Genocide

By Alan Berkshire

Humanity is in a race against extinction.

Having survived a horrific attack by the Creeps, Adam Blake is badly scarred and weak. Though no one believes him, the attack-and subsequent coma-cursed Adam with prophetic visions wherein the Creeps evolve, the vines grow out of control, and a new threat rises to bring

• Language: English
• Publisher: 4 Horsemen Publications
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823204507

Alan Berkshire

Originally from London, United Kingdom, now settled in Texas, U.S.A. A wanderer, writer, artist, Pagan. A child that never grew up, (and never will)My two mainstays in life that keep me sane and supposedly grounded are my son, Nick, and my wife, Maria Elena. They make life worthwhile.My other great loves are the outdoors, reading, movies and superheroes.Forever young.

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Prologue

August 2018

The Triumph Tiger 1200 XRT motorcycle thundered along the A596 at breakneck speed. The rider hunched low over the petrol tank as a shower of white gleaming spears fell all around. John Sage was a big man, making him an easy target. It was only his speed that kept him safe from the deadly rain of venomous projectiles. One scratch, one touch of the lethal poison coating the missiles, would mean certain death. He had been careless and had allowed his mind to wander as he cruised along the near-deserted, six-lane motorway, enjoying the bright sunshine, the clear blue skies, and the beautiful Cumbrian countryside with its green rolling hills and wooded fields. He was thinking about Linda, about what might have been, and he had forgotten the danger.

A dumb mistake.

As he passed a large copse on the left side of the motorway, a spear flew from out of the dense foliage of the trees, narrowly missing him, startling him out of his pleasant reverie, and reminding him of the ever-present dangers.

Fuck!

Two more spears streaked out of the trees, one bouncing off his crash helmet. He twisted the accelerator wide open, and the motorcycle roared forward with a surge of power, practically flying along the road, whisking Sage away from the immediate danger as a shower of spears erupted from the dark depths of the copse.

His relief was short-lived.

Ahead, trees, branches, and a tangle of undergrowth were piled across the carriageway, blocking the road. It looked to be very thick and sturdy, forcing him to stop. There was no getting through that barricade.

No way, he muttered, looking at the densely packed obstacle stretching across the entire road in amazement.

Have they learned how to set traps? Is that possible? They are evolving, getting bigger, more intelligent. They are using overgrown thorns from the vines as spears, for Christ’s sake!

Sage glanced behind. He was away from the trees, but thick bushes still lined both sides of the carriageway, ample protection from the blistering sun. They hated the sun. They would be coming. Even as the thought entered his mind, the foliage began to thrash wildly and three monsters straight from the maw of hell burst out of the trees, landing on the carriageway a mere hundred and fifty yards away. They stood just under four feet six inches tall, ape-like. White matted fur covered their powerful shoulders and down their back. A long, narrow strip of hair, like a mohawk, ran over the crown of the bullet head. Flat faces with slits for a nose and gleaming, insane eyes as red as blood glared at the man.

Sage felt a tingle skitter over his body. They carried long white spears dripping a colourless liquid onto the roadway: lethal poison.

Creeps— he breathed.

The spears were actually thorns taken from the sentient alien vines that had appeared just after the Black Dust fell eight months ago. They had voraciously consumed every piece of open ground, garden, park, forest, and wood, choking the land, and killing people by the thousands.

Throwing their long arms up, brandishing their deadly spears, the Creeps howled soundlessly. They had no voice, making their frequent attacks more eerie. Their wide mouths were filled with sharp, vicious teeth. Sage snatched the Glock from his shoulder rig and opened fire. Two of the Creeps spun away, one shot in the chest, the other in the head. The third rushed forward with surprising speed. The brute was almost on Sage before he managed to get another two shots off. The creature fell back, brackish blood fountaining from its shattered face. Almost immediately, several more Creeps dropped out of the trees, charging Sage. Two threw their spears. Sage was already moving. Gunning the motorcycle, he spun around and headed for the left side of the barricade. There was no railing and though the ground looked soft, Sage had no choice.

He cursed as the bike’s tyres hit the grassy verge, nearly pitching him off the machine. Fighting to keep his balance, he roared past the blockade. He struggled to get back onto the pavement. Two Creeps popped up beyond the barricade right in front of the teetering motorcycle. Sage ploughed into one, sending the Creep spinning away in a windmill of limbs as it tumbled along the blacktop. The other leapt at the machine, hitting the faring and bouncing away.

The motorcycle crashed onto its side, sparks flying as it spun on the road. Sage slid along right beside it, thankful for his bike leathers. Coming to a stop, he gained his knees as stars danced before his eyes. The Creep rushed in. Sage pulled his helmet off his head and lurched to his feet, swinging the helmet into the charging Creep’s face and was rewarded with the satisfying crunch of bone. The Creep flipped over, landing on its front, and lay still, a flood of brackish blood spreading out from beneath the shattered visage. Another Creep was coming over the barricade. Sage threw the helmet at the monster and ran for his motorcycle. Heaving it upright, he leapt astride the pillion.

