INK Trilogy: Red, Black & Blue: INK, #0

By Al K. Line

THE INK TRILOGY: 3 FAST-PACED DYSTOPIAN THRILLERS FROM A WORLD LOST TO THE LETHARGY

INK: Red

The needle buzzed. The nightmare began.

Strapped to a gurney, Edsel watched in horror as they started to tattoo him bright red from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. No piece of skin would be left unmarked.

The Ink.

They were over-confident; he escaped. Only to be chased across the ravaged city as he tried to get home to Kathy before it was too late.

She was dead.

Kathy. Dear sweet Kathy. The only beautiful thing left in a world gone rogue after The Lethargy almost obliterated humanity. They'd taken her; taken everything away from him.

He would have his revenge.

INK: Black

There was love. And finally there was peace.

He found Lashae; the most beautiful woman Edsel had ever seen. For two blissful years they lived together in peace along with Aiden, the boy Edsel had promised he would care for.

There were nightmares.

Edsel couldn't come to terms with The Ink, the abomination that covered his body and stopped him from ever being able to forget the past.

Cover it up. Black — to obliterate the memories.

But could it really be that simple? All they could do was try. But as one nightmare began to fade, so a new one took its place. Peace is shattered and once again Edsel has to fight for his family. This time he would let nothing stop him from keeping them safe. But he was forgetting one important thing…

There is no escaping The Ink.

INK: Blue

They had peace. Isolation and safety.

For the family of three, the years of blissful isolation were taking their toll on young Aiden — he was bored and craved new experiences. A trip was planned; strict limits set concerning time and place.

A strange man.

Not everybody was bad though, some people were kind, considerate and caring. Weren't they?

Then it happened again.

Edsel's worst nightmare came back to drag him down once more.

The Ink.

How much could one man endure?

This time it was blue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Al K. Line
• Release date: Sep 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781513072111

Al K. Line

Al K. Line is a British author who lives in rural England with his wife, son and dogs. When asked to describe himself for this bio all we got was the following: "Who am I? Degrees, jobs, living in other countries, fighting squirrels, cuddling monkeys, amused by penguins, all the usual stuff." Best newsletter in digital make-believe land: http://www.alkline.co.uk (discounts and cool stuff) Facebook thing: https://www.facebook.com/authoralkline

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INK: Red

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Copyright © 2015 Al K. Line

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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

RUN

Edsel crunched into neutral, slammed on the brakes and was out of the car before it stopped moving. The smell of burning rubber was lost behind him in seconds as his legs pumped for all they were worth, arms moving like pistons as he vaulted over the ripped refuse sacks spilling into the road just as a fox ran for the safety of an alley, disturbed from its scavenging.

Already the lactic acid was building in his thighs and his calves were beginning to cramp. Edsel ignored it, just carried on running. He had worse things to worry about than just a little bit of soreness from all the sprinting he'd been doing — The Eventuals that were pursuing him for one, and the scabs he could feel ripping all over his body where The Ink, that damned disgusting blood red Ink, had began to heal, leaving the curse permanently staining his once pale skin, singling him out whether he liked it or not as a member of the fastest growing religion society, or the pathetic tatters of what was left of it, had ever seen.

Thank god I got away before they did my face.

Edsel winced as he felt taut, dry skin rip across his back, the crook of his elbows and under his arms. The back of his knees began to ooze a wet goop of pus, blood and who knew what else, as the scabs cracked and popped while he tried to run for all he was worth, not just fall over screaming and let the group of acolytes finish the job and inject The Ink all over his head. They'd nearly got there too — the back of his neck at the nape was permanently red now. As was the rest of him from his toes to his groin, up his legs, across his torso, arms and most of the way up his pectorals — he looked like a damn lobster and felt sick at the thought of having to one day look at himself in the mirror. If he survived the next few minutes.

It was seven years since The Lethargy first got a name, and Edsel was alone in the world now; apart from Kathy.

Kathy, Kathy, Kathy. The one thing that had kept him going since he thought he would never talk to another living soul again. He had to get to her, had to make sure she was all right; that she was at home.

