Doomsday's Child (Book 1): Doomsday's Child

by Pete Aldin

Elliot came inside, kicking into a pair of dirty sneakers and releasing a faint whiff of smoke from them. This hobbling around like Long John Silver was going to drive him nuts. He tested his weight on the injured ankle. The pain jabbed at him, enough to let him know I'm hurt here but not too bad. Now he thought of it, the last time he'd checked it before the bandages went back on, it hadn't appeared swollen. Maybe he'd gotten off lucky here. Maybe he could do without the damn crutch. He let the metal strut fall back against the door with a light thud and hopped the last few feet to the book shelf, avoiding the litter of hardbacks, held up the lantern.

  The clutter on the shelf was anachronistic. A tan teddy bear with matted fur along one arm. A supervillain action figure. A home-beading keychain. A plastic watch. Yellow headphones. A cricket ball. A foam dart gun. A die cast metal jetfighter. A folded navy t-shirt. A folded orange one.

  And a home-printed poster poking from under the orange tee. Beneath the image of a smiling child, the poster read MISSING! My boy. Adam. 8 years old.

  Dread settled like lead in his belly. Stomach acid burned his throat.

  “He steered Lewis away from the cellar.”

  He hopped back to the door, took the crutch and made his way to the coffee table where Lewis had left the SIG. The steel of the grip was cool, the muzzle the same against his hips as he slid it in his waistband. He crutched his way to the cellar door. It had no lock. He placed the lantern on the floor, got out the small flashlight, turned it on and jammed it in his mouth, twisted the door handle and eased it open while waiting for a creak or crack that never came. A smell wafted up to him: dry earth, stale air … nothing foul, nothing sinister, though it was dark as death down there. He counted twelve steps in the flashlight beam; getting down them would be a sonofabitch. The enclosed stairs had a small square of earth at the base, a corner of the room, while the rest of whatever was down there stretched off to his left completely out of sight. Perfect place for an ambush. It made no sense that anyone or anything would be waiting there, but old habits died hard.

  With the torchlight jagging and wobbling out in front of him, one hand on the wall and one on the crutch, he started. He got to step number four and wondered if it was worth it. At step seven he asked himself what he was thinking.

  I'm a curious bastard is all.

  Each of the last five steps put him within easy reach of the non-existent ambusher he fully expected lurked down there. He drew the 9-mil, flicked the safety. He stopped on each of the final stairs to listen. Nothing. But then if there was something or someone down here, surely the wavering flashlight would have already alerted them.

  Finally he stepped onto the hardpacked dirt and swung flashlight and handgun to the left, checked the angles. Alone, thank Christ and all the saints. He leaned the crutch in the corner and took the torch from his mouth, wiping drool on a sleeve and working his jaw up and down. A few cobwebs ran along one side of the chamber, but frequent use seemed to have kept them at bay. The long rectangular room measured twelve feet wide, thirty feet deep and seven high; the low roof made it feel tighter than it was. Each wall boasted shelves running to a height of seven feet with small diamond alcoves for wine bottles. About half the alcoves were full. The shelving unit at the far end contained twenty bottles; Elliot played the light over it and saw only two had wine in them. He could see straight through the others to the backboard beyond them. Other shelves contained the occasional empty too.

  Something moaned upstairs. He flinched and swung the SIG around. Just the wind. It had been so much quieter down here, the sudden gust had taken him by surprise. He sighed and gave the cellar one last look. There was nothing here but four walls covered in wine shelves. Sure, Jock had kept them from his cellar: he didn't want people stealing his good booze. There were no nefarious doings here; the items in his office weren't trophies; there was a reasonable explanation.

  He ran a gritty hand over his tired face. Maybe I shoulda taken the sleeping pill. He hopped back to the crutch and slouched against the wall, summoning the energy to make the long struggle up the stairs. Best he lay down, got some shuteye and stopped suspecting eccentric and lonely middle-aged bachelors.

  He had the support under his armpit when the thought froze him.

  Backboard?

  The farthest shelving unit was the only one to have board attached to the back. He could see the white of drywall behind the others, through them.

  Jesus, Mary, Joseph.