The Creep kept coming. Pulling the Remington shotgun from the holster fixed to the side of the bike, he took quick aim and blasted the Creep back to the hell from which it came. Sage holstered the shotgun. He had a heart-stopping moment when he thought the motorcycle wasn’t going to start; then the machine burst into life. He swung it around and, with tyres screaming, Sage raced off down the motorway in a cloud of smoke and burning rubber.

Whitehaven looked peaceful. Sage had expected it to, as most of the inhabitants had already been evacuated. The Creeps and sentient vines had forced him to take an extremely circuitous route to get there. He knew he would have some trouble; the Lake District had an abundance of rolling green hills and woodlands. It was the perfect breeding ground for the vines and their ape-like protectors. That proved to be the understatement of the year. A lot of the minor roads were choked with vines, grown large, impassable, with a high concentration of Creeps forcing him to make detour after detour. Finally, he had reached his destination, having taken nearly four hours to make a journey that normally would have taken just under an hour. Taking a well-deserved rest to ease his aching back from long hours on the motorcycle, he sat on a rock overlooking the town. The blazing mid-day sun baked the town, a town with a diverse history that started with coal mining, tobacco, silk, and God knows what else. Sage had forgotten. It had been a long time since he had lived there—better times.

The harbour languished in the sun that glinted on a calm sea. There were the quays, the Beacon Museum, and the candlestick chimney. The harbour, once a thriving shipping community, was now a marina for the rich and lazy, though there were very few boats moored there. The world was dying and there was no time for leisure sailing anymore. People had fled the rural towns and gone to the big cities, hoping to find protection from the vicious invaders. Many didn’t make it.

None of this held any immediate interest for Sage. He headed for a nondescript building on the south side of the town that was a lot more than it seemed. Important research was being conducted there. After the Redhill facility in Surrey was overrun by vines and a veritable army of Creeps, they moved the research to Whitehaven. Upon reflection, and based on some disturbing recent events, Sage wondered if it had been coincidental. Something deep in his gut told him it wasn’t.

The research facility had been working on a solution to the vines and the Creeps, searching for a way to destroy them both without turning the whole of the U.K. into a sterile dust bowl. He had been head of the security division, one of the last to leave the Surrey facility. Sage smiled grimly, thinking back to that last day. The vines had breached the walls, torn down the electrified fences, and the Creeps had swarmed in by the hundreds seeking blood and death. It must have been quite a surprise when they found the entire complex deserted. It must have been an even greater surprise when the entire facility was blown to kingdom come.

It had been a drop in the ocean.

Sage got to his feet, gazing out over the sea, bright in the sunshine. The Surrey facility had barely scratched the surface of the mystery of the vines and Creeps—where they had come from, what they were doing here, how to destroy them. Sage hoped Whitehaven was making better progress.

The cats are barking, the dogs are purring… Sage thought, mounting the bike. The whole fucking world’s gone crazy…

One

End of March 2019

He didn’t recognise the man staring back at him from the mirror. He looked a hundred years old, not the 33 he actually was. He was still thin, too thin, even after seven weeks of Sally Lowell’s constant medical attention and good food. He would have been a perfect model for L.S. Lowry. His ribs still showed, his collarbones were stark against his broad shoulders, and the deep, sunken pits that were his eyes were haunted, bleak. His long, dark hair cascading down his back looked sleek, healthy, and somehow incongruous, surrounding a skull-like head. Both Linda and Sally had wanted to cut his hair, but he wouldn’t let them. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps in homage to Jules Robideaux. Thinking of Jules brought more pain to his heart.

The first time Adam had been attacked by a Creep, way back when in Denford Park, it had been Jules who had saved him. Poisoned by the venom in the ape-like creature’s saliva, Adam had only been out of it for a few weeks. He paused, thinking of all that had happened since. It seemed so long ago, but it was just fourteen months. A different lifetime and in a different world. Adam’s normally short hair had grown out, and he liked it and had worn it long ever since. For Jules, he thought sombrely, a fallen and much-missed friend and mentor. He could still see the old man in his mind’s eye, the narrow skull, the salt and pepper hair, and the easy smile accompanied by dark, intelligent eyes. Adam pushed the memory away.

He traced the scars that crisscrossed his torso with a finger, stopping at the large one on his right shoulder, the one with the teeth marks. His left hand trembled as his fingers rested against the ruined flesh. The heavy bandage covering his left forearm hid the worst of his injuries. He had never really seen the damage his arm had sustained during his fight with the Creep a few brief months ago, just after the family—what the group of survivors called themselves—had reached their new home in Scotland. He knew the damage was extensive. Whenever Sally changed the dressing, Adam looked away, afraid to see, not wanting to know. The monster had followed the family all the way from Dartford in Kent to Scotland, bent on revenge after Adam had severed the Creep’s right claw during the battle on Queen Elizabeth the Second Bridge as they fled the devastation that was London. Adam couldn’t believe the creature’s tenacity—its determined single-mindedness to hunt him down over five hundred miles. In a way, it was frightening. The Creeps were scary enough without them developing a sense of purpose, especially being born of malevolence.

