Inkblot Molotov: The Seamus Records, #1

By Daniel J Reeves

Seamus has two key concerns to contend with. Firstly, the dead aren't staying dead. And secondly, it seems that in the throes of a drunken stupor, his friend and self-described "non-federal spy" may have begun uncovering the conspiracy behind the plague.

 

Also, there's no Guinness on tap. So really, three concerns.

 

Cooped up in a mountain resort miles away from the epicentre, Alys is now thirteen and fiercely determined to be taken seriously. Snow angels are indeed serious business. When her older brother falls ill however, he is ruled a threat to the utopia, and Alys learns there is no safety in numbers.

 

There is only with the mob or against it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel J Reeves
• Release date: Feb 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9780648684107

Book preview

Daniel J Reeves

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or lack thereof.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons – living, dead, or otherwise – is entirely coincidental, and consequently, an occasional source of childish glee.

The views expressed and actions taken herein are neither necessarily condoned nor condemned. The authorial voice exists only to bind events and exchanges together, if often through uncouth remarks and feral similes.

All rights are reserved, but known to start cracking onto total strangers after a third glass of blushy merlot.

©2021 Daniel J Reeves

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Dedicated with love to a handful of people you have never heard of and do not care about. These unremarkable individuals include friends, colleagues, and on occasion, family.

To Anjelika, Oisin, Hayley, and Matthew – for acting as consultants, proof-readers or emotional supports along the way. I appreciate it.

Cover design and saintly patience by Kelly Squirrell.

I

CHAPTER ONE

I’m Rendezvousing

DON ’ T LOOK IN the fridge.

This command adorned his refrigerator door – the latest in a series of inane imperatives. The un-dotted i’s and low-crossed t’s proved this to be his own handwriting, though the attempt at cursive he found peculiar.

Seamus, or ‘Dude’ to his compatriots, thought back to last night, brushing his fragmented memories into one manageable heap. He clanked likely scraps together, hoping a clear-ish image would emerge. One memory showed an inebriated friend, Chuck, swaying at his doorstep and declaring with nothing resembling clarity, that tonight would be a record attempt. No explanation of what record would be attempted had ever come to pass.

His percolator grumbled awake.

With the coffee poured, Dude fell into his chair like a put-down puppy and clutched the coffee mug for strength. After two, three, four regenerating gulps, he rested the mug on the dining table masquerading as a kitchen island and stared down the strange note, speculating on what lay inside.

The kitchen table shuddered from a message alert. Allegedly mobile, his phone had an umbilical relationship with its charger. An hour apart from one another ended in total battery depletion, and on occasion, irreparable data corruption. The term phone Dude considered controversial, as it failed to have a single signal bar in any room of his house. This had not been the case when he had first moved in.

When did I set my phone to vibrate? Must have encountered Amber last night. Mental note: wash phone.

Never in the history of his mental notation had Dude crossed an item off the list, but the lie comforted him nonetheless. As he scribbled down this mental reminder, a television anchor addressed the empty lounge. Terms like civilian unrest and acceptable collateral wafted into the kitchen. Too hungover to tune in and lacking the mental fortitude to face the fridge, Dude instead righted himself, patted his pockets down and began his commute.

Apparently, the tollway was closed. This was both peculiar and a plausible cause for concern, if only to the paranoid or neurotic. Passing motorists made both these assumptions about Dude as he stood aside his Subaru in the emergency stopping lane. Here he watched the gathering cloud grey the landscape, as though they were giant hands wringing out every ounce of colour.

Is colour measured in ounces, Dude wondered. Does anyone seriously measure anything in ounces? Also, hadn’t it been sunny when I left?

Dude had long been sceptical of abrupt changes in weather. This led to a corresponding scepticism of weathermen, and the belief that they themselves orchestrated the meteorological shifts. Several pints were normally required before he made this entirely unsolicited argument.

Curiously, his building’s cafe was also closed. The last word on the We Are Closed sign had worn off, making it less of a statement and more of a philosophical assertion. As he stood outside, a security guard approached. His stubble encroached on the corners of his mouth, follicles entangling and untangling as he spoke.

Employee badge please.

We don’t have badges.

Comply or we will have to remove you from the premises.

Dude sighed.

Wait, we don’t have security guards.

Opting to avoid confrontation, he let himself through the rear entrance. The elevator doors claimed to be ‘under maintenance’. Truthfully, they had no elevator, and this door led to an electronics cupboard, however it looked good for any potential clients or financiers who entered the ground floor.

Dude took the stairs and sidled up to his desk. A colleague mumbled about news reports, but he wasn’t listening and was far too tired to pretend to.

Dammit, caffeine should be kicking in.

