Decimation: The Girl Who Survived

by Burke, Richard T.

  The smile vanished from his face when he took in the girl lying at his feet and the patchy, red streaks across the floor. While the first man tended to Antimone, the other rushed to the wall-mounted terminal and swept his hand from right to left in front of it.

  “Call Mrs Baxter,” he said in a trembling voice.

  After a few seconds, the irritated expression of a man in his mid-twenties with jet-black hair, and a narrow face filled the screen.

  “I’m Nick Jenkins from the mortuary. I need to speak to Mrs Baxter urgently.”

  “Mrs Baxter is busy. What’s it about? If it’s something to do with overtime or working conditions, take it up with Personnel.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. Could you please inform her that the woman who just gave birth in operating theatre three is still alive?”

  “Alive? Are you sure? If this is some sort of practical joke there will be serious consequences.”

  “I’m telling the truth. She’s talking to my colleague right now. We came in to pick up the body and found her on the floor.”

  “Wait right there. For Christ’s sake don’t touch anything … In fact, don’t move at all.”

  The display went blank.

  PART ONE: ORIGINATION

  Chapter 2

  9 ½ months previously

  The woman lay back against the cold brickwork and closed her eyes. She was twenty years old but would have struggled to answer had she been asked her age. Her brown hair was straggly and greasy. She couldn’t remember when she had last washed it or any other part of her body for that matter. Her face might once have been described as pretty, but a life on the street had hollowed out her cheeks and etched dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her body was angular, all sharp corners and jutting bones, due in the main to the starvation diet she had endured for the last few weeks. She wore a grimy pair of blue jeans and a thick green woollen sweater that was several sizes too large. On her feet was a pair of tattered trainers, which she wore sockless.

  Her home, if it could be called that, was the alley in which she currently sat. If the weather was good, as it was now, she occupied the space between the two large industrial waste bins. When it rained, she would often take shelter inside one of the brown plastic enclosures if the stench from the contents was not too much to bear.

  The sole purpose of her life was to consume the next fix of ‘Chill Black’, a narcotic that, for a few brief moments, generated a sensation of immense pleasure and allowed her to ignore her woeful existence in the real world. She was prepared to do pretty much anything to obtain a supply of the small yellow pills. She had frequently sold her body although she drew the line at unprotected sex – even in her drug-addled state, she knew that one simple mistake could cost her life as it had her mother. Recently the flow of men willing to overlook her poor physical condition had dried up, and she was forced to resort to begging and stealing to feed her habit.

  She opened her eyes and fingered the small pill, rolling it between a grubby forefinger and thumb. Placing it in her palm, she stared at it in hungry fascination. She savoured the moment, the build up before she popped it in her mouth. Another user – it would be inaccurate to refer to her as a friend – had taught her that she could prolong the mind-blowing high by placing it beneath her tongue. She found it amazing that this small yellow capsule held the power to transport her to a place where nothing else mattered.

  In the rare moments of clarity between the highs and the subsequent lows, she contemplated seeking help. She had led a relatively normal home life until her mother had fallen pregnant six years earlier and then, like every other expectant mother, had died in childbirth. Her father had lost his job soon afterwards and had been unwilling or unable to cope with looking after a new baby. He had offered the child up for adoption and in the following weeks had descended into an alcohol-fuelled depression. When his anger turned towards his remaining daughter, she had moved out. Initially, she had stayed with friends, but when she wore out her welcome, she turned to a life on the streets. From there it was a short and painful trip to where she now found herself. As a consequence, there was no parent to whom she could turn, and the authorities would only send her on a rehabilitation course, after which she would, more than likely, end up back in the same situation.

  She delayed the moment of gratification, prolonging the anticipation ahead of the oncoming rush. She was about to lift the pill to her mouth when a shadow passed in front of her. Lifting her head, she saw a smiling man wearing a pair of blue overalls. The man was well-muscled with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. For a moment she wondered whether this was part of the trip, but when she glanced down the pill was still in her hand.

  “What do you want?” she asked in confusion.

  “I’m here to help,” he said, still smiling. Although his English was perfect, he spoke with a slight accent.

  “I don’t need any help,” she said, her voice hardening.

  “But I think you do, actually.” The man took a pace forwards and held something up to her neck.

  There was a short hiss, and she experienced a sharp stinging sensation. The man stepped backwards and studied her carefully. A feeling of light-headedness swept through her as she stared at him blankly. His blue eyes drew her in.

  After thirty seconds had passed he spoke again. “You want to come with me, don’t you?”

  The girl nodded, although it felt like somebody else was moving her body on her behalf. She rose shakily to her feet and took a tentative step towards him.

  “My van’s just over there,” he said, gesturing vaguely behind him. “It’s comfortable in the back. I think you should lie down there.”

  “Okay.”

  He led the way to a white van and unlocked the rear doors. On the floor were a pile of blue mats.

  “There. Why don’t you have a nice relaxing sleep? You’re feeling a bit tired aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said the girl, clambering into the back and lying down. She curled up into a foetal position and closed her eyes. Within seconds she was unconscious and breathing heavily.

