The Cerebral Series (Book 1): Outbreak

by Stuart Keane

  Emma, a short woman with black, spiked hair, was sketching on a blackboard with green chalk. She turned and smiled, the crease of her left cheek pierced with a silver stud. "Good morning, Mr Harrison."

  "Hello, Emma. How's your morning been?" Harrison checked his watch and realised it was just after eleven. Too early and eager! Your shift doesn’t start until midday.

  Emma wiped her hands on her apron. "Fine, thank you. What can I get you?"

  Harrison looked up at the menu. A vast blackboard on the wall above the counter offered a wide variety of goods, all drawn and sketched with Emma's talented chalking skills. She'd used mute pinks and greens to create a cabin with three happy bears and a table of baked goods. To the right were the items and their respective prices. Harrison was impressed at the dedicated craftsmanship.

  "Ummm … I'll have two sausage rolls, a ham baguette and a gypsy tart please."

  "Salt and pepper on the baguette?"

  "Yes please. And throw some lettuce in there too."

  Emma nodded and turned around, slipped a blue glove on her hand and went to work. "On your way to the office?"

  "Yep, duty calls and all that." Harrison looked around the bakery and realised he was now the only customer. "Quiet morning?"

  "There was a bit of a rush, but it always gets quiet on a Wednesday. You get a small surge at half seven with the school kids and parents but then it slows down until about ten, picks up again for an hour and dies off. Not sure why…"

  "Nice. Gives you time to relax and do your boards." Harrison pointed upwards. "They're very good by the way."

  Emma smiled. "It's very kind of you to say so. It keeps me busy and promotes the pastries. Be a bit useless if it didn't," she chuckled. Emma buttered the baguette and pinched some lettuce from a white tub, spreading it evenly along the bread. She folded two slices of ham and overlapped them. "Did you want any sauce?"

  "No, thank you."

  An easy silence settled on the bakery as Emma finished making the sandwich, bundling it into a paper towel and placing it in a brown bag, twisting the corners to seal it. She selected two crispy sausage rolls and slid them into another bag. She picked up a gypsy tart and placed it in a small cardboard box, lipping the sides closed. "Anything else?"

  "No, that’s great, thanks. How much do I owe you?"

  "Five-sixty. Just call it a fiver."

  Harrison grinned. The local hospitality.

  "Thank you very much." Harrison handed over a crinkled five-pound note and nodded at Emma. "You take care now."

  "Have a good day."

  Harrison stepped out of the door and moved to his car. As he did, a woman staggered over to him from his left. "Excuse ma, sir, do ya have an' change?"

  Harrison frowned, stepping to his car and balancing the items on the roof. He turned to face the woman. Her grey hair was tangled and knotted, falling onto her left shoulder in a greasy wiry bunch. The coat she wore was too tight and too small, despite her being frail and thin; the dirty denim accentuated her bony, malnourished form. Bright purple pyjama bottoms protruded from below the coat and covered a pair of filthy white slippers. She pushed a broken shopping trolley before her, which rattled with several broken and dented cans. Her eyes were lopsided; one stared at Harrison and the other observed to the right. Her stench was overwhelming.

  Harrison shivered. "No, sorry."

  "How 'bout one of dem sausage rolls?"

  The woman pointed a shaky dirt-caked finger at the greasy brown bag. Harrison noticed solid grime under her nails. "I'm sorry, love, these are for someone else," he lied.

  "Whatever, bet you're lying, innit."

  "That should be none of your concern."

  "What?"

  Harrison grunted, looking at the street below. He looked up, his mood now blunted. "If you want money, why don’t you get a job?"

  "No one will hire me … I have depression and shit. The doctor signed me orrffff."

  "Well, sorry, in that case, I can’t help you."

  "Shit licker!" The woman screamed and ran off down the street, filthy denim flailing in the wind. The tainted purple pyjama bottoms whipped behind her, a huge rip in the backside exposing her bony buttocks. Harrison noticed a yellowed, stained thong separating her mottled butt cheeks. Nausea overtook him. "Great, I don’t think I want the sausage rolls anymore."

