Copyright © 2020 by T Maxwell-Harrison
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author and/or publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Produced in United Kingdom
Cover Design and Layout by SpiffingCovers
Smashwords Edition
CONTENTS
Chapter 1: Welcome To Beach Town
Chapter 2: Death for breakfast
Chapter 3: Sheila’s Proposition
Chapter 4: Lost in Transition
Chapter 5: No Way Out
Chapter 6: Fish Out of Water
Chapter 7: Blood Letting
Chapter 8: Revenge is sweet
Chapter 9: The Return To The Blood Room
Chapter 10: The Police Station
Chapter 11: Not Contained
Chapter 12: Deterioration of Beach Town
Chapter 13: Riots And Rations
Chapter 14: Brutus The Mutant
Chapter 15: Power
Chapter 16: Radio Apocalypse
Chapter 17: Nightmare
Chapter 18: Liar
Chapter 19: The Plan
Chapter 20: Others
Chapter 21: Times Change Quickly
Chapter 22: The Phone
Chapter 23: A Saviour
Chapter 24: Church Breach
Chapter 25: Disagreements
Chapter 26: The Run
Chapter 27: Hostage
Chapter 28: Negotiations
Chapter 29: Remnants
Chapter 30: The Revelation
Chapter 31: Crowded
Chapter 32: Evacuation
CHAPTER 1
Welcome To Beach Town
‘Morning, Miss, how many today?’ The clerk asked Sheila, who scoured a few coins in her red leather purse. Earlier she thought she might try stealing the cigs, you know, fuck it all and do it sort of thing. She found enough coins for two single cigs, she wanted three. Two shoppers behind were gossiping and it caught Sheila’s ear. Sheila swore one of them mentioned major rioting in the city, she felt too low to ask.
‘Two, thank you,’ her voice soft with shame, barely enough money for cigarettes, what was the town coming to. She slid the coins across the counter, slipped the cigs into her cotton-lined jacket and stashed her purse, the purse catching the pocket lining.
It was common for people to stick to themselves in town. Beach Town was an isolated island fifty miles off the coast of England, frequented by tourists and thunderstorms. The city which lay about six or seven miles away via bridge – Sheila couldn’t remember how far; she hadn’t been out of town in over two months because she couldn’t afford the petrol – was the closest and under UK government control.
‘Damn,’ she mumbled as she tried to avoid eye contact with the other shoppers. It was dim outside, dark clouds hung overhead and once she stepped onto the beach path, she smelt it, the musky scent of a storm brewing. Surfers rode the tides coming to a belly crawl and finally jumped to the sandy shore. Sheila could barely make them out, the salty sea air stung her eyes and she could taste it on her lips. Passers-by faded, and she dipped her head against the sand flicked by the wind and took a slow pace back to the car park. Maybe today, she thought, tugging at her coat for a single cig. It began raining, a saturating hailstorm getting colder against her tights. The path was uneven, cracked concrete, weeds sprouting through the gaps. Weather by thunderstorms and uncared for, a bit like her last week. Nothing had changed her mind that nothing was going to change her life. Being close to bankrupt, friendless, depressed and worn out were taking a toll. All hope seemed lost. She accepted it and smoothed a finger under her eye, brushing away a drip. Maybe it was rain, maybe not. She found it hard to distinguish between anything now.
The path snaked around the beachfront stores, and Sheila scanned the cars, trying to remember where she’d parked.
‘What the hell?!’ She gasped, spotting her car. ‘For God’s sake!’ She cried.
Two young men sped by on skateboards jeering and taunting Sheila. ‘Fuck you slut!’ they yelled, rapidly rolling into the pissing rain. Skateboarding and surfing were popular sports amongst locals, the reason was because it was free. Sheila stood at five six and most young people towered over her. She hated them now and forever. Sheila regarded them as antisocial and this proved her right.
