Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Deadweight
Paul Forster
Copyright © 2019 Paul Forster
Book Cover Design by ebooklaunch.com
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER ONE
PETER HAD SPENT four lonely weeks in his house. He'd seen neighbours and strangers try to flee and then be murdered in front of him. These things weren't particularly fast, and they didn't even appear to be that strong. Sometimes it’d be just one or two, he’d even gone a day seeing none of the monsters but it’s when they came in numbers, that’s when you could see their power. Mobs, dozens strong in numbers stumbling past his house, looking to taste the flesh of anyone or anything stupid or desperate enough to be on the streets.
John and Anna had lived opposite Peter for nearly three years; they were in their early thirties and recently started trying for a baby. They were in great shape. John was a brick outhouse of a man, at six-feet four-inches, he was intimidating, that is until you spoke to him, then you saw the gentle giant for what he was. Anna was nearly six-feet tall herself, attractive and athletic, she had run the London marathon last year and achieved a personal best. Compared to Peter, these people were Olympians. Peter was a slightly overweight thirty-three-year-old standing at five-feet nine-inches tall, he wasn't impressive. Years of being sat behind a desk as an IT Security consultant hadn't prepared him for the world as it was on this day.
Peter saw John and Anna as they made the move he was too much of a coward to contemplate. Their front door quietly edged open and John nervously stepped out. John wasn't a foolish man and had built himself some personal armour. A thick leather jacket and a cricket batsman's helmet would hopefully offer some protection and no doubt it'd protect against a single bite or scratch, but that isn't how these creatures operated.
John held a cricket bat firmly, a hatchet and a large kitchen knife dangled from his waist. He gave a quick glance to check everything was clear before signalling Anna to join him. Anna's didn’t have the luxury of a helmet or thick jacket, agility and speed would be her protection, her weapon of choice was a spear created with a broom handle and a kitchen knife.
Peter admired them. They were making a break for it. They had a small backpack each with the last of their supplies and they were going. Peter hoped they'd see him, take him with them, he waved but they didn't look up. John and Anna didn't care who or what lurked in the houses. They only gave their attention to the things outside. Peter didn't dare bang on the windows or shout. He was a coward. He was scared, but he knew that was a bad idea for himself and his neighbours.
The first of the creatures slowly ambled out from a collection of shrubs at the end of the road, it was a good fifty yards away and Peter was confident it wouldn't pose a problem for his brave heroes. The monster was grotesquely swollen, its flesh discoloured and what remained of its clothing stained with blood and other bodily fluids. This was an old one. It wasn't recently turned, it must have been right at the outbreak. Its face had several large boils, that wasn’t normal even for these things. Peter squinted to see if he could recognise it as a former neighbour, he was concentrating so hard he'd taken his attention away from John and Anna. It startled all three when it let out a loud deep groan. Jesus, Peter had never seen one do that before.
As fit and brave as they were, just like Peter, they were unlikely to have fought one before. How should they do it? Should they do it at all? Their car was clear and they could drive off and just ignore it. It was a big bastard, but it wouldn't be a match for the silver Honda CRV. That was when the second one appeared behind them, a little distance off. This was a fresh one. Its body still kept much of its colour. Give it a shower and a change of clothes it could almost pass as human. John appeared to decide, they'd run. Get in that car and drive. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Still none of them had noticed number two, and it was getting closer.
It was nearly in reach of Anna when Peter saw it. He wanted to scream, bang on the glass. But he couldn't. Its hand reached out towards Anna's neck. As it was about to grab her, she spun round and stabbed it in the eye with her spear. The force knocked it to the floor and Anna used the blade to scramble its brains through the eye socket. It thrashed but didn't scream out. John had now joined the attack and bashed it firmly on top of the head with the cricket bat. The crack it produced was sickening. It stopped moving nearly instantly. Time to go.
John grabbed Anna and pushed her towards the car. Now the original creature was upon them, John swung out with the bat and connected firmly with its face, separating the flesh on its cheek from its jaw. It stayed on its feet and let out another loud groan, this time whistling through the extended hole freshly created in its face. In the distance, another groan sounded out. John stumbled back, stunned by the sight of the damage to this creature in front of him, he dropped the bat and went for his hatchet. Raising it above his own head he swung it down with all his might landing it on top of the creatures' skull. It howled out once more, this time two distant responses answered back.
