It belonged to a hag with stretched, dried out breasts, who wore a girdle of fur and had grown a beard.

Food! the pregnant creature screamed.

Hep me, the boy wept. He caught Ishmael’s ankle, staining it with black pus. Ishmael kicked him away. The creature squatting on the rock above screamed and jumped at Ishmael’s face. Holy shit! Ishmael pivoted and ran, fearing the creature’s teeth more than death itself. Ishmael hurtled a dead log and landed at the run, snapping off toenails on the exposed rock. He needed only a couple of seconds to himself, but these creatures were fast and devious, and a few seconds of vulnerability made for a death sentence. Only a couple of seconds, time enough to breathe—

Another creature dropped out of the trees, and if it hadn’t been for the noise and the falling shadow, Ishmael would have run right into its path. He dodged, slamming his shoulder against the chin of another man-animal. Something caught him by the arm and dug in its claws. In his panic, Ishmael pulled his arm away, and the claws tore through skin, leaving the muscle exposed and bloody. Ishmael clapped his hand to his upper arm and spun clear of a second swipe.

Food! someone screamed, and for the first time, Ishmael realized what they meant: he was the food. He back-fisted an open mouth, stretched out his legs and flew across a flat, open meadow. With every step, he put distance between himself and the ghouls on his trail.

Ahead, there was light—sunlight, reflecting off white plaster.

Something howled behind him. Hissing, Shiiiiiit, Ishmael leaped a gulley, a log, a boulder, and a bench in rapid succession, and after bursting through a patch of poison ivy, he was out onto shorter grass and gravel. He turned so quickly he lost his balance and fell onto his ass. He scrambled backwards on his hands and his heels until his breath and strength gave out, then picked himself up again and crawled backwards until his head banged against a cinderblock wall. Shit! he breathed. Blood soaked his grated left arm and his back. It’s like gravy to these people, he thought. I’m bleeding gravy.

The edge of the forest was a black curtain, behind which all manner of demons lurked.

This was not his forest.

This was no place for him.

Here, he was in the middle of the food chain, not at the top of it.

He could see the reflections of their eyes—like cats’ eyes in the dark. They were waiting for him. Only the daylight held them back.

Shit, he wheezed again.

It was no wonder the soldiers hadn’t issued a warning before opening fire.

He picked himself up, using the wall for support. He’d never run so fast over so great a distance, not in bare feet. His sides ached and his mouth and throat ached for water and cooler air. He slid along the corner of the wall, all the time watching the haunted forest. He held the filthy edges of his claw-marked arm together with his dirty hand.

Something within the trees laughed at him. He stopped, back against the wall, feet too afraid to move another step for fear of running into another one of those creatures around the next corner, or lurking in an open doorway, or peering through a glass-free window, waiting to wrap fetid arms around his neck and wrench his head from his shoulders.

The town was completely surrounded by the forest.

It was an island of the damned.

Ishmael had left a streak of blood across the wall. Terrified, he pulled at the bleeding skin of his arm to inspect the wound. Even the muscles had been torn.

Infected, he thought. My God, I’ve been awake for three hours and I’m already infected.

He pushed away from the white cinderblock building and jogged down the path, cutting between buildings and staying as close to the centre of town as he dared. He checked all the buildings for any closed room, anything with a door, anything private.

There was nothing.

There were, however, people in most of the buildings, watching him. Whispering.

They were everywhere.

Ishmael was exhausted and starved when he gave up and sat in the grass beside the abandoned tricycle, where at least he had the benefit of a good range of view. With muscles twitching, with blood trickling down his sides and falling from the back of his arm, he sat with his forehead in his hands, wondering what the hell he’d done to deserve a trip to this place.

There was a road out.

There had to be.

Chapter Four

ISHMAEL USED A corner of the horse blanket to mop up the infected blood that leaked out of the gouges in his arm. Twice he had to stop and compose himself; it was worse than nearly losing control of his bladder in a public restaurant. They were constantly watching, and he hadn’t found a safe place yet.

He’d found a cistern, though he doubted the cleanliness of the water, what with its bloom of algae and the water-logged stick that looked so much like the back leg of a small dead dog. But given a choice between dying of cholera and dying of whatever the hell they had, he’d choose cholera any day. Prolonged pain was making him nauseous—pain, and the memory of a young boy’s finger falling off. He couldn’t get the sickening wet sound out of his ears.

The Lost Ones, he thought again. The really, really Lost Ones.

Hot damn, said a voice behind him. You’re still alive. Who knew? He didn’t sound surprised, despite the jibe. The old man in the overcoat was already turning and walking away. Well I guess I lost the pool, didn’t I? Shuffle chuckled. "Ah, but you shoulda seen your ass come running out of those trees! Best entertainment we’ve had in a month."

What the hell are those things out there? Ishmael asked. His voice broke.

What did they look like to you?

Hairy . . . bleeding . . . Ishmael frowned. Zombies.

Not far from the truth.

You could have warned me, Ishmael shouted.

And you wouldn’t have believed me, the old man said over his shoulder. Now, are you coming or what?

God, where to now?

Foster wants you. God help you.

Foster who?

Dr. Foster. He turned slightly, and Ishmael could see how badly swollen his left eyebrow was. She wants to take a look at that arm.

Ishmael seriously considered staying right where he was. At least by the cistern in the middle of town, he had a good field of view. Granted, he was in the public eye, but there was less of a chance of a sneak attack. Where is she?

South end, he answered. Though I don’t know why she bothers. Are you broken or something? Is that the problem?

"Well, I am bleeding, Ishmael said. God, not forty-eight hours ago, I was in Tokyo eating a room service breakfast and using a wide screen video phone. Now look at me."

You kill anybody?

No, Ishmael answered.

They bite you?

I didn’t give them the opportunity. He walked beside Shuffle, marvelling at how much larger the old man was. He couldn’t see Shuffle’s full face. He’d pulled forward the hood of his overcoat, and except for the cane, he was the very model of a monk. But they got me with their claws, Ishmael said. They’re infectious, aren’t they?

You’re quick, Shuffle said.

Ishmael snorted. How the hell did you think I managed to outrun them back there? Are they contagious?

Shuffle shrugged. He pointed down the main road. Keep going to the end of this road. Turn right. Last building on the right. Your mark is still on the wall, the one with the white paint. If you want to make it another couple of hours, keep your eyes open. There’s a big open field between you and the trees, but they’ve got your scent now. And bleeding like that, you’re a walking, two-legged bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Ishmael touched Shuffle’s sleeve, and the larger man twisted at the waist to get away, as if the gentle poke had been a stab in the arm. Shuffle kept his head down. Are they contagious? Ishmael asked again. Am I infected?

Asking the wrong person, Shuffle growled. He left Ishmael standing in the middle of the road.

Ishmael watched the old man lumber uphill toward the building where he’d had breakfast. Ishmael shook his head. This whole town is nuts. If Shuffle heard him, he made no reply.

The last building on the right was a simple, low, modern barn-like structure, with many empty windows along the walls. To his left, there was a stunted cornfield, and abandoned beside it was a wooden ploughshare, rigged with what looked like the webbing from an old army surplus backpack.

There was no door here, but there was a heavy curtain where a door should have been. Ishmael pushed this aside.

The first thing he noticed was the bank of computers. The second thing he noticed