The Alpha Plague (Book 7)

by Michael Robertson

  Mistress stormed into the prison, her heavy boots slamming down against the hard linoleum floor. The way her apron glistened in the light suggested she had yet more fresh blood on her.

  “Get up, you lazy fucks,” Mistress boomed and kicked one of the prisoners. The woman yelped from the blow.

  “By the end of the day,” Mistress continued, “there will only be one of you left. We don’t have much room in our community, so you need to prove you’re worthy of the spot.”

  Flynn managed to sit up by the time Mistress drew close, so he avoided her kick. His brand throbbed and it felt as if the infection had gotten worse overnight. How long before he got blood poisoning from it?

  They’d spent the night in an abandoned jail cell in an abandoned police station. A hard linoleum floor was covered in grit and dust, but at least they weren’t put in that cursed damp dungeon again. They remained in the town they’d been in the previous day. The town that the people surely didn’t live in, but it served as a good place to host their sick games.

  Early the previous evening, when they’d first been locked up, Flynn and Rose had spoken to one another. But the brute and the guards told them to shut the fuck up very quickly, so they did. As the night drew on and it got darker inside the cell, they moved close to each other for comfort. By the time they’d both fallen asleep, they were wrapped around one another as if holding on for dear life.

  Rose got to her feet first, seemingly nimble despite what they’d been through the previous day. Her blonde hair sat wild and out of control. It reminded Flynn of straw—not that he’d tell her that. She pulled a tight-lipped smile at him and held her hand in his direction.

  Flynn took her surprisingly strong grip and let her pull him to his feet. She’d been a rock for him over the past day; she must want something in return.

  Mistress didn’t say anything else, but she stalked around the cell, walking close to each person as she held onto the metal baton she’d used to wake them with. The non-verbal threat did enough to force all nine prisoners into a line.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Instead of leading the prisoners out the front door, Mistress took them up several flights of stairs within the building. They must have travelled three, maybe four storeys up.

  At the top of the stairs, Mistress kicked a door so hard it broke off its hinges and clattered down to reveal another roof beyond it. The bright summer sunshine flooded in and Flynn recoiled from the glare but continued walking.

  On the roof of the police station, the heat made Flynn sweat and he gulped against his dry throat. The last water he’d tasted had been when they’d hosed him down, and he’d only taken a mouthful then.

  It took several blinks for Flynn’s vision to clear. When it did, he wished it hadn’t. His stomach lurched to look at the sight before him and he muttered, “Fuck.”

  Maybe he’d said it a little too loudly because Rose turned to look at him before she looked back at what lay ahead of them.

  A thick rope had been anchored against the edge of the police station’s roof. It had been stretched taut across a gap of about twenty metres to a building on the other side of the street. Rings hung down from it at regular intervals. Each ring hung from a length of rope about a metre long. If they wanted to get across, they’d have to swing from one ring to the next.

  The crowd from the previous day had returned. If anything, there looked to be more people than before. Flynn did a double take when he saw a large chair amongst the press of bodies. A woman sat on it. She looked to be in her forties, had a slim figure, shiny black hair, and a pretty face. Pretty in an objective sense. Pretty like a vase could be pretty. Pretty like a statue. He saw nothing attractive about her. Nothing at all.

  Before he could look at the woman for any longer, Mistress shouted at the prisoners, loud enough for the crowd below to hear. “Well, my lovelies,” she said. “This is your next challenge.” She walked to the edge of the police station’s roof and looked down. She tapped the stretched rope with her foot. “Not quite the drop you had yesterday from the office block, but enough to kill you. Especially when …”

  Mistress didn’t finish her sentence because she didn’t need to. The squeak of large wooden cartwheels called out through the abandoned town. Flynn looked down to see a group of people move several carts into place. Each one looked like it had once been pulled by a tractor. Like something that had been used to move large bales of hay. Now they had stakes on them, much like the ones at the bottom of the shitty hill. The stakes pointed straight up and were sharpened into points. The carts and stakes were covered in bloodstains.