  The man slammed the van doors and locked them. He returned to the driver’s seat and pressed a button on the dashboard.

  After a brief pause, a male voice crackled over the internal speakers. “Yes, what is it?”

  “I’ve got one. I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes.”

  “Okay, we’ll be ready.”

  The man started the vehicle and inched his way out of the alley onto the main road.

  On the ground, between the two bins, lay a small yellow pill.

  Chapter 3

  Sunday 4th April 2032

  Antimone Lessing raised her right arm and extended it backwards behind her head. She repeated the exercise on the other arm, all the while the music booming in her ears. She wore her brown hair in a ponytail that draped over a bright yellow, long-sleeved training top. Her legs, dressed in a form-fitting black material were bunched beneath her body in a kneeling position suspended above the lightweight frame of her racing wheelchair.

  The only other girl in the group of athletes sat beside Antimone on the damp grass and leant forwards until her nose touched her outstretched leg. Erin Riley had little in common with Antimone other than their shared interest in athletics. Neither girl was popular but for different reasons. Despite her athletic physique, Erin was not physically attractive with her thin fly-away hair and bland features. She tried to ingratiate herself with her fellow pupils by trading gossip but instead had earned a deserved reputation for being indiscrete.

  Antimone, by contrast, owed her lack of popularity to being different from her peers. The wheelchair was one aspect of it, but the fact that her parents could barely afford to send her to Oakington Manor even on a scholarship didn’t go unnoticed by her classmates. The majority came from privileged backgrounds and held a casual disregard for money. They intuitively identified Antimone as an outsider and maintained a distance.

  Five metres away, a boy, a
man really, was performing a similar set of warm-up exercises on his calf and thigh muscles. Max Perrin was a little over six feet tall, maybe six two she estimated. His hair was a close-cropped golden brown. He wore a designer training top and a pair of baggy training pants. On his feet was a pair of high-end athletics shoes. Every few seconds, an illuminated pulse swept along the red stripe on the side of each shoe.

  Three other boys warmed up a few paces away, flashing jealous glances at Max as he flirted with two attractive fifteen-year-old girls. The taller of the girls wore an expensive-looking, pale green T-shirt and a short, pink skirt. The skirt seemed to possess a life of its own, fluttering up and down in waves even though there was no wind. The control system carefully coordinated the movement to ensure that it preserved her modesty at all times. Antimone had heard about these so-called ‘Marilyn’ skirts but had never seen one in action.

  Seeing the impact the billowing skirt was having on the group of boys, and not to be outdone, the second girl, who wore a similarly skimpy but conventional white skirt, tapped the nail of her little finger with her thumb. A gasp rose from the small group as a hole seemed to open up through her midriff and expand in size. The ragged edges exposed her internal organs and lent the image a gruesome reality. The girl flashed a smug smile now that she was the centre of attention and leant forward to whisper something in Max’s ear.

  Antimone rolled her eyes. Max Perrin was good-looking and from a wealthy family. He used those assets to his advantage when it came to the opposite sex. As far as athletics went, despite an over-confidence in his own abilities, he ranked only slightly better than average. That didn’t stop most of the teenage girls at the school from lusting after him. But two at the same time? Didn’t they have any pride?

  Antimone’s gaze meandered past another group of three boys and two girls perfecting their sprint starts and settled on a boy practising his run up for the javelin. He looked faintly ridiculous as he charged up to the white line identifying the end of the runway, simulated a throw and juddered to an abrupt halt.

  A voice rose above the thrashing beat. “Antimone!”

  Antimone glanced up at her coach and noticed his lips were moving. She realised everybody was staring at her. She tapped the fingernail of her right middle finger with her thumb, and the music ceased abruptly. “Sorry, Coach. What did you say?”

  John Marshall was approaching retirement and had taught Physical Education at the school since its inception ten years earlier. He insisted the students addressed him as ‘Coach’ at training sessions. He was a no-nonsense teacher with a background in the military, but beneath the brash exterior he was conscientious and genuinely cared about the progress of his pupils. At this particular moment in time, however, he did not appear impressed.

  “Look, when you’re at the track I expect your undivided attention. I don’t give up my afternoons so you can daydream during my sessions.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted before she could apologise. “Two hundred metres at three-quarters pace followed by two hundred metres warm down. Six reps, please. The same applies to all of you.”

  Antimone groaned inwardly. She loved the big occasions, the important races, the roar of the crowd but training was just so boring – and often painful. But six repetitions? She must have really upset him. It was clear from the scowls on the faces of her fellow athletes that they blamed her for the harsh instructions.

  Seeing her lack of enthusiasm, the man nodded towards the track. “Come on. Let’s get going. You won’t improve if you don’t put the effort in. And turn on your logger, Antimone. I want to study the pattern of your push.” He turned his focus to the two girls still flirting with Max. “I take it you ladies aren’t training today. Maybe you could cheer on your champion from the stands.”

  Max smirked as the pair sauntered across the track, swaying their hips in an exaggerated manner, aware that every eye was upon them. The arrival of the sprinters down the home straight spoiled the effect, forcing the girls to hurry to avoid being trampled underfoot.