The wheels of her car were completely flat. She approached the car. The window was smashed, and the lighter inside had been dumped on the passenger seat. She got in the car; the rain had soaked her jacket. Sheila slid her hand down under the passenger seat and retrieved an envelope.
‘Thank god for that,’ She muttered, peeling it open carefully, holding it under her coat like a baby. It was her only resume, and a damn good one too. Ten years in customer services and twelve years in management positions, now the only thing left to add was she had become another victim to the shit in Beach Town.
Nearly all houses in Beach Town were suburbanised two stories and two tower blocks, the required amount of shops and the beachfront as the main attraction. Increasing crime and rising unemployment meant residents suffered break ins on a regular basis, Sheila saw the reports on tv a few weeks back. Even the hospital struggled to cope, she had to go for a check-up – suspected anaemia- months ago and nurses and doctors complained about the lack of funding which had caused staff to vacate to the city. Sheila was blonde back then, now her hair was brunette, she believed a new identity might help her stand out. It didn’t.
A honk scared her out of the daze. She looked around, her hair drenched and her eyes blank with despair. It was Dean. One of the police officers who went the extra mile, Sheila admired that. Dean was honking and tilting his shaven head from the white police cruiser. Sheila felt like getting out of her car and slapping him for making her jump but restrained herself. She knew Dean lived alone and suffered depression, after visiting on weekends in the past for drinks, they had things in common. Scotch, chit chat and bettering themselves.
‘You ok Sheila? Hop in I’ll give you a lift,’ Dean sounded a million miles away, the pounding rain now drowning out even the sounds of the engine.
Reluctantly she got out her car and entered the police cruiser, her legs shivered. Anything was better than this. ‘Take me home,’ she replied, the tears now rolling down her cheeks. But in the downpour Dean perhaps couldn’t tell and that relieved her.
‘Sure. I’ll have your car towed, Sheila. You can’t leave it here,’ he said. The rain came down harder and her butt felt cold and damp. Sheila stared into her lap, lip trembling, and her hands together.
Dean flicked on the radio, a bit of Beach Town radio, courtesy of the college students.
‘Never seen all tires flat at once.’ The cruiser pulled away, wipers on fast and traffic speeding by. The song on the radio was some sad country ballad sung by an old man. She turned it off with a huff and searched her pocket for the cigs. When she pulled them out they were soaked, the last cigs she could probably afford to buy was fucking ruined.
‘Fuck sake, what is wrong with this town?!’ She slammed the cigs onto the dashboard, and they split open. The wet tobacco stuck to the black plastic like
glue.
‘Whoa, calm down, I told you - I’ll have the car towed, jeez,’ Dean mumbled, not looking so happy as he cut up a blue Ford. The freeway was busy for a Friday.
‘I can’t calm down, I’ve just lost my fucking job, and I just had my car vandalised and I can’t even afford a packet of god damn cigarettes. What do people do round here anyway? Hey, I’m from Beach Town and my life sucks. Welcome to fucksville.’
‘Holy shit, I never thought I’d hear you snap like that, goddamn it’s good to let it out sometimes,’ Dean said with a chuckle, enough to make Sheila force a smile. The police radio crackled, inaudible voices at first. But then Sheila heard a call about gunshots at a motel.
Luckily the journey was over, quicker than she expected. Dean pulled down 2nd street and came to a squeaky stop outside the apartments. The rain had stopped now, and a blanket of fog hung over the street. April showers galore, she thought. She checked her watch; it was just passing five in the evening. She was bored with time, it meant nothing to her after passing forty.
‘Peculiar looking day too,’ Dean added, sticking his right hand down his pants pocket and retrieving a ten. ‘Here, It’s better than nothing. Get yourself some rest and I’ll see you soon. I have to deal with that motel again, take care,’ she thanked him, took the money hesitantly and clenched it in her fist along with the damp resume. She stepped out, Dean waved and pulled off. His blue lights flickered in the fog followed by the siren. The building had a glow, a new paint job probably, she had seen job adverts for painter.