It stepped back but remained standing, the hatchet still firmly embedded in its cranium. It
swung out and grabbed John's wrist, digging nails deep into the leather sleeve and into his flesh. It was John’s turn to scream out. Peter was nearly crying.
The engine started on the car and Anna put her foot down before ploughing the car into the creature sending it on its arse and ten feet away as she slammed down the brake pedal. John threw open the door and jumped inside, blood dripping down his arm.
The creature looked up to them and again made a terrifying cry.
Anna didn't wait for John to shut the door, the car sped off, dealing a glancing blow to the monster on its way through. The car had gone. They'd made it with only a minor injury.
The creature got back to its feet, looked at the direction the car had gone and gave a slow, determined pursuit. This wasn't good, he'd seen these things take punishment before, but never this much. Never had he heard one make that noise, now they appeared to be communicating.
For the first time he knew his future would be in his own hands. Any hope Peter had of this all blowing over and being rescued had gone by the realisation things could get worse. They just did.
His options seemed limited to how he’d die. Starving to death alone and afraid or being eaten alive by one of these things? Neither option was attractive. Maybe he should just kill himself. Take back control and not become a meal for one of those stinking bastards. Peter didn't have any pills, he didn't have a gun, he'd have to cut his wrists. He had just the knife. It was the sharpest in his kitchen and had tasted his blood frequently when he proved his clumsiness.
So, he'd kill himself, slit his wrists but when? His house had proved safe, but food was running low. He had maybe three days left of his meagre supplies. It'd be a shame to kill himself now, however unlikely it was help may be around the corner, but Peter knew it wasn't, so why prolong this suffering? The food supplies he had left comprised of a tin of tuna, one of corned beef, two jars of pasta sauce, a pack of ready-mixed porridge oats and five tins of sweetcorn. He didn't even like sweetcorn he hated it, and the tins had been in the cupboard since he moved in, courtesy of a care package from Peter's mother who was unaware of his sweetcorn aversion.
Fuck it. He'd have that bottle of Merlot he'd been saving then end this miserable existence. He'd rather that than eat the fucking sweetcorn.
CHAPTER TWO
JOSEF RASIAK HADN'T had a difficult upbringing, but he was raised by those that did. Jo's grandfather, who they named him after was a Polish merchant seaman during the second world war. Josef was a young man who wanted to fight the Nazis but with the invasion of Poland successfully completed so quickly, Josef didn't even get the chance to raise a rifle toward a German. Before the Nazis had triumphantly announced their victory, Josef was already boarding the ship he'd serve on for two years before a German U-boat sank it. He'd survive and serve on another ship until the end of the war.
By that time, Josef had met a young English girl and shortly after the war they were married and expecting the one and only child they would have. Settling in Kent, Josef raised his son whilst working out of the old Dockyard in Chatham. He only wanted to give his son more than he'd had and worked tirelessly for this. His son Robert would follow in Josef's footsteps working hard in the Dockyard, marrying and having a solitary son, whom he named for his father. He'd also work every hour he'd have to give his son a start in life that his father had tried, but failed to give him.
The younger Josef lived up to the hopes of his father and grandfather, excelling through his education the only piece of the puzzle missing was where he'd apply his brilliance. Fate would provide the answer.
First the elder Josef, now retired and enjoying a meagre but loving existence with his wife, fell ill and within weeks Robert also had the same symptoms. Like many who worked in the dockyard, they'd both been exposed to Asbestos. Since the dockyards closure in 1984 many cases had come to light and Josef and Robert had both lost friends to various diseases caused by Asbestos exposure. Whist they hoped they wouldn't succumb to the same fate, they acknowledged they had no more right to evade it than the men they worked with. The younger Josef now had a purpose, medicine.
His studies would take too long for him to save his father and grandfather, but young Josef was determined that their deaths wouldn't be in vain and their legacy would be his work. Biology, chemistry and even mathematics, Josef mastered them all. By the time he'd reached thirty-four years old, he was a respected scientist who'd worked on breakthrough malaria drugs that had helped to save thousands of lives and had been working with a large team in Switzerland creating a treatment for prostate cancer. None of this work brought his loved one's back, but he liked to think his work was a dedication to the great men they were.