  He collected the baked goods from the roof, climbed into the car and leaned back in the seat, relaxing. The crazy woman disappeared loudly around a corner as he closed his eyes. He tossed the bags onto the passenger seat.

  A couple of hours and I can get out of this dump for good.

  *****

  The pink shoes. They look so … pink!

  Pink and pretty. I must have them.

  Payday isn’t until Friday though.

  Hmmmm.

  Morgan ran her fingertips along the window of Shoo Boutique and smiled, never removing her wide eyes from the pink stilettos behind the perfect, shiny glass. She glanced up and gazed along the length of the shopping mall, keeping watch for the loitering, pain-in-the-arse security guards, the boys in blue who regularly ruined her fun. She couldn’t help being a kleptomaniac; it was a disease and a severe obsession. The boys in blue didn’t appreciate her desire to possess everything she liked.

  At least I'm not fucking killing people. Could be worse!

  Nervous, she twiddled her blonde hair between her fingers, curling it around her fingertip tightly, and stepped into the Shoo Boutique. The noise and chaos of the busy mall disappeared behind her.

  So many shoes!

  Still twiddling her hair, Morgan walked towards the window display slowly, trying to act normal as her ocean blue eyes scanned for a threat, and found the pink stilettos. They stood proud on a Perspex box, elevated to show the glorious colour and design. Her eyes twinkled in their ambience, the sounds of the world tuning out around her. Diamonds lined the stitching on the pink leather—probably fake considering the shoes only cost forty pounds—and white ribbons lined the heels. A smile crept over her face.

  Could she wait until Friday?

  Or could she take them now?

  Decisions, decisions…

  "Can I help you?"

  Morgan did nothing, didn't hear the voice, the question not registering in her mind.

  "Ahem … excuse me?"

  The sound came back and reality set in. Morgan turned to the right and took a step back, surprised by the new arrival. "Sorry, what?"

  A sales clerk—his shapeless face peppered with untidy bum fluff and acne and lined with greasy, dank hair—stood before her. The boy was clearly nervous in the presence of Morgan, something accentuated by his palms wringing one another frantically. A huge bulging whitehead sat on the peak of his long nose, the bridge of his wonky glasses balancing mere centimetres from it. She glanced at his crooked name badge. It read Trent.

  "Can I help you?"

  "Hi. No, thank you, I'm just browsing."

  He nodded. "If you need anything, let me know." His nasal voice grated on Morgan's eardrums. "I'll be right over there," he uttered, pointing to the counter located by the exit.

  "Thank you, I certainly will."

  With that, Trent ambled away. Morgan smiled. "Nice guy…"

  Morgan turned back to the shoes. She wanted them now. She couldn’t wait. Payday was no longer an option, too far away. She considered slipping them into one of her bags and walking out. That wouldn’t work—her bags were too small. She thought about the wire clipper in her purse, one she used to remove the security tags from her favourite items. The best option would be to walk out with them. Morgan glanced down and thanked herself silently that she'd worn her long skirt today. It would cover her feet.

  She picked up the shoes and walked towards the changing rooms. She selected a decoy blouse from a random rail on her journey, looked it up and down in a fake display of interest, and entered.

  Nice and easy. Slip them on, put your flip-flops in your handbag and walk.

  If
Trent gave her any trouble, she'd just sweet-talk him.

  Or give him a blowjob in the changing rooms, whichever worked best.

  She doubted it would take very long anyway, taking one look at him.

  Morgan chuckled. You're terrible. Sucking virgin cock for a pair of shoes? What has your life become?

  She left the question unanswered and turned her attention to the shoes.

  Besides, it would make the guy's day.

  Will you stop it?

  She wondered if anyone had ever lost his or her job for a quick sexual favour. She wondered if Trent would mind at all. She'd hate to ruin his career prospects at an age so young, but she'd prefer to have the shoes in her possession than worry about a stranger's résumé.

  Better to be prepared in any case.