Edsel was lucky enough to have remained what the media had named Whole, before it shut down as nobody could be bothered to run it, or do much of anything any longer. By the time mankind had actually realized something was destroying the minds of people all over the world, and they slowly fell into a coma-like existence, it was too late. Not that anybody knew what to do about it anyway.

But Whole, he was Whole. He had escaped The Lethargy so far and so had Kathy. So far.

Turning as he heard tins, bottles and the accumulated trash of years scatter, Edsel saw three red-faced men ranging from early twenties to late forties kicking it all out of their way as they panted after him.

Where to now? Where's safe? I've got to get home.

Looking around frantically, Edsel couldn't see an easy way out. The damn car had been a stupid idea — he'd got less than a quarter mile through the city before the road was impassible, blocked by all manner of vehicles from motorbikes to public buses, some still containing drivers slumped in their seats, passengers that became lost to The Lethargy and never came back to themselves, dying where they sat, uncaring, unknowing.

Argh, grunted Edsel, as the pain flared like a dart to a frayed nerve.

Must not scratch my arms. Must not touch my skin.

With dry and gritty eyes, Edsel scanned in all directions as he ran, trying to find something, anything, that would help him get free of his pursuers. He wasn't a big guy, not strong particularly, didn't have a gun with him, or one stored anywhere as they were next to impossible to find. The few gun clubs he'd finally decided to hunt down out of misplaced hope had been ransacked years ago, the strict British control over firearms making guns the most expensive bartering tool less than a few months after The Lethargy really got going. Everything fell apart slowly at first, nobody even really noticing, but the minute the media gave it a name and people actually understood the reason why nothing worked properly any more and the streets were always half empty, well, all hell broke loose.

No fear of reprisal for actions meant that society unraveled in a heartbeat. But it was more than that, it was the knowledge that sooner or later, maybe that very day, The Lethargy would wrap you in its warm blanket of forgetfulness and you would fade in and out of self-awareness until you were nothing but an empty vessel. Then you died.

He had seen it happen to his very own family. His mum and sister were both gone within a few years and he had to watch it happen, help feed and clean them, until he couldn't cope and thought he would go mad as sadness enveloped him and refused to let him surface to breathe the air of if not the happy, then at least the not morbidly depressed.

And that's when it happened: he almost got turned, but not quite. A chance encounter with one of the crazy Inked Eventuals had led to him pouring his heart out to a stranger, telling of the loss of his family, the way he had finally had to kill them just to end the misery — they were never coming back anyway. He told of the despair, the sorrow and the utter pointlessness of it all, and the shame he felt for the way society had reacted to such a catastrophic event.

Rather than coming together and helping each other, it was every man and woman for themselves — looting, murders, rapes, slavery and worse were all the norm as the prisons overflowed, until there was nobody left to arrest, try, or imprison the diseased remnants of a once modern society.

The man had sympathized, had told him of the religion he followed, talked of The Ink and why it was taken, and that their belief was that what had happened was a punishment from Him for ruining the planet — they wanted it finished, wiped clean of the disease that was humanity.

He nearly joined. Then he met Kathy.

There was peace for a while, happiness, then they began to hunt him, to chase him and never leave him be. Crazed religious extremists following a faith that felt that once you showed an interest in their fatalistic dogma then you would be turned to becoming a believer whether you wanted to or not.

But they didn't know about Kathy.

They pursued him, unaware of her presence, Edsel keeping her hidden. Safe. There hadn't been a day of peace since.

This time was different though, this time they had caught him, and he'd been gone for a few days at least. It could have been longer, he didn't know, he just knew he had to get back to Kathy and nothing, nothing, was going to get in his way.

Not even the pain that constantly ripped through his body.

RAIN

Perfect. Rain, just what I needed.

Edsel wiped the water from his eyes, cursing his tattooists as pain screamed up his arm from his palm that was blistering and peeling. At least the water was soothing his skin a little, but it would help if he could see more, even if it meant hurting more.

Thick cloud descended, hiding the city, which was something. It was so damn depressing looking at it now, half the buildings burned out or collapsed, the rest smashed, scavenged for anything of use, and the streets covered in the garbage that a first-world society took for granted would always be cleared away.

The rain beat down harder as Edsel splashed though the stinking puddles.

