Sinkers

by Ryan Casey

  Sinkers

  Ryan Casey

  Contents

  Bonus Content

  SINKERS

  Prologue

  1. ONE

  2. TWO

  3. THREE

  4. FOUR

  5. FIVE

  6. SIX

  7. SEVEN

  8. EIGHT

  9. NINE

  10. TEN

  11. ELEVEN

  12. TWELVE

  13. THIRTEEN

  14. FOURTEEN

  15. FIFTEEN

  16. SIXTEEN

  17. SEVENTEEN

  18. EIGHTEEN

  19. NINETEEN

  20. TWENTY

  21. TWENTY-ONE

  22. TWENTY-TWO

  23. TWENTY-THREE

  24. TWENTY-FOUR

  25. TWENTY-FIVE

  26. TWENTY-SIX

  27. TWENTY-SEVEN

  28. TWENTY-EIGHT

  29. TWENTY-NINE

  30. THIRTY

  31. THIRTY-ONE

  32. THIRTY-TWO

  33. THIRTY-THREE

  34. THIRTY-FOUR

  35. THIRTY-FIVE

  36. THIRTY-SIX

  37. THIRTY-SEVEN

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  About the Author

  About This Book

  Copyright

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  SINKERS

  Joan Baltimore never worried about death until it arrived in her living room.

  She sat back and stared at the television, which lit up the dark, curtained room. It was one of those old black sets, with a metal aerial on top of it to pick up any signal it could. The picture on the screen‌—‌a rerun episode of “Deal or No Deal”‌—‌was fuzzy and crackly. Damn thing. She needed one of these new sets with the HD, or whatever it was called. Not this stupid lump of plastic. About time she moved forward with the times.

  She dunked her fork into her Chicken and Mushroom Pot Noodle and brought a group of clumped-up noodles towards her mouth. As she placed them in her mouth, she had to bounce them around her tongue they were so hot. Shit. Always misjudging the temperature of these things. Either they were too hot or too cold. Did anybody know how to make a perfect Pot Noodle, really?

  When the noodles cooled down in her mouth, some of the liquid dribbling down her chin and onto her shirt, she felt a wave of nausea hit her as the processed chicken and mushroom flavouring tingled against her tongue. She stared at the screen of the television. Stared at the fuzzy, crackly screen‌—‌at Noel Edmonds’s blurred-out face. Pot Noodles. It felt like she’d spent a lifetime eating them. A whole lifetime, when in fact it had only been four-and-a-half years. Four-and-a-half years since everybody went away. Since everybody left her.

  She leaned forward, her legs stiff from sitting on this sofa for god-knows-how-many hours, and placed her Pot Noodle on the brown carpet. There was a ring there where she’d placed Pot Noodles and bottle of booze over the past few years. A hole in the carpet, much more effective than a table-mat. The women from the bingo club, which she used to frequent in the early days of her lonely existence, told her this place needed a real cleanup. But why bother? Who was she trying to impress? It did the trick. A green-grey sofa, perfectly supportive of her form. Brown carpet that could take a spill or two. It was just the television that needed an upgrade. Something she could use a hand with.

  She shuffled forward on the sofa. Damn, her legs were stiff. She rubbed at her prickly thighs to try and get some feeling into them. How long had she been here this time? Days? Weeks? No. She’d got up just before to make a Pot Noodle. It wasn’t right that her legs were stiff. There must be another reason for it. Her heart, or her circulation, or something like that.

  As she pulled herself forward, wobbling on her pins-and-needle-covered legs, she spotted a catalogue underneath a pile of old newspapers and discarded food cartons. Hopefully it would be a recent one. One with a new television offer in, something like that. She could go out to Argos tomorrow and have a look. Go out‌—‌actually get out of the house‌—‌and have a look.

  She planted her hands on the side of the wooden table, which was sticky with a substance she wasn’t entirely sure of. She lifted away old biscuit wrappers and blackened banana skin, which a few flies seemed to have taken particular notice of. She knocked the waste to the floor and reached for the thick catalogue at the bottom of the pile. New telly, soon. New telly, so she could watch Noel Edmonds in full HD.

  She yanked out the catalogue from under the pile. Argos catalogue. Only it was a 2011 winter edition. And it was…‌was it 2012 or 2013 now? Ah, what the heck. It was old and outdated anyway. But still, she could get a few ideas from it. Leaf through it and find one she liked.

  She lifted the heavy catalogue up and stuffed it under her sticky armpit when she heard a tremendous crashing sound behind her.

  Joan’s first instinct was that there was a burglar. She’d heard talk of burglars on Sunningdale lately, targeting the old people like her, but she never really thought she’d be a target. What did she have that they wanted, anyway? What would they possibly want from her?

  But no. This was loud. Loud and continuous, like being stood in the middle of a hurricane, or surrounded by hoovers. What kind of burglar would use a giant hoover? Unless they were planning to suck everything right out of the house from above.

  She turned around, the tremendous crashing and whooshing sounds battering her eardrums. She looked over towards her telly, where Noel Edmonds’s fuzzy form would be holding a phone to his ear, speaking to the banker. “Deal or No Deal?” he’d ask.