  As she slipped the shoes on, she heard footsteps walking past the changing room. Morgan paused, her eyes watching the wooden door. She saw two feet casting oblique shadows through the narrow slit. They skittered away and a few seconds later, she heard another changing room door close.

  Just a customer.

  Morgan breathed out slowly. She realised she was sweating.

  Relax, you're not breaking any laws. Yet.

  *****

  "I don't know what to do, doctor. I wake up during the night, constantly, and I can never get back to sleep. The urges … the urges haunt me, they drive me insane and turn my dreams into terrifying nightmares, but I can’t do anything about them."

  Dr. Melanie Bartram shifted in her leather seat, unfolding her shapely legs—left over right—to place both feet on the plush carpet. She lifted the binder from her lap, the smooth wood rasping on her black tights, and placed it on the table beside her. She pushed her glasses up her delicate nose.

  "How regular are the dreams?"

  "I don’t know. I have them three, maybe four times a week."

  Melanie nodded. "And how does that make you feel?"

  "Um…I'm not sure, stressed I guess. On edge. Extremely tired. Sometimes I'll stay awake to avoid another nightmare, which can last for days. I stayed up for seventy-four hours once."

  "That's not healthy, and I don’t recommend doing that again. Your brain is exhausted, and frayed from the bad dreams. Starving it of needed rest is a bad idea."

  David nodded, saying nothing.

  "However, being on edge is good. You might not think this now, but stress is a core cause of your condition. The dreams could be a direct cause of this, and it could be your body's way of fighting your ... the urges. Carry on."

  David licked his lips. "This is bullshit, isn’t it?"

  Melanie leaned forward gently, her ample bosom squeezing against her crossed knees. She took a sip of her water. Her glasses balanced on the tip of her nose and her exquisite, green eyes studied her patient with genuine concern.

  This patient was a rare doozy—a sex addict who despised his urges, a man who found fault with his need to fulfil every sexual desire. She scanned her scribbled notes and his medical records. Multiple one-night stands, regular STD check-ups. David spent vast amounts of money on elite prostitutes and exotic strippers. He'd received a broken arm for touching a woman's bare buttock in a club with a no-touch rule, courtesy of an over-eager bouncer. He'd received a split lip when hitting on a married woman in the street. On two occasions, he'd suffered extensive wrist strain from intense masturbation. Melanie stifled a laugh at that one, and covered it with a fake cough. She didn’t realise the urban myth of an injury was actually based on some truth.

  Poor guy.

  The reason David sat before her? A sexual harassment case, one that dropped him deep in therapy for ogling a workmate’s shapely behind. She'd noticed, pulled the PC card and complained. The resulting investigation resulted in him being given a choice: thirty hours of therapy or the loss of his job. He took the former. One department transfer and several sessions later, and here they were.

  Melanie shook her head. How do you get compulsory therapy for merely looking at a woman? What was the world coming to? She closed her eyes for a second, breathed, and pushed it to the back of her mind.

  Aside from this, David was ordinary, your average male. Just a man with an overhyped sex drive. She looked up and flinched, nearly dropping her binder. David raised his leering eyes from her cleavage a second too late.

  She shivered.

  Ordinary, but still a pervert. That look.

  She shivered again. That stare was blank, strangely vacant.

  It almost reminded her of…

  Cut him some slack, you put the girls on display today.

  You should have known better with his condition.

  Future note to self, don’t lean forward anymore. And start wearing polo necks to the office for safety's sake, especially during his sessions.

  Melanie leaned back in her chair, smiling.

  "If you don’t think the sessions are working out for you, we can stop at any time."

  David shook his head. "I don’t think that's necessary. The sessions are helping," he lied.

  *****

  Bruce huddled against the concrete lip of the roof, the crumbling overhang providing the young boy some relief from the biting wind. His thin coat was useless against the elements, a beaten hand-me-down from the children's home. His jeans and jumper, both threadbare from years of use, fared no better. Shuffling in his pockets, he removed a Zippo lighter and held it in his hand, balancing it gently. Lifting his watery gaze to the town of Barrington, he sighed.