Great. Soaked feet now too.

Although it did cool them a little, easing the fire that he felt with every step. It had been excruciating the second they had begun — he had no idea that being Inked on the soles and on the whole foot would hurt quite as much.

All part of the ritual, his captors had said, smiling through red lips, the insides of their mouths as red as the rest of their bodies. They ignored his pleas, ignored the fact he didn't want to be a part of them, answered with grunts and more Ink, promises that he would come around eventually, and the alternative was death. Was that what he wanted?

No, it wasn't. So he kept quiet and took The Ink against his will, listening to his own screams as they slowly stained more and more of his naked torso, all the while half aware of the inane chatter of the two tattooists.

They had shaved his head, right down to the bone, beard too, pubic hair, arms, legs, all of it — part of The Cleansing as much as The Ink. Naked and helpless before Him, all because of a weird warping of their religion, basing the ritual of The Ink on their leader's red burns and disfigurement.

The Converse on his left foot began to flap. The sole was coming loose and it was slowing him down.

No matter, just keep going. Don't stop, don't pause for a second. Keep on running; keep on going. Shake your head to get rid of the rain in your eyes, don't use your hands, it will just hurt too much.

Driving just the short distance he managed had been hell. The steering wheel felt like it was on fire, changing gears was a lesson in the spiteful design of human anatomy and just how many nerves a hand contained, and when it came to using the clutch whilst changing gear, well, the force needed to press the pedal had sent Edsel screaming out the open window like a woman giving birth.

But he thought he would make it, get away, get back to Kathy, his savior, his love, his hope and his only friend in the whole world.

Then the road was blocked and now here he was, damn sneaker flapping like a tired dog's tongue, as he tried to avoid falling and tripping over... ugh, it was a person, still alive too by the looks of it — just.

He jumped over the skeletal figure, landing awkwardly, the sole causing his ankle to twist as his foot hit a plastic bag and he slid. His leg bent and he put his hands down for balance, even though every instinct in his body told him not to.

He screamed out in pain.

Damn, now they know where I am again. If I'd managed to lose them in the rain anyway.

At least the ankle wasn't twisted, or worse — broken. Edsel was exhausted, and stopping was the worst thing he could possibly have done as a wave of tiredness swamped him.

Go, go, go.

He ran on, down the wide street, the signs of expensive department stores hanging like bodies from the hangman's noose, swaying in the wind like the countless missed harvests all over the country, the world.

The rain beat down faster, flooding the street in seconds; turning it into a river that rushed down the slight decline, bringing yet more trash with it, threatening to make it impossible to run.

At least these red idiots have the same problem.

He splashed through the water, the polystyrene food containers and coffee cups, ignoring the cramps, the blisters, the pain and the cold as the rain soaked through what little clothing he wore.

Got to get away, got to get home, got to get Kathy. It's only a few miles, nothing to worry about, this should be easy.

Edsel kidded himself, he knew it, but where there was life there was hope, and he was still alive — barely.

They were gaining on him. He could hear their feet hitting the sodden street, splashing like fish in shallow water flapping to get deep again. He picked up speed, pumping faster and faster, sure his heart would explode at any second.

Must practice running if I get away; I thought I was fitter than this. Twenty five and I'm like an old man already.

It wasn't surprising though. Food wasn't easy to come by so only a fool would put themselves through the misery of doing regular exercise on top of the long hunts for food — energy expenditure was already high enough. His slim body wasn't built for such mad sprints — if anything he would have been a middle distance runner. He needed a steady pace, not sprinting for his life while well-fed Eventuals chased him through the dead streets of Manchester.

Gripping a lamppost before he remembered it was a really, really bad idea as the scabs on his palm ripped off and blood oozed out, he took the corner well with the extra leverage and ran through the narrower street looking back to see that his pursuers must have slowed — they were only now making it around the corner.

But there were only two of them, where was the third? Too tired? Given up? Or—

Oompf.

He nearly, but not quite, went down.

It was the third man. He'd obviously taken a shortcut through an alley and the smack into Edsel's side meant it was nearly over. Nearly. Trying his best to combat the flare of pain, he stomped down sharply with his right leg, smiling as he heard a satisfying howl — even though it probably hurt him as much as it did the man.

