Touch: Book One: Touch, #1

By Steven Jenkins

One touch is all it takes.
Then a rash. Sickness. And death.
But death is not the end.

 

Adam has an extraordinary talent. He has the power to heal. But when a deadly virus sweeps the world, turning its victims into violent zombies, his gift is pushed to its very limits.

 

As the undead fill the streets with disease, Adam must face the horde, venturing across the country to find his daughter, Erin - a young girl already tortured by the death of her mother.

 

Through the bedlam, will Adam conquer his own grief for his late wife, and become the father he once was?

 

Or will the dead take the remnants of humanity and end his turmoil once and for all?

 

 

TOUCH is the first book in a brand-new two-part zombie series.

 

WHAT THE READERS ARE SAYING:

★★★★★ Best yet!

★★★★★ Outstanding start!

★★★★★ Can't wait for the next book!

★★★★★ You won't be able to put this down!

★★★★★ One of a kind!

★★★★★ A twist in the zombie apocalypse!

★★★★★ Tense storyline with lots of action!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Jenkins
• Release date: Apr 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9798224715916

Steven Jenkins

Steven Jenkins is a San Francisco-based cultural critic whose writings on film, music, art, and literature appear in national periodicals, exhibition catalogues, and artist monographs. He is the author of City Slivers and Fresh Kills: The Films of Gordon Matta-Clark and Model Culture: James Casebere, Photographs 1975-1996.

Book preview

Touch

Book One

Steven Jenkins

Contents

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PROLOGUE

PART ONE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

PART TWO

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

PART THREE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

PART FOUR

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

Touch - Also Available

Burn the Dead - Also Available

Blue Skin - Also Available

Little Horrors - Also Available

Liam Tate - Also Available

Ghost Novels - Also Available

Novellas - Also Available

Thea - Also Available

Twisted Locker - Podcast

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About Author

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Copyright

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For a limited time, you can download FREE copies of Amber, Under, Rotten Bodies, The Den, A Cure for Everything, and Thread.

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PROLOGUE

The rain hammers down, freezing my limbs, a stream of sweat and water running into my eyes. I’m beyond tired. Beyond dirty. A mud monster. Keep going. Get it over with. With blistered palms, I spoon the earth, launching it faster and faster as I descend into the grave.

The sun has vanished. The cemetery even more ominous. The lantern the only source of light.

This is taking too long.

I’m about four feet down, chest height, and my feet and ankles are submerged in black water. But I keep going. Digging. Deeper and deeper. Shutting out the cold. The rain. The—

Through the sound of rain hitting the grass and stone, I hear something.

A tapping. It’s faint. Could be anything.

The further I dig, the louder it gets. Probably the rain. Do you hear that?

Kelly doesn’t reply because she’s out of earshot, distracted, so I don’t bother repeating my question.

By the fifth foot down, it’s clear that the muffled drumming is coming from beneath the ground.

My stomach churns with dread. Impossible.

I dig faster.

A part of me wants to stop. Wants to pretend that I don’t hear it. Just the rain. Just my imagination. Maybe the vibrations from something else. An overflowing water-pipe. Someone drilling nearby.

Deeper.

Almost six feet down.

The tapping morphs into a hefty stomp.

My heart bounces inside my chest, squeezing my muscles, stripping me of breath. But I keep digging.

Deeper.

The sound is now clear. Fists thumping against wood.

Jesus fucking Christ!

She’s alive!

I drive the shovel into the pool of dirt until I hit something hard. A coffin. I speed up again, throwing the mud out of the hole using my bare hands.

I touch the smooth wooden surface. In fright, I retract my hand when the casket judders.

The subdued echo of a child bawling startles me, horrifies me, sending me into the mud wall.

I heard something, Kelly says, her voice animated. She peers down into the grave.

I don’t reply. I can’t. There are no words as I scramble through the filthy soup, desperate to get the lid open.

Oh, my God! Kelly bellows. She’s alive! She’s alive! Open the coffin! Get her out of there!

PART ONE

THE RACE

ONE

There’s a blond man sitting in the waiting area, a clipboard resting on his lap. Mr Morris. New patient. I throw him a friendly nod and then close the door. Washing my oily hands in the sink, I glare at my reflection in the mirror. My skin is paler than usual. Not enough sleep. I run my hand through my short hair, remembering when I had less of a forehead and more of a smile. I check my teeth, take a swig from my mug, and wipe down the massage table.

Mr Morris? I call out into the reception.

He shuffles nervously in his seat, a strained grin across his hard, creased face. Yes?

Would you like to come through?