Sally had done a good job. She had saved his arm, though it was weak, and he had lost some of the feeling in his left hand. Nerve damage. Sally was a wonder. She was the family’s resident nurse, midwife, cook, and a bright, smiling, red-headed star in their dark firmament, forever cheerful. Adam delighted again and again, wanting to hear the story of how Sally had used a soldering iron to cauterise the terrible damage done to his arm—a soldering iron! Only Sally.

Adam smiled, but his smile had a bleakness to it. At least I am alive, he thought. Barely.

The world had become a place of nightmare when the Black Dust fell, bringing with it sentient, venomous vines that grew and overran everything with voracious speed, armed with lethal thorns exuding a poison that was fatal with a mere touch, choking the land, the villages, and the towns, even some of the bigger cities. London had fallen before anyone knew the real danger. Millions had died all over the country and many more were still dying. London had been reduced to ash and rubble in a cataclysmic firestorm, destroyed by thermobaric bombs. It hardly put a dent in the invasive spread of the vines that continued to grow, infesting the woodlands and forests, protected by the monstrous Creeps, ape-like, silent killers. As far as Adam knew, the Creeps were procreating at an alarming rate, keeping pace with the ever-spreading vines.

He wondered dully if there would ever be an end to the horror and sighed heavily. He hoped so.

One day at a time, he muttered.

Two

End of January 2019

After five weeks of Adam being bedridden, almost comatose, the first day he finally got out of bed would forever be etched in Linda Stephens’s mind. Seeing him try to stand, hold his balance, so frail, broke her heart. He had stumbled, and she leapt to help him, only to be waved away by his frantically flapping hand, his gaunt face set grim, still as stubborn as ever, determined. He was going to walk by himself or not at all.

It had taken him nearly twenty minutes to get dressed in only a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, having to sit on the floor to get his trainers on, fumbling repeatedly with the laces. His belt was far too big now and his jeans wouldn’t stay up. Ever resourceful, he solved the problem with a length of paracord—a very strong but thin length of rope.

The height of fashion, she had joked. They’ll all be wearing rope belts within the week.

Adam’s head was spinning. He felt dizzy, but he was determined to get out of the house. He had been cooped up too long. He ached to see green again, the blue sky.

Sally’s given me a walking stick, Linda said. It should help.

No, Adam said. I’ll stand on my own two feet, he insisted.

Linda didn’t argue. Tag, the border collie, whined, cognisant of his master’s struggle but canny enough to keep clear so as not to inadvertently trip Adam up. The collie was supposed to be a family pet, only someone forgot to tell Tag. He had stayed by Adam’s bedside day in and day out, all through Adam’s confinement, lying quietly beneath his bed like a silent sentinel.

It’s alright, mate. Adam smiled at the anxious dog. I’ve got this.

Tag wasn’t so sure, whining low in his throat as Adam got to the front door where he paused, leaning heavily on the doorframe.

Are you okay? Linda asked worriedly from behind him.

Just getting my second wind, Adam said.

His face was white as cream, sheened with sweat. Taking a deep breath, he straightened and stepped out into the sunshine. He had a brief two seconds to enjoy the warm breeze that pleasantly dried the clammy perspiration from his hollow cheeks and forehead. He closed his eyes and felt the sun beating down on his upturned face, making him smile. He had almost forgotten how good it felt.

The applause brought him back to the now. Startled, he opened his eyes. The whole family was gathered in front of the little stone cottage. A crowd of smiling faces, laughter, and calls of Welcome back, Good to see you up and around, and You’ve been missed greeted him.

Adam was suddenly choked with emotion, swallowing hard. He saw Sally Lowell, tears of joy in her bright blue eyes. Beside her was Natalie Nat Morrison, clapping enthusiastically, nodding her head approvingly. Terry and Teresa Moore, the Taylors, Tom and his three sons, Pete Hogan, Trish Morgan, Alan Holden, Jeff Shepherd, the McCormicks, and Hilda Quinlan, all of his extended family was there.

Bloody hell! Laughed Charlie Donovan. Talk about the walking dead!

Cheers mate! I needed that, Adam said wryly.

Don’t let Tag get too close. He’s liable to mistake you for a bone and bury you! continued Charlie, grinning broadly.

Tag barked excitedly on hearing his name, looking from Charlie to Adam, his bushy tail wagging furiously.

Charlie! Julie, Charlie’s wife, chided him, planting her elbow into his ribs.

Adam looked over the heads of the crowd and spotted Tina Mitchell standing in the shadow of a makeshift gazebo