Papers arrived at his desk. They had actually been there from the start and he had simply succeeded in postponing notice of them – an indispensable skill in the corporate world. The beige folder lay on his desk, judging the dark rings under his eyes.

Some executive at NewTech™ needs an angle on how to make the outbreak plausibly due to extraterrestrial interference, and not the shoddy adhesives used on the chemical containment. Is this what we do these days? Definitely above my pay grade. Who put it on my desk?

He pushed it aside.

What outbreak anyway? Ten fifty a.m. Fuck, is anyone else here right now, Dude wondered, and peered above the walls of the cubical. Wait, Janet’s here. She still hasn’t gotten me those reservations. It’s okay. We forgive the senile, save for when they lament the lack of ethnic kitchen help.

A framed certificate proving his master’s in physics graced the cubicle wall, a reminder that this job was temporary. He began to calculate how long ago that had been, but remembered calculations involve numbers, and promptly ceased. Instead, Dude retrieved the assignment tasked to him last week.

Ah yes, the Puffed Puffs job.

He checked when the deadline was set. Today.

The question of the hour then, he thought. How do we get children to beg their parents to buy Puffed Puffs: Honey Flavour over Captain Munch?

Monday’s impromptu office brainstorming session had yielded little fruit. Mind control had been suggested and approved for prototyping, however it would not be ready in time and Puffed Puffs’ financiers wanted answers pronto. Dude’s job was to find those answers. Or make them up and call them Answers™ LITE.

He began jotting down options.

Puffed Puffs. Why crunch when you can Puff?

You can’t handle the puff!

You can handle the puff?

You can’t handle the munch!

You can’t handle neither the puff nor the munch.

To puff or not to puff? That is the question that I ask of munch.

Hours passed this way. A lunch break came and went, and a sun sank low in the sky.

Get puffed!

Get the puff!

Get some puff!

Get Some Puff!©

Excellent. And right on the dot at five o’clock. Stretching a thirty minute task into an eight hour shift is truly an unrecognised art form. Another fulfilling day.

A bitter taste seeped onto his tongue with this last thought.

Janet approached.

Dammit, this is why our cubicles need crawl spaces. If she babbles about the goddamn plastic pot plants on the fourth floor window of her optometrist’s waiting room again, I’m going to physically cave in.

His thigh made involuntary contractions as his phone vibrated, saving him from social interaction.

Mental note: change phone off vibra– oh why do I bother.

He pressed the phone to his ear and gave Janet an apologetic smile as he tidied his desk for the weekend. Janet sought another colleague to unload her woes on to.

Fuck she looks pale. Went a bit heavy on the Metamucil did we, love?

Hey Chuck.

Dude, did you see the news reports this morning?

I’m not sure how I dressed myself this morning.

A laugh, We all set for tonight?

Yep, Dude descended the steps to the parking lot.

Easy, I’ve almost finished up at work, see you soon.

Exactly what work his friend was finishing up, he had no idea. What a financial advisor actually does, he frequently wondered and occasionally asked. Chuck had once explained that it is to convince people they’re saving money by giving it to you. Dude had thought it sounded a lot like marketing – a belief he still held.

He found his Subaru and hopped in. The fall of rain called for reflective indie rock and windscreen wipers. The wipers on his Subaru, unfortunately, knew only two settings. One was slow and creakingly loud, like a horror movie door hinge, and the second would be aptly labelled seizure.

As he pulled up to the intersection, Dude managed to choose neither setting, and instead knock on the wrong indicator. In nervous overcompensation, he clubbed the windscreen lever into the off position and winced from an impatient horn blast behind him. Really panicking now, he knocked the correct indicator on and squinted through a windscreen made nearly opaque from the downpour. After an engine stall, an apologetic hand wave, a brief reflection on his upbringing, and some quiet weeping – Dude was back on his way.

Amidst his antics, he had tuned into a new station.

"...after a prisoner transport bus came off the tollway. Police presence within Marlborough has tripled over the last few hours, which has some locals concerned. State officials, mumbling about drill training and national pride, cite further questions as a leading cause of death. You’re tuned into the Bergeron Report, don’t go anywhere."

Dude blinked.

I’m sure it’s fine.

Vines suffocated the few windows looking onto the street. A cursory inspection revealed unsubdued hedges and abandoned landscaping projects. Mounting evidence suggested the homeowner was either absent, physically dormant due to recreational drug use, or projecting their emotional state onto the house. Intimately familiar with Chuck’s habits, Dude knew the reality to be an appalling combination of all three.

The lock on the front door was broken inward. This had been the case for years however, and was not cause for concern. As Dude entered, a convulsive reek of gasoline struck.

Has he set that bloody distillation equipment up again?