  He swung the beam around to the far end and then down to the floor. The dirt was disturbed like it'd been scuffed up then smoothed over with something like a broom. He hopped closer and inspected the shelves. There were discolored points on the paint on one side where the unit had been held, human skin oil and friction dulling the finish. He got in close, flashlight back in his mouth, tested the weight of the unit. Pretty light: wouldn't be hard to move it. Keeping his weight on one leg, he jiggled and lifted and dragged until the shelves were far enough from the wall for him to squeeze past and behind. Set in the drywall was a low door, steel, about five feet high. No lock, no knob, but a latch over a clasp. The iron looked as old as the concrete of the walls. No visible hinges, so it would open inwards.

  A panic room?

  Sure. Everyone keeps their panic room behind a wine shelf, in the cellar where they can't get to it in a hurry.

  He took the flashlight from his mouth, massaged his jaw—Welcome to Serial Killing 101, students—and jammed it back in, got the 9-mil ready.

  Not wanting to—truly not wanting to—he unlatched the door and shoved. Balancing on one leg made it difficult and he had to shove harder. It squeaked open a foot. A waft of stale farts hit him. He played the light in there, barely breathing, saw nothing but the edge of a desk and a heavy board wall. When nothing rushed out at him, he put the SIG in his pants, took the flashlight. He placed a shoulder against the door, shifting it another two feet, another forty-five degrees. He could see well enough now to wish he hadn't.

  The wavering torchlight made it seem like the room was tipping as he recoiled, banging his head on the shelves behind him, fighting his gag reflex, heart hammering, acid in his mouth. He had seen enough that even with eyes closed, he had to mentally bat away the images trying to reassert themselves. A pinboard covered in photos. More photos on walls. A stack of them on the old desk. Some stuck to the ceiling.

  And all of them containing children.

  He lurched out of the tight spot. A spike of pain told him he was using both feet but he didn't care. The ankle was holding him and he'd just seen evidence there were worse things in life.

  He only stopped moving when he'd backed all the way into the far wall at the bottom of the stairs. Shunning the crutch, he started up the stairs a lot faster than was prudent. Part of him knew adrenaline was masking some of the pain he was causing by putting a little weight on the bad ankle every second step or so. He did it anyway.

  At the top, he flung the torch onto an armchair and got the lockblade from his pocket, unhinged it. He shifted the lantern to the first riser of the stairs to the next floor, left it there. The wind and rain were loud enough to cover his efforts climbing the staircase. Not so loud that he missed the snick of a bedroom door being opened above him. His heartrate—already high—spiked further.

  Light peeked from above him, the solid glow of one of Jock's lanterns. He got himself to the top and checked his surrounds. Jock's reading room curled around to his left along the side of the staircase to a bay window. No one sat in the armchair there. A hallway stretched right and left, longer to the left with a door in each wall. The light leaked through one of them, left ajar. He hobbled fast on the sole of one foot and the ball of the other until he reached it. Readied the SIG. Through the crack, he could see a dresser with the hurricane lantern on it. Behind it a mirror gave him a good look at the rest of the room. Two low beds and Jock's back and shoulders as he stood above one.

  He pressed at the door with finger tips and it swung in silently. He took a couple of steps for
ward.

  Lewis was out cold, curled on his side. His face—visible past Jock's right hip—was a picture of childlike peace and innocence. That glass of milk Jock had brought him sat on the dresser under the lantern, half full.

  Jock was dressed in pyjama shirt and boxers, his hands working at a camera. He hadn't heard the door.

  “Game over, shitstain,” Elliot said and raised the SIG.

  14

  Dawn was breaking as the black SUV arrived in the town named on the poster. A line of smoke almost invisible against the grey skies resolved itself as a house fire, the skeleton smoldering in the morning drizzle. Two bodies lay nearby, beheaded and of interest to the crows. Elliot blinked away the flashback to the health retreat and checked on Lewis: still out cold along the back seat. In the next block over, another body, burly, face-down in the storm water ditch along the verge. He slowed to check the insignia on the back of the leather jacket—sure enough, a Death Druid's symbol, this time with a bullet hole puncturing the second embroidered D. Whatever weapon he might have carried was nowhere to be seen. The rain had washed away any blood.