  “Hey, fancy going out sometime?” Max asked turning to Antimone.

  “Um … maybe,” Antimone replied in confusion, unsettled by the question. Despite her ambivalence, the thought of how it might improve her image to go on a date with him sprang to the forefront of her mind.

  “Thought so. The problem is I don’t fancy going out with you,” he said with a sneering laugh. “The trike queen wants to go out with me,” he announced, draping an arm around one of the other boys.

  “I only said maybe,” Antimone replied hotly, but nobody was paying any attention.

  The coach clapped his hands and turned back to the group. “Come on, I haven’t got all day. Is this a fashion show or a training session?”

  Antimone propelled her wheelchair towards the white start line slashed across the ochre surface of the running track, her face still burning, and frustrated that she had let Max get the better of her. Tapping the nail of the little finger on her left hand, she navigated the menu structure with no need for the audio cues whispering in her ear. She selected the logging option, and a green light illuminated on a panel located just behind the front wheel. She fitted the helmet resting on her lap and pulled a pair of protective gloves from the pockets in her training top then slipped them on.

  At first glance, the racing wheelchair resembled a tricycle with a single wheel at the front and the back two wheels canted inwards, but it was hand- rather than pedal-powered and lacked the handlebars of a traditional cycle. The in-built sensors and data logger allowed her coach to analyse in detail the timing of her propulsive stroke and suggest ways to race faster whilst at the same time consuming less energy. At the level of competition she had attained, every millisecond counted and could make the difference between gold and silver medals.

  Her talent was first identified when, as a skinny thirteen-year-old, barely a year after the car accident that had left her paralysed from the waist down, her father had taken her for a trial at a local athletics club that catered for disabled athletes. During a four hundred metre race, despite having no training and using an obsolete wheelchair, she had thrashed her more experienced opponents, leading from the start and winning by over ten metres. Within weeks of that race, the trustees of the prestigious private school, Oakington Manor, had offered her a sports scholarship. There was no way her parents would have been able to cover the extortionate fees without financial assistance, but the generous bursary covered tuition costs leaving them only to find money for incidental expenses such as the school uniform – and the gear for wheelchair racing. Now, one month short of her sixteenth birthday, those in the know were touting her as a potential Paralympics medal winner in the eight hundred metres event.

  Out of instinct, Antimone looked across to the stand. She knew her parents were not there, but it was an ingrained reflex. A group of six adults sat together at the front towards the centre, chatting and paying no attention to the training session. As her eyes swept along the rows of seats, her gaze came to rest on a man standing by himself at the far right end. Besides being the only person on his feet, what struck her as odd about him was his black woollen hat. It seemed totally incongruous amongst the expensive attire of the other wealthy, well-dressed parents,

  The coach’s voice drew her attention back to the track. “Let’s get going then.”

  She grabbed the circular metal bar that rimmed the wheel and propelled the chair forwards, accelerating with several powerful shoves. Settling quickly into a steady rhythm, she guided the vehicle between the stark white lines. She rounded the bend, and as she approached the end of the straight, she reduced the stroke rate, allowing the chair to coast down to a slower speed.

  “Hey! Don’t just slow down suddenly like that. I nearly ran into the back of you. You need brake lights on that bloody thing.” Max jogged alongside, glaring angrily at her. Antimone maintained her focus on the track, doing her best to ignore him.

  When they arrived back a
t the starting point, Max surged forwards and cut ahead of her, two of the others following a few paces behind. Antimone delayed her acceleration as she steered the chair into the third lane. Max glanced behind him, grinned and moved out to block her progress. Antimone swung out into the fourth lane and then the fifth, accelerating as she did so. Max and the other boys ended the bend in a line across the track, Antimone now out in the sixth lane.

  By the end of the fifth lap, the rest of the group were tiring and had dropped back by twenty metres, leaving Antimone and Max leading the way. Perspiration trickled down her face, and her biceps felt like they were on fire as she moved into the curve. Max drew alongside and matched her pace even as she increased her push rate. As the straight ended, Antimone slackened the power of her strokes, and her speed slowly reduced. Rather than decelerating, Max continued to maintain the same pace into the next bend until he was five metres ahead. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Not tired are you, trike queen?” he gasped between breaths, lengthening his stride.

  Antimone knew that she shouldn’t respond, but his smug expression goaded her on. Despite her aching arm muscles, she accelerated once more, maintaining the distance between them around the curve. As they reached the start of the straight, she allowed the chair to drift out into the second lane and applied the power to close the gap. The separation gradually reduced. Three metres … two metres … one metre. Ten metres short of the finish line they were neck and neck, both determined to cross first.

  Antimone drew on her last reserves of strength and put everything into one final shove. As she did so, a droplet of sweat splashed onto the shiny metal ring, and her left hand lost a small amount of grip. The difference in torque between the two wheels was minimal, but it was enough for the chair to veer sideways and cross the line separating the lanes. Her left wheel caught the outside of Max’s right foot.