No time to fight, gotta run.

With the wind knocked out of him from the punch to the belly, and his skin actually spasming, he carried on regardless, maybe at least cutting down on his pursuers to two for a few minutes while the other recovered. Hopefully a bone in the man's foot would be broken and he would have improved his odds dramatically.

He kept running.

It kept raining.

The rain hurt like it was made of fire. Each nerve ending was opening up to greet the temporary cleansing of the fetid streets with a pain he never knew existed.

No good, the sole was hanging on by nothing but dogged determination now, so he reluctantly stopped for a second and ripped it off. He had to find safety soon — there was no way he could run with half a sneaker on his foot.

Go in.

He had to go inside a building, any building, just to try to lose them for a few minutes so he could take stock and sort out his feet. Barefoot would be better than this, anything would be better than this.

At least it can't get any worse.

Edsel sprinted across the street, jumping puddles, body so hot he was amazed the rain didn't fizzle before it made contact with his skin. The sign above the sports store was still in place, so he knew he was in with a chance, albeit a remote one. He didn't really expect there to be any footwear left, but at least he could get out of the rain, try to lose the others, and somehow find a few seconds to deal with his feet.

I can always hope. Gotta stay positive or they've already won.

Edsel crashed to the ground; he hadn't been watching where he was going. The smell of the putrid flesh of a half eaten dog greeted him as his face hit the creature's midsection with a sickening thump. Hands slipped in rotten flesh and came away with clumps of fur stuck to skin that was almost liquid. He had the foul stench all over his scavenged jeans and t-shirt as he got carefully to his feet, the fear of slipping again a reality.

They were almost upon him, so Edsel took his chance and ran into the store through the large shattered full height window, praying he wouldn't get glass stuck in his foot. If he did then it would all be over, he knew that now. They didn't want to capture him and finish the job, desertion only had one punishment.

Death.

SOCKS

He had to walk; there was little choice inside the store. There was no room to run, but at least those behind him would be facing the same issues and hopefully would have an encounter with the dog too — Edsel wrinkled his nose at the smell that threatened to make him puke.

Like I haven't had enough crap on me in the last few days. Ugh.

Edsel shook his head at things he really didn't want to remember, but knew he would for the rest of his life — however long that might be — then moved as fast as he could between the rails, most on their sides, little in the way of clothing left. The racked walls dedicated to footwear were empty, nothing there. He guessed the stock rooms would be the same, if not worse, as that way people could find their sizes. Walking quickly through the store to the back he grabbed a sweatshirt from the floor and pulled off his stinking t-shirt, wiping his hands as best he could, the smell still almost overpowering, his empty stomach threatening to purge foul acid.

What I wouldn't give for something to eat though, I can't go on like this.

The sweatshirt was a simple green thing, but the hood would be good against the rain and cold once he was back outside. Miraculously it fit — a little snug but it was better than nothing. His dark denim jeans would just have to stay on; it would take too long to even try to get them off.

A few mis-matched sneakers and more sturdy footwear littered the floor, and there were still quite a few kids shoes littered about the place. He scanned it quickly as he moved through the store, finding a left Adidas in his size.

He quickly unlaced his ruined Converse and put the new sneaker on. No time to search for the other one, it could be here or not, but at least he had something on his feet. The looser fit of the skater-style trainer was a welcome relief after the Converse he had luckily found only hours after he made his escape. They were the worst choice in footwear possible for someone that had just had their feet tattooed, but they didn't hurt as much when he first put them on as they did now — two days later.

Scabs had started to form, then got ripped off repeatedly — it was a never-ending nightmare of pain, running, thirst, hunger, downright dread, and worst of all not knowing if Kathy was safe. Alive.

His foot stank. The soaking sock was thick with lumps of dead skin. Uncovered, the sight of his foot and The Ink going up his leg almost made him cry. Almost. He didn't think he had any tears left now — he'd cried them all on the gurney as they ruined his body, branding him as belonging to everything he hated in the world.

What was wrong with these people?

With no better solution, he turned the sock inside out and was about to put it back on when he spotted a few pairs weirdly still on an upright rack. A bizarre slice of normality where all was chaos. He grabbed a pair, stuffing one in his pocket and putting the other on then quickly tying up the sneaker.