  Except Noel Edmonds wasn’t there.

  Neither was her television.

  In fact, neither was her entire lounge.

  She stood completely still and stared at the gaping hole in the middle of her lounge. She could smell something. A burning smell, like a candle had just burned out, only more extreme. More intense. She started to cough as her throat went tight, dust kicking up in front of her. But still, she stared at this hole. This new feature in the middle of her living room.

  It was perfectly round. Like someone had just knocked a perfect circle right through her floor. She shuffled towards it, gripping tight hold of her Argos catalogue. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t understand. She stopped at the edge of it. Stopped at the edge of the dark, dusty hole and peered over where her carpet stopped, ripped away below the floor.

  The first rational thought that entered Joan’s mind as she stared down into the black, gaping abyss was that she had no excuse but to get a new television now.

  The second rational thought that entered Joan’s mind was: Oh shit. Something’s moving under my feet‌—‌

  She tried to shuffle backwards but instead, she tumbled, crashing onto the floor as the ground once beneath her feet started to crumble away. She felt dizzy as she stared up at her ceiling, her head throbbing with pain as it had smacked against the floor. She tasted metal in her mouth. Metal and dust, like she was on a building site, as the floor disappeared from under her motionless legs, her backside, her chest and then her head.

  As she fell down the hole, staring up at the shrinking circle above her, she gripped tight hold of her Argos catalogue.

  I’ll be with you soon, Harold, she thought. I’ll be with you soon.

  Keith Walker heard what sounded like an explosion down the road but he didn’t think much of it. Not at first.

  He was lying on his back underneath an old Rover car that one of his customers had brought in. Seventeen years as
a mechanic and still, changing the gearbox of a Rover proved a challenge. Didn’t help that the build quality of these late 1990s Rovers were utter shite. But, you know. Customers paid his wages. He could only do what he was paid to do. He wasn’t working at Top Gear with Jeremy Clarkson and those lads.

  Although he wished he was. Who didn’t?

  Cold sweat dripped down his cheeks as he unscrewed the bolts holding the main transmission mount into place. He clutched the wrench in his hand, turning and turning the bolts. They seemed so much tighter than usual. Fucking Rovers. Always were a shitty job.

  What didn’t help Keith was the dream he’d had last night. The dream he’d been underneath a car‌—‌like he often was as a car mechanic‌—‌lying on his back and working on something or another. He remembered struggling in his dream. Struggling with his wrench, or finding his wrench wasn’t strong enough, or something like that. So he started to move from under the car, and that’s when it happened. The car fell. Right when he was about to pull his neck away from the car, the jack stands snapped and severed his head.

  The worst part of the dream was that he was still conscious even though he knew his head was detached from his body. He wanted to shout out. He wanted to scream for help, but in his dream, he knew screaming for help was worthless because his head had been detached from his lungs and his windpipe. And besides, his music was blasting. Heavy metal music; he couldn’t quite place the song. He could see outside the garage door. See people walking past in the distance, talking to one another, laughing with one another, but they didn’t see him. They couldn’t see him, no matter what. And although his head was detached from his body, all he wanted was to be found. All he wanted was help.

  He looked down towards his feet now he’d removed the transmission mount. The car was jacked up just fine. Besides, he’d done this loads of times before. He didn’t have to worry. Plus, if the car did fall on him, he’d hardly be lying around as a barely conscious head. Reality wasn’t like the dreams in that sense.

  As Keith started to unscrew the first of the four crossmember bolts from in place, picking up in speed a bit as his stomach tingled with memories of that dream, he heard a few sirens coming down the road. Poor old folk. The Sunningdale old people’s estates were just around the corner, so there was always a death every few weeks or so. Just a part of life. Besides, there was a positive to all this. If the car did fall, then at least the emergency services would be nearby.

  Unless he ended up just a severed head, trapped under this car forever.

  He felt something plonk against his head as the sirens continued to chime just down the road. When he looked up, he saw that it was one of the bolts from the crossmember.

  “Damn Rovers,” Keith said, tutting and reaching around the concrete floor for the fallen bolt. “Seen prams with better builds than these.”

  That’s when he saw something truly peculiar.

  The bolt that had fallen from the crossmember was rolling back towards him. He’d watched it roll away from him, but now it was coming back. Picking up in speed. No‌—‌wait. It was moving…‌downhill?

  The ground started to crack to Keith’s right-hand side. He froze. Froze as he watched the solid, sturdy concrete crumble like sand.

  He tried to move. Tried to slide himself out from under the car, back towards the light, back towards the safety of the garage and the‌—‌

  That’s when he realised he was sliding anyway. Sliding down a hill that was forming in front of him. Dust stung his eyes. He was struggling to breathe as he plummeted down this invisible path forming in front of him, but every breath he did smell reeked of smouldering hot concrete and damp brick-dust.

  He continued down this path of forming rubble, like it was an avalanche and he was the cause. He looked up. Did all he could think to do‌—‌reach out for the car above him. Find something to hold onto. Something to…

  The Rover was above him. He could see it was still there. But it was chasing him. Chasing him, head on, following him. He felt something smack him in the cheek as he clung to his board and continued falling, falling into…‌into nowhere. The purple Rover was getting closer. Following him down the hill. The nearest light was in a perfect circle above him. He could see the metal roof of the garage, but it was so far away. So distant.