  Elliot cut the engine, wound down the window and listened for several minutes. Nothing. No indication anyone was active nearby. Lewis snored lightly behind him. He started up and eased the car ahead.

  It took a further twenty minutes of methodical driving to find the street he sought. Number fourteen was a white bungalow set in unkempt gardens behind a solid wooden fence, its lawn a jungle. A late model car sat with its hood up along the side driveway. The home's front door was wide open.

  The SUV pipped twice when he locked it with the remote and he cringed at the sound. No deaders in the town, so far. Apart from birds and falling water, nothing was moving.

  A cement path cut diagonally through the knee-high lawn to the porch and he limped along it with the M4 ready. Leaves piled up against the step up and the front walls. Some had blown onto the dark blue hallway carpet. He called the woman's name on the poster, said he was there about the boy, about “Adam”. No response. The interior was all gloom and silence. The rifle's muzzle led the way inside. Three steps in, he lost what little hope he'd had at the sight of blood spatter up the righthand wall. The dots and squirts marred a couple of family photos and—having had enough of photos for a lifetime—he averted his gaze before the faces could register. He changed direction, entered the tiny living room. A TV and games console. Two arm chairs. A round coffee table with a photo album and a bottle of gin. There was a telephone on a corner table. Red pen and pink notepad beside it. Elliot took Adam's poster from the inside pocket of the waterproof jacket he'd taken from Jock's laundry. He unfolded the paper, wrote I'm very sorry for your loss beneath the boy's happy image and pinned the edge beneath the phone with the writing visible.

  Adam's mom would never be back for it, of course. So the blood spatter said.

  But at least the story had a conclusion.

  *

  A light sprinkling of rain persisted. The wipers beat a pleasant tattoo and Elliot fought to resist the draw of sleep, driving slow. Storm debris littered the highway, making progress possible but treacherous. Over that crest there might be a thick branch or a car wreck and he couldn’t afford a moment’s lapse. He cracked his window open, turned the vents his way and upped the fan speed. His ankle hurt, but it was dull pain. Maybe it would heal quicker than he'd thought, despite last night's rigors.

  “Where are we?”

  Elliot checked his mirror. In the back seat, Lewis's eyes were large, pupils dilated. His body was still covered with a red wool blanket.

  Elliot referred to the odometer. “Twenty kays from the coast. Twelve or thirteen miles.”

  “Where's Jock?” One hand appeared from under the blanket and snatched at a handhold so Lewis could pull himself upright. He brushed his fringe to the side, squeezed his forehead, massaged it, stared back along the wet highway. “Wow, I'm spaced. What happened?”

  Elliot ran a hand over his jaw stubble.

  What happened? Jock slipped you a roofie is what happened. Jock was making ready to do you harm when I eventually left. Jock was already fantasizing about it. So I pointed my 9-mil at Jock's head and made Jock carry you down to the couch while he bitched the whole time, playing innocent. But when I marched good ol' Jock into his study and pointed to the trophy shelf, he turned to me with a face like the Devil himself and said “You don't know what you're missing.” And I shot Jock in the throat and waited and watched while he thrashed and bled out on his floor.

  That's what happened.

  Elliot relaxed his deathgrip on the wheel and rolled his shoulders, his neck. “Nothing happened, Lewis. Jock took another car to visit farms in the next district so he could treat them. He's kind of like a doctor around these parts. And he said we could have this one.”

  “What? He left?”

  “Sure. Helping people. You know. Doing his job. Nice 'bloke'.”

  “Well … why aren't we back there? There's other people around! We should stay. Like you said, he is nice.”

  “There'll be nice people at the island too. And it'll be safer.”

  I hope.

  “That's no reason not to wait for him! I could have gone with him. Learned some stuff. He could've come to the island with us.”

  “My job is getting you to this island. Much much safer than that house with a guy past his prime. He ain't gonna protect ya from the swarms of deaders if they turn this way.”

  Lewis lashed out, slamming the passenger headrest with one fist. “You bastard, I never got to say goodbye!”