Aah. Bliss.

Rails clattered behind him and he heard the voices of The Eventuals talking to each other; they were spreading out to cover the room as best they could. All three of them.

Damn. Time to go.

Edsel got to his feet and crouched low, moving fast to the back. These places always had a rear exit, they had to by law. He just prayed it was unlocked. He got behind the counter without being seen and crawled back into the rear of the building, hands and knees screaming at the pressure. There were people in the canteen, obviously still able to show up for work at one point — The Lethargy gripping them and letting them gradually die from starvation where they sat around a dirty off-white Formica table.

There was a microwave, fridge and coffee machine in the corner, mocking Edsel with their familiarity — a reminder of a once normal life. Well, it wasn't normal anymore; or it was, but it wasn't good. He supposed whatever happened made it the norm, it was simply a reality that was more like a nightmare was all. It said a lot about the people: they obviously had nowhere else to go.

Slowly he got up off all fours, the industrial grade carpet feeling like someone was rubbing sandpaper into his palms. His knees were already bleeding again. He went through a door and found himself in a stockroom, boxes strewn everywhere, the place a total wreck. Nothing much was left in terms of clothing, but there were all manner of other things: loads of exercise equipment, balls for various sports, gym equipment and any number of weights plates, kettlebells, rackets and...

Is that a baseball bat?

The weight felt good, the old fashioned wooden bat surprisingly warm and comfortable in his hand, the pain not as bad as he thought it would be. He took a practice swing. His torso burst into flame at the movement, skin chafing badly in the tight sweatshirt. Best to save the batting for when he had heads to aim at.

A door banged behind him and he knew they would be through into the stockroom after him soon. He had to go. Even with the bat he knew it was a risk to take on three of them — they had knives and maybe even a gun. Plus they weren't screaming inside with pain like he was.

He hunted around for the exit, not seeing a sign. There were doors at the far end on the right so he opened one and jumped back in shock at the sight of a demented looking shaved-headed man with eyes black-rimmed, two day stubble making his face look even more gaunt than it was.

Jeez, it's me! I look like death.

He pointedly ignored the mirror and headed down the short corridor until he finally came to the fire exit. The safety bar was across, but it would give him his freedom if he pushed down and it wasn't locked.

Beep beep beep. The damn door had an alarm! What the hell? Power was out and had been for years, so it must have had some kind of weird backup. At least it was open, but his pursuers knew exactly where he was now.

The door led outside to a concrete ramp with a handrail on the left, then into a small car-park for staff for a few of the stores. There were two cars in spots outside the store he'd just left, no others.

The people inside. Poor buggers.

Shaking his legs into life, Edsel began running once more. It was all he did — run and run and run. The moving without running had actually energized him a little though. His heart rate returned to almost normal, well, as normal as you can expect when you are being chased by crazed religious freaks that want to make sure you die slowly at their hands for blasphemy.

Back in the street once more. A different one, a narrow one-way system with a tiny sidewalk almost too narrow to walk on and not spill into the road. Once the little businesses here made a roaring trade selling all manner of bespoke items from expensive jewelery to antiques — now the doors hung from fractured hinges and the jewels were taken before people realized they were less valuable than a hot meal; the antiques mostly stayed put. What use were they when survival was what mattered most of all?

Water bubbled up from the drains, unable to cope without regular maintenance for so long, and once again his feet, now in mismatched sneakers, were soaked. He heard his pursuers behind him and took a quick look. One was well ahead of the others, a stocky guy that seemed built for the chase.

Around the corner, another street, a chance maybe?

Turning quickly, and before the thick-set man had a chance to react, Edsel swung the bat with all the strength he had left, hearing a satisfying crack as it connected with the red bald head of the man. He staggered, clutched his head, then went down into a pile of tattered garbage sacks as his ear oozed thick blood.

Yes! Go.

Edsel ran on, winding his way slowly but surely back to all that kept him going in the world. Home to Kathy.

HOME

The door slammed behind him and he bolted it, in no mood to chastise Kathy for the mess in the hallway — she never was very tidy. Not that it made any difference — The Eventuals knew where he had been living and would have been here soon enough anyway, just to check if he'd risked coming home or not.