  He clutched his board. Screamed out at the top of his lungs, but it was worthless‌—‌the sounds of exploding and crumbling and blasts and bangs and everything battered his eardrums. He just wanted to be back under that car. Back under that car changing the gearbox, like he’d done so many times before.

  Then, all of a sudden, he felt himself stop.

  The back of his head plummeted against the hard surface of his board. His stomach tingled. He’d stopped. He’d actually stopped. His heart picked up in pace. Maybe he could get away. Maybe he could climb up. Maybe he could be safe‌—‌

  All these thoughts, that were within the space of a single second, were interrupted by the trickling of dust and small rocks against Keith’s face.

  He’d stopped.

  But the things above him hadn’t.

  He watched as the front of the Rover got closer. Watched as it closed in on him, picking up in speed, making a beeline for his head.

  The last thought Keith Walker had before his head was severed from his body by the front end of a Rover car was That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen a damn Rover move in my entire life.

  Damien Wallace wasn’t anywhere near Joan Baltimore or Keith Walker when his world ended in similar circumstances.

  He was sitting on a bus. He’d forgotten his headphones before he came out on his daily commute into the city centre, so he was being forced to actually listen to the inane conversation surrounding him. Old people chatting about old people things. College kids with haircuts that seemed to be getting stupider and stupider by the year chatting loudly to one another. Damien leaned against the window, his teeth chattering as the bus accelerated. He couldn’t wait to get back home.

  Damien worked from home, which meant that he had no real reason to be on this commute, riding along on this piss-stenching public transport. But running a business from home could get lonely, especially when his girlfriend was away. He lifted his iPhone out of his pocket and checked the date. April 20th. Lucie had been gone three days and already he was going out of his mind. Damn her parents and their stupid family holidays that never included him.

  He held his breath in as an old man in front of him coughed and spluttered. Besides him, there was a fat Asian man to his right who, quite frankly, reeked of ass. Damien stared out of the window‌—‌stared as the bus drove out of the city, out past run-down houses and dodgy-looking women pushing prams, and wished he hadn’t forgotten his headphones.

  He felt the bus coming to a halt. Heard the engine rumble dropping lower. He looked up ahead, trying his best not to make eye contact with any of the lonely idiots looking in his direction, to see what was going on.

  Traffic. Fucking traffic. The A6 was absolutely piled with it. Eight, nine cars in front of this bus, of which the traffic lights only seemed to be letting two at a time through. Nightmare, these lights. They needed a better traffic control system. A better way of managing this mess. Maybe there was a business opportunity in there somewhere.

  He plucked some Extra mint chewing gum out of his pocket and shoved a piece into his mouth. It was hard‌—‌way too hard. Shit. Must’ve been in his pocket for ages. As he tried to chew it down, college kids jumping around and poking one another, old people gossiping at the front of the bus, tons of cars ahead, Damien figured he’d remember this whenever he felt like getting out of the house in future.

  As he rested his head against the glass again, looking out at the traffic-filled street, Damien felt the engine starting to rumble again, and his teeth chattering. Phew. He’d be making a quicker escape out of here than he first thought. He took a deep breath, regretting it instantly as he got a whiff of the shitty smell from the fat man taking up two seats.<
br />
  Then he noticed something. The grass on the pavement at the side of the bus was in the same position. The bus, in fact, wasn’t moving at all. But it was shaking. Vibrating heavily. Or his teeth wouldn’t be‌—‌

  “Fuckin’ hell!” someone shouted.

  Damien looked around. The old people, the college kids, the Asian man. All of them were staring at something up ahead. Staring, frozen. Had there been an accident? A near collision?

  But no. The vibration. Something must have…

  Damien saw it. He saw exactly what the others saw through the front window of the bus.

  The traffic lights were on green, and the cars were moving. But they were moving down. They were being…‌swallowed by something. Falling into the ground. This was impossible. It was‌—‌

  “Everyone off the bus!” the bus driver shouted. He thumped his driver’s door open and made a leap for the now-open bus doors as the voices in the bus began to pick up, panic and fear in every shout, every whisper.

  Damien was frozen to his seat still as the bus driver jumped out of the open doors and out onto the pavement as more cars began to roll down into this…‌this nothingness in front.

  Except the bus driver didn’t hit the pavement.

  There wasn’t a pavement there anymore.

  It was then that the bus stopped vibrating and actually started to move forward. People screamed. The people in the seats at the front started to move towards the back, smacking against the tiny back window and crowding around the vents for a way out, trampling on each other, the smell of sweat and shit and piss filling the bus more completely than it ever had.

  Damien watched, completely frozen, as the bus rolled down into this black, endless nothingness. He felt the road give way beneath him, and for a moment, despite all the panic and chaos and commotion, he felt like he was flying. Flying on a magic bus, like he used to watch on that video at school.

  As the darkness surrounded him completely, he was kind of relieved he hadn’t brought his music after all.