That was two weeks ago, since then her car was her bed as she job hunted. She wished she could have stayed at home, but her spouse who she regretted getting with, blamed her for losing her job as a manager. Sheila felt butterflies in her stomach, it was her home to. Now the mission was simple, leave the town and everything in it behind. Start a new life somewhere inland in the city, Sheila had heard passively that the city was recruiting lots of new people, a fantastic opportunity to get work. Sheila smiled. She walked to the front door and stepped in, finally, she was home.
CHAPTER 2
Death for breakfast
The kettle rumbled before steam began shooting from the tip. Dean took the black handle covered in condensation and poured the boiling water to an inch from the top of his ‘officer of the day’ ceramic mug.
‘Day two begins,’ Dean sighed, referring to the hunt for the vandals of Sheila’s car, and lifted the steaming black coffee to his mouth and took a sip. He headed from his well-organised and clean kitchen to the living room and sat back on the black and brown chequered sofa. In one corner, his television screen was still on static. His way of clearing his mind, a good stare at nothingness. He put down his steaming mug on the oak coffee table as his phone buzzed in his trouser pocket.
‘What now?’ He grunted, seeing the number had no name. For a moment, he thought about ignoring the call, possibly packing up and heading downtown for a quick lunch at la Carta. The only place he knew in town that had a halfway decent breakfast menu on Saturday. A call so early was not the usual, and Dean suspected an office mishap rather than a crime, because he never dealt with Saturday morning crimes anymore, not since his first days on the job.
He answered the old rectangular phone, tiny in rough large capable hands. ‘Hello?’
‘Dean, officer Ronald here, sorry to bother you so early, got a problem at the hospital, I need your help,’ Ronald sounded concerned, Dean could not picture Ronald as he hadn’t spoken to him in a long time. This must be serious.
‘I’ll be right there,’ Dean replied, about to hang up.
Dean felt the coffee still in his throat as he gulped. Had something happened to Sheila, too damn proud to ask for help, she’s probably topped herself.
‘What’s the situation?’ Dean asked, and a sweat broke in his underarms. Dean took a bigger gulp.
‘Two found dead outside the Rooster motel, hit and run. We have witnesses at the station. Both bodies have green pus pouring from their torso. I suspect it’s drug related but you need to come and see this yourself, something is not right about the bodies.’ Dean listened intently, it sounded gruesome, fascinating him. Was it too early to go corpse speculating? He downed the last of his hot coffee, flicked the TV off and made his way through the narrow passageway to the front door.
‘Fine, I’m on my way. I assume a doctor is present. Best to double check Jamie is actually working.’
Dean hung up, stuck the tiny phone down his pants where his keys were poking into his thigh. Doctor Jamie gave him insights into deaths or drugs use. Jamie was the contact he had worked for in the hospital, a vital ally in the fight against crime. Dean spent months trying to convince him to assist his enquiries, once onboard Jamie soon began assisting with many problems Dean presented to him. They were close and Dean revered the friendship.
He couldn’t tell whether the coffee had perked him up or whether it was the grim prospect of seeing death before breakfast. A quick glance towards the round wall clock placed perfectly in the hallway said ten to eight, but it felt like five. His jacket was freshly washed, smelling of chemicals with a dash of rosemary. He hunched it on and set out to his silver Honda Civic, gleaming under the bright morning sky.
He approached the freeway, intersecting some slow old man in a beetle. Momentarily the radio hissed, and voices yelled on it, but that quickly faded back to a bluesy beat. Dean yanked the gear stick into fifth, pushing over seventy down the empty carriageway. The carriageway intersected with a motorway which led to the bridge to the city. Dean followed it, traffic was dense, three hundred yards to the hospital turn off.
The hospital car park was packed when he pulled up to the ticket gate. Cars had parked on the sidewalks, staff moved car to car jotting down details. Dean had never seen anything like this before.
‘Jeez, happy holidays, what the hell is this?’ Dean muttered to himself impatiently something he found himself doing more these days, especially after a morning buzz.