  “Time's important. What if—?”

  “I didn't get to say goodbye to Birdy.”

  “I'm sorry about that, but we had the same problem there too.”

  “I never get to say goodbye to anyone!”

  Elliot did not reply. What could he possibly say that would make the young man feel any better about that?

  “We should have gone to Minchenbridge.”

  Elliot sighed. A headache had started up above his right eye. “We couldn't go stomping our way through the Forest of Walking Corpses, Lewis. Be real about that. I'm trying to keep you safe, get you somewhere safe. Can't you see—?”

  “ You let those people die.”

  “Oh, I coulda saved them? I coulda kickboxed my way through a thousand zombies and piggybacked those people to the safety of our mighty tower?”

  He struck the headrest. “You could've sniped at the ones chasing them!”

  Elliot's fingers had curled tight around the wheel. “Lewis! It wasn't possible. This—” he was going to say happens in war “—is the way the world is now. I keep telling you. It's all tough choices now. Actually, no it isn't. They're only 'tough' choices if you're not sure whether you want to live or not. If you want to survive, you make the choice that makes it so.”

  Lewis twisted around in his chair, draping his arms over the back. A few moments, then he whispered, “You let Birdy die.”

  It had been a great many years since Elliot felt the need to explain himself. He'd been a child himself when he'd finally smartened up enough to learn not to. “That one's not on me, Lewis. You can't put that one on me.”

  He felt the ghost of a hand slapping the back of his head, heard Uncle John's words—talking don't get it done, shitstain—relaxed his grip on the wheel again, straightened in his seat.He hated to admit it, but sometimes John had been right. Lewis needed to get his mind on what needed doing, not what he'd lost. And Elliot needed some sleep. He snapped his fingers, watching the mirror, snapped them again but Lewis refused to meet his gaze.

  “Hey. Cochise. Need you to drive here.”

  “Jock gave us his rifle too?” Lewis asked, his hand amongst the supplies in the cargo bay. “Or did you steal it?”

  “He has five. Boxes of ammo. Was happy to help us out some more. Now, shut up about it. I'm pulling over so you can drive a ways.”

  It was lucky he'd taken his foot off the gas. The SUV crested a hill and if E
lliot had been driving harder, there was no way he would have braked in time. The fallen gum tree was the size of a suburban house and completely blocked the road. Elliot slammed down the brake pedal and in the wet, the car slewed and skidded until it was side on to the blockage. His side on. Elliot sucked in a lungful of air and blew it out hard. It was a near miss. He could open the door and scrape the outlying leaves, he'd been so close.

  He threw the automatic shifter into park and snatched at the map folded on the seat next to him, pressed it flat against the steering wheel, referred to the odometer.

  “Sonofabitch.” They were literally in the middle of nowhere. All the tight country roads that they'd crossed since leaving the town ran parallel to the coast or angled inland. He struck the dash with the meat of his fist. “Sonofabitch! They couldn't afford more roads round here?”

  He struck the dash again and then once more, vaguely aware of Lewis rummaging in the cargo space. He wanted to be rid of him, just get it over with and get on with his own life. He checked the map again, adding distances as he traced a new route, then he threw it against the passenger door hard enough for one edge to tear. It was a forty-five mile detour from here, requiring him to return all the way to Jock's town and take the highway south before circling back to the coast.

  A door opened: Lewis getting out. Well, let him. If deaders waited in the long grass behind the wire farm fences, it would give him a well-deserved scare.

  The wipers squealed as they labored across the glass, dragging as the rain softened to a light drizzle. Jock had left a full-length raincoat in the car and Elliot had his parka snaffled from the laundry. But wet shoes and wet packs made for unpleasant travel. As well as rot and maybe fungus. Elliot wanted to keep these boots and his pack for years. He swore again. Forty-five miles. Still quicker than walking. If more trees hadn't blocked roads.

  He put the car in reverse and started easing the tail around, craning his neck around to check behind. Lewis was doing something at the fence there, but it was hard to see through the rain-bubbled glass. He slammed it into park and opened his door, leaned out.