The tall man follows me inside the treatment room, and I close the door behind him. I take the clipboard from him and scan through his screening form. Paul William Morris. Mortgage advisor. Non-smoker. No underlying health conditions. Not bad for forty-six.

Please, take a seat on the massage table, I say, steering him over to it. How can I help you?

His lanky frame is rigid. He’s either anxious about being here, or he’s in a shitload of pain. A little of both, usually.

It’s my right shoulder, he says, jabbing it with his finger. It’s been playing up lately. Shooting pains. Stiffness.

Okay, Mr Morris. Let’s see what we can do. Do you mind popping your T-shirt off?

He removes it and throws it on the chair. Call me Paul.

No problem. I follow the contours of his shoulder joint. It feels tight, but normal for his age. So, how did it happen, Paul?

Old rugby injury. It just flared up out of the blue.

Oh, I’ve treated my fair share of players over the years. Brutal bloody sport.

Yeah. Tell me about it.

Great for business, though.

Paul chuckles. I bet.

I slowly lift his arm. Does it hurt when I do this?

A little.

I ease it behind his back. How about now?

It’s okay. You ever play rugby?

No. Well, apart from a little in school.

And why’s that?

Too much of a temper. I’d get sent off for throwing a tantrum. I massage the front of his shoulder.

Grow up around here?

Yes. Born and bred. I can’t seem to find any knots or swelling, so I move around to his shoulder blade.

Haven’t lived anywhere else?

I shake my head. Nope. Just Bristol.

I detect a hint of Welsh in your accent. Sure you’ve never lived in Wales?

Nope. I’ve been there a few times on holiday, but that’s about it.

You remind me of someone, too.

Chris Hemsworth, I hope.

Paul doesn’t react to my bad joke. No. This man had a very special talent.

Oh, yeah. My mouth dries up as I work my thumb into his scapula. What kind of talent?

He could heal people.

Well, I wish I could do that. I let out a forced laugh. I’d make a bloody fortune. I grab the bottle of oil from the shelf. Let’s see if we can’t loosen up that shoulder for you. Could you lie down on the bed, Paul? Try to relax.

He doesn’t budge, just looks at me with stern eyes that glisten with tears. I know it’s you.

I shoot him a grimace, unsure if I should throw him out or ignore him. I think you might have mistaken me for someone else. I grin, but it feels uncomfortable, disingenuous on my face. Must have one of those faces.

You don’t have to worry, Adam. I won’t tell anyone who you are. Honestly. But I need your help.

My smile vanishes. Your shoulder seems fine, Paul. I hand him his T-shirt. No charge for today. If you have any further issues, it might be worth getting an MRI scan at the hospital. I open the door. Have a great day.

It’s my wife. She has terminal cancer.

I’m sorry to hear that, Paul.

We’ve tried every treatment available. He puts on his T-shirt. If you could just meet with her. Even for two minutes. We’re staying in the Westview Hotel in the city centre. Near the theatre.

Look, Paul, it’s awful what’s happened to your wife, but I’m just a physiotherapist. She needs a doctor.

He pulls out a card from his wallet and forces it into my hand. We’ll be here for the next three days.

I slip the card into my pocket and escort him through the waiting area. Like I said, there’s nothing I can do for her. I gesture to the exit. She needs to see a specialist.

As he passes the reception desk, he glances back at me. Just think about it, Adam. Please. That’s all I ask.

Goodbye, Paul. And good luck.

When he’s finally out of the building, I let out a heavy sigh of relief. Great start to the week.

What was that about? Wendy asks from behind the desk, a hard frown across her brow.

Oh, nothing, I reply. Just some nutter.

TWO

My shoulders feel like cast iron, and my head throbs. After nine hours stuck in that clinic, I’d kill for a massage of my own. I grab a coffee mug from the kitchen cupboard and fill it with whiskey. Each swig removes a slither of weight from my body as I lean against the worktop. Too spent even to pull out a chair and sit at the table.

Erin walks in, still wearing her school uniform, and the same grimace she had this morning. She flicks her golden hair from her green eyes and opens the fridge.

You okay, sweetheart? I ask, straightening like the boss has just arrived.

She mumbles something as she takes out a packet of ham from the shelf.

How’s school?

Fine. She opens the food cupboard. Where’s the bread?

I think we might have run out. I’ll get some tomorrow on my way home.

Don’t bother, she says under her breath, and returns the ham to the fridge.

She spots me taking a swig from my mug.

Nice coffee? she asks, her tone laced with sarcasm.

God knows why I bother hiding it from her. I almost say something smart back, but instead I opt for changing the subject. "Your grandfather called this afternoon. Asked if you wanted to spend next weekend with them. Might be nice. You haven’t