Everything changed for Josef when he was approached by James Cahill. Cahill had created a new company called NewU Pharmaceuticals. Cahill was a good businessman who had flirted in the pharmaceutical industry for several years, picking up the patents for several innocuous but profitable drugs along the way. NewU Pharma would be funded by the patents for the existing drugs to develop something new for the market. Cahill didn't care for curing cancer or easing suffering. He desired wealth. He wanted to create a cure for fat. People would pay for a weight loss pill that worked. If they could crack it, they could charge whatever they wanted and people would pay. Cahill had brought together a fine team to develop his weight loss drug, but after two years they were no closer to a breakthrough. He'd never developed a drug himself before always swooping in and picking up the finished article. He knew these things took time, but he didn't want to wait a day longer than needed. Josef had a fine reputation, but this wasn't his field. He'd only ever showed a desire to help the sick and cure disease. To him, a fat loss drug would be in the same arena as breast augmentation or a facelift. He had nothing against such things, but he wasn't about to spend his considerable expertise in a field that would benefit the vain and the lazy.
Cahill had done his research. He knew wooing Josef would not be an exercise in throwing money at him, taking him to fancy restaurants or plying him with expensive prostitutes. He had to appeal to his humanitarian side and not sell a money-making fat drug, but one which would improve the lives of millions of people, stop fatal diseases and cancers from occurring in the first place. Obesity caused many issues, and Cahill would thoroughly go through everyone one of them. By the end of the three-hour meeting, even Cahill was believing this drug could save the world. With the promise of a large team, the best resources and equipment, Josef was interested. The clincher was the promise of Josef choosing his next project. Cahill figured that as long as the weight loss drug was completed, he'd be just as happy to fund Josef playing ping pong on the International Space Station as he would to fund a cure for cancer.
Jo returned to his empty rather small home. The house was an adequate size, but put function over form. No artwork, pictures or plants. The television was small, the furniture purchased from a catalogue, each wall painted magnolia and carpets a hard wearing beige. Time or money hadn't been wasted on luxuries or even anything over basic necessity. Jo boiled the kettle and began writing on a large notepad. Ideas flowed, random words, partial thoughts. It could have been the ramblings of a madman, but this is how Jo found he did his best work. Get everything down on paper no matter how ridiculous, basic, complicated or incoherent. Jo would join the dots later and refine the good ideas. He had filled seven pages of notes before realising he'd boiled the kettle some time ago but did not pour himself a beverage. Finding the kettle now lukewarm, Jo flicked the switch and waited by the boiling kettle determined not to let a little thing such as curing global obesity impede his cup of green tea.
CHAPTER THREE
FOR SO LONG he’d saved that bottle of wine for a special occasion that never came. It seemed nearly inevitable that the bottle was corked. The one thing that Peter had left to look forward to, a half decent bottle of red wine, courtesy of his boss for a job well done on a project that no longer mattered. And it was corked. Peter couldn't decide whether to la
ugh or cry, so he ended up doing both. If this was to be his last day on this earth, it had taken a last, well-aimed kick to his balls.
Peter ran himself a bath, remarkably, although electricity had long since gone off, the gas supply hadn’t, Peter had enjoyed central heating and hot water. He could even heat food on the hob. But now the task was grimmer and a hot bath no longer a luxurious thing, instead a tool to help end his suffering. He didn't know why he should slit his wrists in a warm bath, but he'd seen this several times on TV and in film so there must be something to it. As the bath ran, he thought out some details, he decided he'd get in fully clothed. He didn't think anyone would ever find him, but if they did, he'd rather not think the first thing they’d do when discovering his corpse would laugh at his very average penis and chunky physique. He'd climb in fully clothed and slit his wrists, right? What about a note? Again, he couldn't imagine someone would ever read it but surely his life deserved some brief words? There wouldn't be a funeral, so no friends or family would perform a eulogy. Peter would need to write something. He felt like telling the world to go fuck itself, but it already had. Maybe he should explain why he decided to kill himself, but as he started writing the words, he felt ashamed. He couldn't admit he was a coward. He didn't want to be a coward. No. Maybe he should say what he loved about life and why with that gone there wasn't a place for him in the world? He loved nothing about the world as it was. People were arseholes, work was a grind, and he lived alone with no real friends to share his life with. At least the world today was more honest, people either wanted to eat you or avoid you. There was no bullshit anymore. Well, Peter imagined there were still pricks out there, but at least now society didn't make you feel you had to take to their shit with a smile. He hated the old world, feared the new one and still he was procrastinating over a stupid note that no one would ever read. The bath was full and ready for him, but Peter wasn't ready to take his own life. He stripped off and had a bath. The knife remained unused and Peter remained very much amongst the living, just cleaner.
Deadweight Page 1