  The now familiar grin split Mistress’ witch face as she stared down at the people moving the carts. When one of them gave her a thumbs-up, she cackled and turned back to the prisoners. “Nine of you left. Let’s see how many there are by the time we get to the other building. Line up in numerical order.”

  When Rose glanced at Flynn, he reached out and touched her forearm. Only fleeting. He didn’t need Mistress picking up on it. Any connection the prisoners had would be exposed and exploited for her sick pleasure.

  The prisoners fell into line and Flynn ruffled his nose at the smell of flatulence from one of them. Nerves hung thick in the air.

  “Right,” Mistress shouted, her call echoing through the town. “We don’t have all fucking day. You”—she pointed at Rose—“get on those fucking rings now.”

  Flynn looked at the bloodstained stakes on the carts then at the crowd and their expectant faces. He looked at the Queen amongst her servants. He looked at Mistress and her clear giddiness at what they were about to witness. Finally, he looked back at Rose.

  Rose sat down on the roof and dangled her legs over the side. She reached down and pulled the first ring up to her. Her cheeks puffed from where she exhaled.

  Flynn looked away as Rose slid from the roof. The crowd cheered and he stared at his feet. He couldn’t watch.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Although Flynn didn’t watch Rose, he might as well have. In fact, from the sounds the crowd made, it probably would have been better than trying to judge her progress based on their response. At least he would have seen the reality of it. Instead, he lived his own imagined horror for the entire crossing.

  When the crowd cheered, Flynn looked up to see Rose climb through the window on the other side of the gap. Nine rings and she’d gone across every one of them. He smiled to see her safe. It quickly fell at the realisation he’d be making the journey soon.

  A look down at the crowd and Flynn’s eyes went to the Queen in amongst them. The huge red seat looked like a mobile throne and she relaxed in the luxury of it.

  “Number two,” Mistress called out. A smirk lifted her twisted face and she laughed as she said, “Jake Schwartz, how nice it is to see you again.”

  Like she’d done on the roof of the tall building, Mistress bullied Jake with her superior strength. A tight grip on the back of his shirt and she shoved him towards the edge of the roof like he was no more than a child. Flynn’s heart raced to watch it and he listened to Jake whimper at what he must have assumed to be his end.

  But Mistress stopped before she launched him off.

  For the next few seconds, Jake cried and stared at his feet.

  A look from him to the crowd, and Mistress said, “Come on now, Jakey-boy, I was only playing.”

  The crowd laughed, including the Queen, and Jake continued to sob.

  Mistress stepped back from him while shaking her head. “You need to stop blubbering, Jake. Time to swing across, fella.”

  At least with Rose both going first and making it to the other side, it gave the others a blueprint to follow. As she had done, Jake sat down on the edge of the roof and dropped his legs over the side. The crowd clapped in time as he pulled the first ring up. They started slow, increasing in speed until he had a tight grip on the wooden circle.

  Maybe the crowd couldn’t see it, maybe they could, but from where he stood, Flynn saw the viol
ent shake running through the man.

  “Jake! Jake! Jake! Jake! Jake!” the crowd chanted and Flynn wanted to look away like he had with Rose. But he didn’t. Instead, he watched Jake drop from the edge of the roof with a tight grip on the first ring.

  As Jake swung through the air, the crowd cheered. He reached the end of the rope’s long swing and Flynn muttered, “Let go.” But Jake didn’t.

  A second too late and already on the back swing, Jake released his tight grip. He flew away from the next ring and dropped with a scream.

  The crowd fell silent as he plummeted.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The entire cart shook with the impact of Jake’s landing. A loud crash sounded out and the large wheels rocked back and forth before the crowd cheered.

  When Flynn saw Jake impaled on the spikes below, his stomach lifted in a heave. He watched some of the crowd edge towards the cart. When they got close, a section of them threw their white slips of paper on him; most of which stuck to his bloody corpse.