Kathy, Kathy honey? We have to go. Now.

He ran into the living room and went cold. They'd already been, closing the door politely behind them on their way out, after they caved in her head with a poker from the unused fireplace. As if to mock him they'd then had the good grace to put the poker back in the coal scuttle where it was kept.

They're here.

Edsel didn't have any fight left in him — what was the point now anyway? Everything was gone.

Everything.

Kathy.

DESPAIR

Edsel's world crashed down around him in wave after wave of sick clarity. The bat fell to the floor with a soft thud, thick carpet soaking up the sound just as it had the blood of the most beautiful creature he had ever known.

The image of Kathy would forever be burned into his brain like a brand.

How could they? How could they do this to her? To me?

If only he'd got home sooner, made it across the ruined city a few hours or minutes quicker. But he'd done his best, hadn't slept in days, and assumed that they would make catching him the priority, not searching his home and finding Kathy.

How wrong he'd been.

She was all he lived for; his salvation; his hope and his joy. Without her there was nothing, nothing left at all. No family, no friends, no people he could turn to, nobody to trust or offer a shoulder to cry on.

All was emptiness.

He felt the weight of the crushing loneliness return and envelop him in its cold reality as it had once before; before he met Kathy. Now that twinkle in her eye when she listened to him, made fun of him when his thoughts got dark — all gone.

This was it, he may as well give up, there was nothing left now, nothing to do but to accept The Void and at least have oblivion to take away the pain.

Everything became too surreal. The rest of the room was neat and tidy, still smelling of furniture polish, the cushions still piled up on the sofa where they curled up together for warmth and company. The place where they had tried to make life normal, carry on as if it all mattered, would make things better.

He was cradling her, sat on the floor sobbing like a child, rocking her naked battered body, trying to soothe the corpse as if it would bring her back.

Kathy, sweet Kathy, always full of life and hope, never giving up, always looking on the bright side. They were going to have a new start, go somewhere quiet, into the country, away from the madness, away from the ruins and the scavengers and the constant reminder of all that was lost since The Lethargy took away everything. He'd wanted to, anything for her. Anything.

Now the dreams were crushed, just like her head. Blond hair thick with still warm blood.

Her beautiful head, caved in and ruined. Just like their future, like everybody's future.

Kathy, what have they done to you? My beautiful Kathy.

There's nothing left now. Nothing.

Edsel stroked her beautiful blond hair. He'd always loved it, and he knew she found it soothing, taking her away from bad memories of the past.

She wouldn't want this Edsel, Kathy wouldn't let you give up, even now. She'd want you to carry on, to make her death mean something. Get up, get up before it's too late and—

Hello Ed, or should I say jty.

Edsel jumped, forgetting the fact that they were probably still in the house, forgetting for a moment the searing pain that ravaged his entire body.

It's now or never Edsel, make up your mind.

Thoughts whirled a mile a minute, then the decision was made.

Don't call me Ed, and don't you dare call me jty, you freak.

The man just smiled at him, calm and confident. Bishop, the one he had trusted and told of his despair so long ago. A different life. Now his original name was stripped from him, replaced with the title Bishop, nothing more. There were countless Bishops, just as there were Cardinals, initiates and acolytes — all had their names taken, replaced with a random three letter moniker, taking away their identity, all part of the religion's way of ensuring those in the church accepted that they were meaningless, not worthy of even a name — there just to help bring about The End, to finish off what The Lethargy had started.

There was loud banging at the door.

It was the others, those that had pursued him, they were here now too. Bishop turned at the noise and Edsel made his move. He grabbed the poker as he let go of Kathy for the last time, bouncing to his feet as his body screamed at him. Scabs tore and nerves lit up like fireworks but he swung anyway, the poker making contact with a satisfying crunch; Bishop reeled back against the door jamb. Edsel shouldered into him as the front door crashed open — wood splintered, and glass sprinkled onto the carpet.

No time to retrieve the bat, the poker would have to do.

His two remaining pursuers were inside, crunching over the fractal shards as they took in the scene before them. Edsel ran down the hall toward the kitchen at the back of the small house.