‘What’s with the overload?’ he asked the ticket booth operator, who looked pale and thinner than he remembered. When the operator answered, his voice sounded on the edge of collapse, it was flat and quiet.
‘No idea sir, most of them came in at around sixish, I’m not sure what’s going on.’ The gatekeeper passed a tacky yellow note to Dean, waving him through with a lazy hand.
‘Yeah, take it easy,’ Dean said and pulled through the barrier, searching for an empty parking space. He crept the Civic through almost impossible gaps, avoiding the limp legs that hung from car doors. Some people coughed and others stumbled with the aid of nurses towards the large glass Emergency Room doors.
‘This is crazy, unbelievable,’ Dean said, as he stopped dead in the middle of the road, switching the engine off and jumping out. The sun was beating down. Dean saw looks of distress on people’s faces and felt sorry for them. Was this related to an epidemic? He locked his car. The offshoot from the motorway was becoming clogged up, horns were beeping and voices shouting profanities. The hospital entrance was full of people as well. Dean walked cautiously; crime was opportunistic in these kind of situations.
Inside, he was met by the young officer Ronald who had called him, and a woman with blackened streaks down her cheeks, blobs of water dripping from her nose.
‘Dean, follow me, the bodies of the hit and run are upstairs,’ Ronald said. The waiting room ER was chaotic, almost like a pilgrimage of coughing and shivering people. Ronald gestured a wave to follow him. The woman did so as well, but Dean tried to refrain from asking the obvious. Ronald led the way, heading right from the ER waiting room through a door which led to the main hospital entrance, which was a large high ceiling white room, things were quieter, but many people lay around with bored expressions. To the left some elevators and to the right more people sprawled over cream waiting seats. Dean noticed the receptionist directly in front being overwhelmed by people throwing questions at her and he thought about calling for assistance in case a riot broke
out. The three of them trailed left across the brightly lit room to the elevators.
‘Why is it so busy, Ron? What in god’s name is going on?’ Dean locked on to the woman again, then back to the desk clerk who was red as cherries, flinging her arms left, right and centre with papers falling everywhere. Dean considered calling for backup again, but his priority was somewhere upstairs.
‘Docs think there’s a superbug sweeping town, well, that’s what Jamie says. Wait till you see these bodies, you’ll understand what he means,’ Ron swivelled his belt a little, resting his hands-on hips and standing nervously like a newbie.
‘Superbug? I can’t afford to get sick this time of year Ron, you can’t either, they’re making cuts to the station.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ His reply was shallow. The gathering masses were now being seen to by hospital security as the elevator arrived.
Fifth room on the right of the third floor, the death floor as Jamie once told Dean on a booze up, was where they found Jamie leaning against the wall just outside. There was a nurse hurrying from a room further down to another, then a patient appeared at the end of the dim corridor, underweight and holding a drip stand slowly walking forward with a vacant face.
‘Dean, good morning, I’m glad you could come,’ Jamie greeted him with a firm shake, his skin smooth from the conditioner he always put on.
‘No problem, when I heard you were here, I had to see the mess you created.’ Dean laughed, and Jamie winced, not something he usually did. Dean felt the air solidify and the initial humour turn into a darker mood.
‘Wait here, make sure no one comes in.’ He told Ron, knowing Ronald had done enough for now. The woman had cleared her eyes up slightly, but Dean caught the random trickles of black liquid that fell still on her blouse. She was waiting with Ron for now. It was her worst day, he felt that, he could even feel her pain radiating, it was like iced water splashed against his spine.
Jamie closed the door and led Dean through the plastic strip curtains that smelt of strong disinfectant. A light flickered, and another went out with a snap. They walked down a sterile corridor to an open room tiled with white and five metal top tables lit by harsh surgical lights. Each table had a corpse on it covered with thick, green mucous. Dean felt nauseas as Jamie led them to the nearest table.
Beach Town: Apocalypse Page 1