  The next few seconds lasted an age as Flynn stared at Jake’s wide eyes. They showed a snapshot of his complete fear from falling. His mouth had been forced open by a stake that punctured through the back of his head. Blood glistened on what seemed to be the freshly sharpened stakes. It pooled on the flatbed of the trailer and ran off the sides of it.

  Flynn looked at Mistress to see her stare down at the Queen.

  When the Queen nodded, Mistress turned back to the line of prisoners yet to cross and called out, “Number four.”

  A young boy stepped forward. A teenager at best, he’d turned chalk white and Flynn saw the sun glisten off his sweating brow.

  The kid looked less able than Jake had, but he surprised Flynn when he reached down and grabbed the first ring, slipping from the roof in one fluid movement. A gymnast, he moved from ring to ring as if he’d spent his entire life training for that moment.

  At the end of each rope’s swing, Flynn winced to watch him let go and catch the next ring along. Even the bloodthirsty crowd seemed to appreciate his effort, cheering while he moved across all nine rings as if he’d been born to do it. He jumped through the window frame on the other side to the applause of the crowd, Mistress, and even the Queen.

  It took a few minutes for the noise to die down. When it finally had, Mistress turned to the brute. “Number seven, you’re up.”

  As the thickset man walked to the edge of the roof, Flynn felt his heavy steps through the soles of his feet.

  “Good luck following that,” Mistress said to him.

  A jaw that looked like it could crush rocks clenched tight enough to clamp through steel, and the brute looked at Mistress. He spoke from the side of his mouth in a low enough voice that Flynn heard it, but the crowd probably wouldn’t have. “And what if I tell you to go fuck yourself?”

  Flynn’s heart galloped in anticipation of what would come next. Not that he gave a fuck about the brute, but an enraged Mistress would undoubtedly have an impact on his life.

  As if mimicking the man, Mistress answered him with a similar low growl. Unlike the brute, her voice carried and the crowd clearly heard her. “Fuck with me and you get a ride off this roof on my boot. The choice is yours.”

  Everyone fell silent and Flynn glanced down at the Queen again. Hard not to look at her on her stupid throne as she stared up. She watched the drama unfold and pulled a strand of her straight black hair away from her face.

  The brute and Mistress glared at one another before Mistress added, “Don’t push me, fuck face.”

  Two gargantuan egos, the brute finally dropped his and sat down on the edge of the roof. Flynn watched his fine ginger hair dance in the breeze as he pulled the first ring to him. Many faces below stared up, their mouths open wide.

  The brute’s broad shoulders and large chest rose with a deep inhale and he slipped from the roof.

  Nowhere near as graceful as the gymnast before him, the brute made it to the next ring. The physique of a primate, he clearly had the upper body strength and reach as he swung across, stretched out and grabbed the next ring. He repeated the process until he made it to the other side.

  At the window, the brute reached out again, grabbed the frame, and dragged himself into the building. The crowd and the Queen showed their appreciation with their applause.

  Mistress looked far from happy; her thin lips pressed tightly together, her jaw set. “Number nine,” she said and a woman in her forties stepped forward. Maybe Flynn shouldn’t write her off before she went, but she didn’t look like she’d make it.

  Nine swung forward on the first ring, reached out for the second one but lost her grip before she got to it. She spun through the air, cartwheeling for what felt like an eternity. The collective hiss of the crowd pulled a sharp breath in through their clenched teeth until the spikes halted her progress with a deep crunch. Silence and then a cheer from the crowd.

  Nine lay over three spears. One ran through her neck, one her stomach, and one her thigh. Her long hair hung down and she bled out like Jake had. Fortunately, Flynn couldn’t see her face from where he stood.

  Eleven had already stepped forward by the time Flynn looked back up. She shook her head as she stared down at the carnage below. Mistress grinned at her, calmer than a moment ago. It looked like the death of nine had somehow relieved the fury she’d felt from her conversation with the brute. “Come on, love,” she said to the woman.