The month’s power bill had proven far more potent than the Remington Rye. That brew had rendered Chuck catatonic for an afternoon and the better part of the week, bringing a sudden close to his brief entrepreneurship.

Dude turned at the hallway and found his friend dragging someone by the shoulders into another room. A dark streak of red painted the tiles beneath their limp legs. The inert figure being transported wore a soldier’s uniform.

Is this a bad time?

Huh? Chuck looked up, only slightly panicked. At the sight of his friend, his face lit up with friendliness and calm that Dude did not buy for a moment. Oh, no, no. All good, my mate here just had a few too many, is all. Would you mind getting the bleach from the laundry?

Dude squinted, I assume he vomited up blood before he fell into this stupor, then?

Chuck seemed to only now see the streak of blood all through his living room. His face assured that this was a comically timed misunderstanding. Oh, that! Yes, yes. Just a little spilled punch, you see.

And the bleach is for..?

Hair of the dog, of course.

I see, Dude made for the laundry and felt far from relaxed. Inside he thought about just ducking down the road, getting a drink, and coming back when everything had returned to normal and never bringing it up again.

Oh come on, he’s your best friend of like twelve years. But then again, how well do you really know someone?

There was a knock at the laundry door. It was Chuck.

Dude.

Yes?

I have some bad news for you.

Go on.

Chuck sucked in his lips and prepared himself, I’ve concluded that you’re very, very gullible.

I don’t understand.

I’m obviously moving a dead body.

No, no, I understood that.

Chuck searched him for a moment, You don’t have to cover for it now, we all have our blonde moments. Just try and wise up a little, that’s all. People are out here murdering each other, you’ve got to have that head on a swivel.

You being one of the murderers then?

It was self-defence.

"He being one of the murderers then?"

Mercenary, more like. But look, as much as I like fogging up the windows of my own laundry while a fresh corpse starts to decompose in my living room, I would very much like to deal with the dead body situation so that I can get to the–

–to the unintended witness and collateral damage situation? Dude asked, mostly joking.

To the explaining myself situation.

Right, it was Dude’s turn to be searching, You’re somehow expecting my help in this, aren’t you?

I mean, you do happen to have arrived at an opportune time for it, Chuck offered.

You invited me over.

So I did. Grab the bleach.

The business with the bleach took a few minutes in which there was very little conversation. It quickly became apparent that Chuck was not quite an expert in disposing of bodies and was more concerned with the health and safety matters involved. By the time the body was in the tool shed, along with an automatic rifle, Dude felt very much in need of a drink and ideally something of an explanation.

Alright, grab your coat, Chuck said and headed out onto the street, "The truth is Dude, I’m not a financial advisor. I’m an agent of Placeholder. We deal in counter-terrorism. And sometimes just normal terrorism, you know, so the cheques don’t bounce on payday."

A road sign ahead pointed to a train station.

Dude thought about this. I see, he didn’t, So you’re the... good guys?

Good and bad aren’t particularly applicable terms to organisations like Placeholder. Morality is too fluid of a concept to build an organisation upon. The man you helped me arrange the limbs of in the tool shed, he worked for another group named QUASI, a borderless terror organisation.

Right, so these two organisations, Placeholder and QUASI, they’re the same?

Oh, oh no, Chuck replied somewhere between delight and indignance, "Polar opposites in fact. We’re a non-federal spy agency. They are terrorists."

Uh-huh.

They scampered down the slope toward the toll gates of Clementine Station.

What does QUASI mean?

"Excellent question. I am led to believe it is indeed an acronym short for Quasi Uasi Asi Si I."

Dude paused at a plaque of train timetables and digested this last broccoli stem of an explanation. He couldn’t tell if Chuck was serious or not, and decided not to pursue it further. They walked onto the platform for trains heading south. Chuck went ahead and swiped his ticket at the traffic gates. A man stood in Dude’s gate, blocking entry onto the platform.

The people who hang around at train stations, bloody hell.

Dude coughed, ‘Scusie.

The man in the draping black coat swayed, grunting but not moving. His shoulders heaved as he fought with his breathing. Opting for the second time today to avoid confrontation, Dude instead breezed by the adjacent gate and swiped his magnetic ticket.

The PA sounded above.

Good day passengers, the next southbound train from Clementine Station will be arriving at ten twenty-one. We apologise for the delay, obstructions on the railway postponed departure from the previous station. We thank you for your patience.

The address clicked off.

Dude quickened his step to catch up with his friend at the far end of the waiting bay. The rails beneath the platform rattled then soothed to a hum as headlights emerged from the darkness. Bloody streaks accented the nose of the linked carriage train.

Obstructions, Dude thought.