Damn, damn, damn. Where's the key?

The back door in the kitchen was sure to still be locked — they never left it so somebody could just walk in — but he'd told her time and time again to always leave the key in the lock just in case they needed to get out in a hurry. She had a habit of moving it for some reason he never did get an answer to. At least the net curtain over the glass was still in place — it made the room gloomy but ensured privacy during the day. It didn't matter now, nothing did.

There, on the counter-top, next to the microwave they should have thrown out ages ago — no point having it when there wasn't any power. He grabbed the key and pushed for the keyhole.

Ugh, missed. C'mon! Try again. Quick.

This time it slotted in perfectly; he turned it and the lock clicked.

He grabbed the handle, turning it as a hand reached out from behind him, slamming the door shut again.

Don't think so. You aren't going anywhere you traitor.

One of his attackers, one of the two that gave him The Ink, branding him forever as one of their foul believers in their sick and twisted religion.

Edsel shot an elbow back, the nerves raw as the red skin covered bone made contact and a satisfying oof swept warm bad breath over his neck. Edsel grabbed the door handle again and was out the door as he felt a hand clutch his sweatshirt.

The poker, you idiot, use the poker.

He swung backward blindly, but there was no aim and not much strength. He felt contact but it was soft and didn't help. He turned and aimed better, but he just didn't have the energy — he wanted to give up but he couldn't.

Kathy would kill me if I gave up. Haha. Get it together Edsel, move. Now.

Summoning up energy from he didn't know where, Edsel swung again, the poker smacking into the shoulder of the tattooist. What was he called? gbt, or something equally ridiculous. The strike reverberated up his arm and he could feel more skin weep across his chest where the swing had caused his arm to chafe. His armpit felt like a million biting ants were slowly eating his flesh; he could feel the sticky excretions begin to stain through his sweatshirt.

But he was free for a second.

He ran again.

All he did was run. He needed to stop, he needed to cry.

Edsel was crying. He ran down the garden, letting the salty tears fall freely until he had to wipe them away and let the salt bring pain flashing once more to his swollen, tattered hand.

He crashed through the overgrowth — the garden a mess of weeds and plants gone wild without any maintenance. The city was too dangerous to spend time outdoors at your home — the last thing you wanted was for anyone to know a property was occupied, especially by women. Edsel had been careful to hide Kathy as much as he possibly could — it was incredible how quickly men had turned back into cavemen and would drag off any female they thought was still Whole. Survival of the line became an obsession even as most of humanity curled up into a ball and slowly died.

Shit. Wall. This is going to hurt.

Get him! Don't you dare let him get away again. What's wrong with you?

Bishop was shouting at the two men. He could hear them crashing through the waist-high grass — they would be just as soaked as he was, but at least the rain had stopped. He didn't think he could have got any wetter but now his jeans were sodden and sticky seed heads were jabbing through the thick denim. It felt like he was getting The Ink all over again.

No time to think, just do it.

His heart hammered in his chest like it was going to explode; his legs were chafing horribly from the soaked denim, and now he had to get over a seven foot red-brick wall.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to brick up the door Edsel.

The new sneaker gave a little extra bounce as he leapt up, arms above his head.

The poker! Damn.

He was up though. He dropped the poker over the wall as a new pain joined with the old.

The glass!

Already brutalized forearms ripped, blood soaking through the sweatshirt, staining it dark. He'd bedded glass into the top just as an extra deterrent, but he'd forgotten. Feet scrabbled for purchase, and he scrambled higher onto the wall, but one of The Eventuals had his leg. He kicked out.

There goes the new sneaker.

He was up, belly scratching over the dislodged glass, sweatshirt riding high, deep gouges covering his stomach like the doodles of a child.

Over.

Yes!

The cold poker gave a welcome numbness to his hand as he picked it up and ran down the lane that divided the gardens of the rows of houses that backed onto each other.

Where to now? Why even bother?

REST

There was time, a little at least. But what was the point? What was he going to do now anyway? Edsel wasn't wallowing in pity, he genuinely had no idea. Without Kathy he just didn't know what he was supposed to do. If he was going to survive then he knew he had to get away from the city, but where to, and what for? What would Kathy want him to do? She would want him to keep his promise, that's what. Get away, to open fields and live a life they should have been living already.