  Eleven continued to shake her head.

  “Is that a no?”

  Eleven nodded.

  Mistress kicked her up the arse and sent her off the top of the roof with a scream. Another deep thud, silence, and then the crowd erupted into cheers and laughter.

  The long black leather apron hung from Mistress as she bowed to the crowd. She then turned and smiled at Flynn.

  Flynn’s legs shook to be the focus of Mistress’ attention. “Come on,” the vicious woman hissed. “It’s your turn now, handsome.”

  A gulp did nothing for Flynn’s dry throat, and when he looked down at the crowd, he felt every pair of eyes on him. After pulling in a deep breath, Flynn stepped forward to the edge of the roof, sat down and hung his legs over. He pulled the first ring up, looked at the dead prisoners on the medieval carts, looked at the Queen and her icy glare, and grabbed the ring in a tight grip.

  “Come on, sweetie,” Mistress said, “we don’t have all fucking day.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Flynn should have done more than sit on the edge of the roof and look at the people down below.

  He should have done more than stare at the wooden stakes with the bodies of the fallen prisoners pinned to them.

  He should have avoided the hypnotic lure of the dripping blood as it plopped from the sides of each trailer and disappeared beneath the press of the spectators’ feet.

  It made no sense to look at the Queen, to get dragged into her dark stare.

  But Flynn did all of those things.

  Flynn’s body locked tight, tense with inaction. He continued to sit on the edge of the roof, his head spinning and his stomach turning until Mistress cleared her throat at him.

  The dark stare of the broad woman bored into Flynn and she didn’t need to tell him he’d best move soon or else.

  A look across at the building opposite and Flynn saw Rose stare back at him. Unlike the crowd below, she didn’t jeer or goad him. As if knowing exactly what he needed, she made a fist with her right hand and pumped it twice against her chest. It showed him she believed in him. Someone had to.

  Flynn entered a moment of weightlessness as he slipped from the roof. It ended abruptly when the rope snapped taut.

  Any healing Flynn’s brand had gone through got ripped open when his legs swung beneath him as he moved forward. He wanted to scream at the pain over his right kidney. Instead, he clenched his teeth and rode out the agony while heading towards the next ring.

  The summer heat had turned Flynn’s palms damp, and as he reached the end of the firs
t rope’s swing, his hand slipped, propelling him towards the second ring.

  Another moment of weightlessness, this time with no guaranteed resistance of the rope saving him.

  The crowd below gasped as Flynn grabbed the next ring.

  Flynn’s arms burned with the effort of the swing, his momentum carrying him forward. He caught the next ring slightly more easily than the last. Maybe he could do this.

  Just before he jumped again, a projectile came from the crowd and crashed into Flynn’s right eye. A white flash of light exploded through his vision and his world blurred in front of him. Blinded, he couldn’t make the next jump.

  As Flynn swung backwards, away from his destination, he saw the chaos below, even with blurred vision. What must have been the person to throw the missile at him—be it a rock, or fruit, or whatever the fuck they’d thrown—had already been dragged from the crowd by women dressed in royal blue. They must have been the Queen’s guards.

  A sharp sting sat in Flynn’s right eye and he blinked repeatedly to try to ease the pain of it as he watched events unfold below. The royal blue guards dragged the woman to the side and lay into her with a flurry of kicks.

  Each swing moved a shorter distance than the one before it and Flynn eventually came to a complete halt. He reached up and held the ring above him with both hands. He stared down at the crowd and the crowd stared back. Open mouths, wide eyes, pale faces. They looked nervous. They should try being in his position.

  Flynn looked away from the woman taking the beating and put his attention on Rose again. She stared back at him and pushed her clenched fists out in front of her. She pulled them back and then pushed them forward in a rocking motion and Flynn nodded at her. It would be the only way.

  First Flynn pulled his legs back and then swung them forwards. He did it several times to no effect. The ring above him moved, but he couldn’t get any swinging action going.