The train slowed to a stop at Platform 2. Gathered passengers stepped forward, either heading home from a night on the town or to the next venue. Electronic doors slid away, and policemen dotted each exit along the train. They stepped aside to allow customers to board. The pair found seats both near the carriage exit and out of earshot of the policemen.

Sorry about that, Chuck said, now sitting.

No, no, Dude said, It’s good to break up the exposition.

Like I was saying. Yesterday, my colleague, Caitlyn, uncovered the current location of Place 5a, Chuck’s dramatic delivery signalled that this was intended to be something of a conversational bombshell, Somehow QUASI got wind of our rendezvous tonight and sent a mercenary to take me out.

Uh-huh, and what is Place 5a?

We don’t actually know. We just know that QUASI wants it, after a mole inside their organisation leaked us the intel.

Uh-huh, Dude said again, more scepticism creeping into his tone, And why do they want it? Do we at least know that? Things were getting more Penrosian than he was entirely comfortable with.

Nope, Chuck said.

Do we know bloody well anything?

We know that Place 5a is profoundly elusive. Both QUASI and Placeholder have been at it for months now, but every lead so far has taken us to Place 5b.

Dude exhaled.

The question-to-answer ratio here is infuriating. He just revels in manufactured confusion, doesn’t he?

What, pray tell, is Place 5b?

"Place 5b is wherever Place 5a was last. You see, when you approach Place 5a, it disappears from there, making that place the new Place 5b, Chuck was getting visibly excited, Some speculate that simply knowing where it is, changes its location."

This sounds like an elaborate excuse for incompetence, Dude thought but didn’t voice.

Chuck continued with frightening glee, Area 51 – I assume you’re familiar – was fabricated to draw attention away from Place 5b. Place 5b, of course, also being fictional, because the term ‘to draw attention away from’ implies attention was on it beforehand – which it wasn’t. A decoy for a decoy, you see. It’s the intelligence industry’s best kept secret.

The train jolted.

Metallic scraping permeated the carriage as it slowed. A shriek of panic reached them from further down the line. Chuck pointed to the fourth carriage down. An ambulance reversed through the shrub to the rail tracks. Figures garbed in full-body environmental suits escorted a stretcher into the rear of the ambulance van.

It doesn’t have its incident lights flashing, Dude whispered.

The train sounded, then got underway again. They watched as the conspicuous ambulance officers locked the rear doors and hopped into the front seats. Its headlights lit up a gravel road and trolleyed around a bend.

So now we’re headed to your rendezvous?

Precisely.

When the train arrived at their station, Dude was glad to be off it. Between the outrageous claims made by his friend and surly looks he had received from the stationed policemen, the fresh air was welcome. Chuck led him to the rooftop of a nearby apartment block. As they emerged back into the elements, a curt gust of night air stiffened Dude’s neck. He rolled his hood into a poor man’s scarf for warmth.

So this is the rendezvous spot? Dude asked.

No, this is the building opposite, Chuck explained.

Dude went to the edge and looked down. He recognised the building opposite and was no longer sure if he and Chuck were on the same page as to what rendezvous meant.

Chuck, that’s our usual.

Chuck agreed with the plainly observable.

Why are we here and not there?

Reconnaissance, my dear boy.

Don’t call me that.

Alright, here’s the go. QUASI knows I’m working on the Place 5a assignment, and they know I’m rendezvousing with a contact tonight at this location. If they see my face, and they see who I’m speaking with, both our covers are blown and they’ll take us down. Instead, if a civilian makes the rendezvous, then they’ll be none the wiser.

Dude’s eyes narrowed, You’re talking about me aren’t you.

Chuck looked around as though to check for anyone else.

Dude sighed.

Attaboy.

CHAPTER TWO

New Monarch

FIRST E NTRY

Hi! I guess before I launch into everything, I need to give you a name. Something like, The Book of Alys, or...

Right.

Well, it turns out it’s really hard to name stuff. Hold on, let me go ask around for suggestions, I’m drawing a blank.

New rule, don’t ask family for ideas for anything ever again. Mom’s were really cringy, like Alys in Wonderland and The Princess Sighed. Trust me, I know. Dad’s were... I didn’t even get them. He always references stuff I don’t understand, then when I ask, he just chuckles and says to ask Mom. He suggested Alysses, Heart of Alys, Little Woman and Alys Shrugged.

But at least they’re not like Sam’s. Oh my god I hate him so much sometimes. I don’t really want to repeat them, but, well I guess the whole idea here is that I tell you everything. There were a lot, and they ranged from The Malice of Alys, all the way to The Diary of a Dumb B––.

So I’m delaying this whole naming thing until further notice. For now, Dad said I can use a working title. Wait let me tell this bit word for word:

DAD: You can use a working title, it’s a name you use until you think of something