  So close.

  Close … but no cigar.

  They were perfect. A great mum and dad.

  Until they said no.

  The home told me they changed their mind.

  But I know otherwise.

  I know how they work.

  Bruce breathed in, the cold swelling his tiny lungs. It soothed him a little. As he exhaled, a cool mist seeped into the bitter air. It merged with the heat filtering from a rooftop air conditioner. The musky smell of spent heat tickled his nostrils.

  No one wants you.

  The home will ensure that remains permanent.

  You're too old, anyway. Couples always want someone younger.

  The young boy spun the lighter on his palm, his heavy attention wandering. He opened and closed the lid between his fingertips and fought the aching feeling deep within. He sniffed and hacked in his throat, the mucus subsiding, refusing to shed a tear.

  Too late.

  You pretty much ran from the room crying.

  That ship saaaailed…

  Bruce flicked the flint wheel on the lighter and a metallic clang echoed off the rooftops before a yellow flame danced majestically, warming his gloved hand. He admired the lighter; it was his one possession in the world. A fine piece of workmanship, the smooth brass all glossy and rounded, and excellent in every way. The manufacturer, as he had learned through the occasional internet browse, was one that spoke of perfection and unity, of stability and long-term greatness. In his eyes, it was everything he was not.

  For the first time in almost a year, he smiled.

  Such beauty in something so simple.

  The simple things are always the best.

  You're simple.

  Yet, no one thinks you're the best.

  Bruce closed the lighter and slipped it into his pocket. The wind was chilling him to the bone. As he climbed to his feet, he shivered. He needed to find a different hiding place.

  A noise from the left caught his attention. Looking over the concrete lip, he spotted Simon and Remy, two fellow children from the home. They were wandering aimlessly across the rooftop, laughing and chatting, headed in his direction. They were the last people he hoped to see.

  Shit.

  Ducking down, Bruce considered his limited options.

  I'm not done.

  Not yet.

  I'm not going back to that home.

  And no one can make me.

  TWO

  Sean Harrison drummed on the steering wheel, his vehicle sti
ll idling outside Bob's. His stare was a mile long, gazing into the distance, ignoring the buildings, people, and congested infrastructure that sat before him. The lush trees, the friendly residents, the careful drivers; he saw none of it; he just tried to envision his new future, his existence in a place other than Barrington. And although he could imagine it, he couldn’t foresee it.

  The image was there, but blurred, a little out of focus, like a poorly developed photograph.

  And it remained that way.

  Strange, he thought.

  Maybe I like this place more than I care to admit.

  Get the promotion first. Everything will sort itself out.

  One step at a time.

  Sean glanced at the brown bakery bags on his passenger seat. Grease had darkened the paper, in a random array of splotches. The enticing smell had slowly evaporated with the passenger window open. Sean sighed, checked the clock on the dashboard, and reached for the key in the ignition.

  A young woman crossed the road, walked up to his door, paused, and knocked twice with a thin knuckle. The glass thudded at her touch. Sean smiled and buzzed the window down. He didn’t recognise the girl, who was subtlety attractive, a girl-next-door type. She looked nervous, wary. He smiled.

  "Yes?"

  "Sorry to intrude, Mr Harrison?"

  She knows me? Small world.

  "Not at all. How can I help?"

  "You work with the police, right?"

  "I do. Is there a problem?"

  "Erm … I'm not sure. My husband is missing."

  Husband? She looks a little young to be married.

  "Okay."

  The girl folded her arms. "I wouldn’t trouble you with this, but he's been gone for over a day. You have to wait twenty-four hours to report it, right?"

  "No, not at all, that's something they say for television and the movies."

  Sean peered through the driver window, and noticed a narrow gap between the door and the woman. He didn’t want to open the door quickly and frighten her; she looked a little fragile. Sensing his hesitation, the woman backed away, a weak grin on her face. He nodded, climbed from the car, and closed the door. He smiled again, composing himself. "The twenty-four hour thing is optional; if you feel he's in immediate danger, you can report at your discretion."