It was increasingly difficult to think straight: he was too tired, too upset, and he hurt so much. It was impossible to think clearly; his head felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool, like nothing was making any sense.

Haha. Well, it hasn't for years now has it? Nothing makes sense, not one damn thing.

Edsel looked at himself in the mirror. He was going to have to do something about his skin — he wouldn't be able to keep moving like he had been. Already it had been what, almost two days since he'd escaped? It was only going to get worse as The Ink soaked deeper into the epidermis and The Fire — what they had called whatever it was they added to make the pain build and build for days — began to hurt more and more. More scabs would form from the tattoos and they needed time to heal, but he wasn't going to have the luxury of rest — they would find him again, soon. They always did.

Maybe I've got a few hours if I'm lucky.

Those that took The Ink voluntarily were kept from moving for days after the ordeal was over. He'd heard all about it, most people had, and they had gone in their droves to get the permanent marks, just so they could 'belong' before everything came to an end. Everyone was so lost that The Eventuals were all that were left for a lot of people; a sense of belonging to see out the final days of the human race as those that thought they had escaped The Lethargy began to succumb. It never relented, nobody was safe — populations were decimated, survivors worldwide became fewer by the day.

There was no way to know how many people were left, but while media, radio and the Web still worked, it seemed like it was only a few million across the globe. That had been years ago, now it would be much lower. The United Kingdom was like a ghost town. Streets were empty of everything apart from bodies, trash and rubble. Looting in the early days had emptied the stores and no services worked any longer.

Ugh. Look at me.

He'd run as fast and as far as he could, but he had to stop. He just had to. His body was screaming, his energy levels were exhausted, he was starving hungry, thirsty like he'd never been in his life. He felt like he was going to erupt — made of molten lava. He looked like it too. Worst of all, and what threatened to break him entirely, was that he was finding it hard to care.

He ran on, pushing himself past any boundaries, his heart empty, gone; broken. Alone again, just like before. Forever now — nobody would replace Kathy, nothing could.

Edsel ran, a hypnotic pace that numbed him to everything apart from just breathing. One foot in front of the other, just to get away, to escape from the nightmare his life had become. From his kidnappers, from the pain, from the emptiness. From himself.

When Edsel came back to reality he found himself in a warehouse district, a few miles from his home — a home he would never return to. He was free of them for a while, but they'd be back, they would find him. He wasn't in any doubt about it.

The bathroom was cramped, but at least it had a mirror and a few things that might be useful. And clothes, there were clothes! Dry ones.

Bodies too, just a few. He stepped over the decaying corpses and down a short corridor away from the foyer where a secretary had obviously shown up for work as she didn't know what else to do — she had succumbed right by the photocopier and eventually died sat leaning against the machine. Further on there was a man dressed smartly in shirt and tie who had probably just faded away where he stood, then finally crumpled unknowingly to the floor. Maybe they had both carried on showing up simply to act normal?

He'd seen it a lot, would have done the same thing himself if he'd ever had a job to go to. By the time he was old enough to work there was no such thing as a job any longer. He'd still been going to school until the teachers stopped showing up, the students too. Finally it was just him — sat alone at a desk, not knowing what else to do.

Back through the foyer there was a small canteen and a few other rooms for offices and a boardroom, then the warehouse itself. Nothing much of use was stacked on the rows of racking, just a load of electrical components that were now worthless. But in the lockers and in offices he'd managed to scrounge together some better clothes and footwear. Work clothes and a warm sweater.

All he'd had to do then was get his soaked and bloodied clothes off and try to think what to do, and how to cope with the life of being Inked and a wanted man by this Ward of The Eventuals.

What's wrong with them?

Shaking his head, he'd carefully tried to remove his clothes without causing too much more damage to his burning body.

It made him feel sick just thinking about what he was going to see — again.

When they'd secured him to the ceremonial table — in reality a gurney, probably from some kind of mental institute judging by all the leather straps — for The Ink to begin, then wheeled over the tables full of equipment, he'd squirmed and screamed and sworn vengeance on them for what they were