Oedema: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel

by Stuart Keane

  "What the hell?"

  Luke looked up and dropped the magazine. "What? Everything okay?"

  Nicky stared at him. A mischievous smile quickly split her face. "You really are worried about me. I'm fine. I was talking about the TV." She stabbed the remote at the fifty-inch slab of LCD in the corner. "Look."

  Luke followed the remote's insistent pointing. He recognised the BBC logo, the news channel layout. The bottom of the screen was punctuated with BREAKING NEWS in a large, scrolling red box. He shifted forward as Nicky turned the sound up.

  A female presenter addressed the nation with a stern face. "This just in…"

  Luke snorted. "I hate that woman. Her face does my fucking head in."

  Nicky chuckled. "Shhhh. Just listen."

  The presenter continued. "As of 9:04 this morning, two more suspected terrorist attacks have taken place in and around the United Kingdom. Details of these attacks are limited at the moment, but people have been advised to stay in their homes, and to only travel if absolutely necessary. Details will be forthcoming."

  Luke leaned back. "What else is new? You can't turn the TV on without news of some lunatic attacking somewhere now. There's too much anger in the world."

  Nicky nodded. "Pathetic, isn't it? The world is full of cowards."

  Luke nodded and stared at the flickering screen. Remained silent.

  Nicky sipped her lemonade. "You've seen your fair share."

  "Yeah, but there's a difference. I was paid to do so, by her majesty's government. It was … is my job. It wasn't always good, hell, at times it's downright diabolical, but I knew I was fighting for my country … for my family, our freedom. I suppose it's only logical, with society the way it is, that some people with a twisted moral stance and inflated sense of self-importance will deem themselves soldiers in their own noble crusade."

  Nicky shifted from her trance and stared at him. Swiped a curled strand of hair behind her ear. "You're saying that the latest attacks were done by soldiers?"

  "I said that they deem themselves soldiers. Becoming a soldier and labelling yourself as one … they're two completely different things. Me … I'm a soldier. Them … whoever they are, they're murderers and psychopaths, brainwashed people following a blind cause. The difference is night and day. Or good and evil, as the case may be."

  "It's the society we live in," Nicky uttered.

  "Yep. And it's only getting worse."

  Nicky turned the TV off and dropped the remote beside her. "It depresses me. I have enough shit to deal with."

  Luke stood up. "We don’t need you getting depressed while you're recovering. Just sit back and relax, like the doctor said. Want me to bring the Nintendo downstairs? It's been a while since I kicked your arse on Mario Kart."

  Nicky cleared her throat and deepened her voice. "That's fighting talk, Luke Barrett. And I accept your challenge."

  Luke smiled and left the room. "That's the worst Viking impression I ever heard."

  "Ah shit. I was going for pirate. I'd have never made it in Hollywood."

  Luke skipped up the stairs and entered the spare room; his temporary home from home, while Nicky was recovering. He slid open the wardrobe door, pushed his shirts aside, and removed a plastic container filled with boxes and cables. With probing hands, he dug out the archaic SNES console, along with a slew of tangled cables and controllers. He grabbed a few grey game cartridges too, ensuring Mario Kart was amongst them. He placed them on the bed with a plastic clatter and sighed.

  Luke turned to the mirror on the wall and looked at himself. Grey piercing eyes, short brown hair – the military buzz cut had finally grown in – and a rigid, muscular form beneath his standard black t-shirt and jeans. He blinked and slipped a small key from his pocket. Bent down and slid a box from beneath the bed. With the key in the lock, he snapped the catches, opened the lid, checked the door, and lifted a crimson sheet of velvet from within.

  His eyes fell on the polished Glock 17, army issue. A slim magazine and a red box of bullets sat beside it, unopened. From memory, he knew the magazine was loaded with 9 mm parabellum rounds. All were in working order. He cleaned the weapon and reloaded the magazine four times a week, when Nicky was asleep, to ensure the handgun was always in pristine condition. After all, a clean weapon is a reliable weapon.

  You never know when you might need it…

  He sighed again, and locked the box before slipping it under the bed.

  He'd always been protective of his sister. Nothing was new about that.

  And she needs me, especially with Alex away on business.

  Alex had resisted at first, in order to stay at home with his recovering wife, to nurse her back to health, but Nicky has insisted that her husband go on his trip. A young couple with blossoming careers, Nicky saw the regimented importance of such an endeavour. She had sent him on his travels and prepared to hire a home nurse until Luke had returned from duty. He had popped in to visit on his return, realised the situation at hand, and had remained in the house ever since. The timing had been perfect.

  And now, here you are.

  Luke ambled to the window, split the blinds with two fingers and stared at the empty street beyond. A red ball bounced off the asphalt, followed by a trio of chasing children. Their screams went unheard. He scanned the street – no parked cars, no suspicious characters.

  You better hope they don't follow through with their threat.

  Nicky can look after herself. And she has me.

  But now, she was more than vulnerable. Practically immobile. The chances of an attack on their hometown was slim, but as the news never failed to remind them, the attacks were becoming more frequent. He recalled eight in the past week alone – the first three of which were covered up by the government, unknown to the general public. A fellow comrade had kept him informed of the incident. It didn’t look good, and a cover up usually indicated that something far more sinister was afoot.

  The attacks were frequent but anonymous. And despite the carnage, no one actually knew what the perpetrators were hoping to achieve. That was unknown, even to Luke, who had his personal suspicions from his time abroad, but that didn’t diminish the impending panic that the attacks were causing on his home soil. As a soldier, he was torn between his ethics and a personal responsibility. He needed answers, but they would only be delivered on his comrade's terms. He would have to wait. On the other hand, he wanted to leave his work behind, just for a few weeks while aiding his sister, but it now seemed he didn’t have that luxury.

  "Lee, you wanker! You coming? The Barrett Championships are going to moi, this time. Don't tell me otherwise, we both know it's true."

  He didn't have that luxury. Or did he?

  Luke walked away from the window, slipped his mobile phone from his pocket and stared at it. No missed calls. No messages. A whole minute passed as he stared at the small screen, willing it to change, to blink, to provide him some sort of update. Nothing happened. He pursed his lips, pushed the power button and smiled, dropping the phone into the drawer on his bedside cabinet. No hassle.

  "Luke!"

  He sighed. "I'm on my way."

  *****

  "Another beer, please?"

  The bar man slapped his hand towel over his shoulder, nodded, and turned to the fridge behind him. He removed a cold Budweiser, popped the cap and placed it on the bar beside the other bottle. A spit of white foam oozed from the neck. He recollected his towel and wiped the bar, exuding the confidence and poise of a man proud and content in his occupation. "Shall I add it to your tab, sir?"

  Alex Barrett nodded. "Indeed. Thank you, Stephen."

  After a couple of diligent taps on the till screen, Stephen wandered off to serve another patron. Alex finished the dregs of his first beer, pushed the empty bottle aside and started on the fresh drink. It felt cool and crisp on his tongue, refreshing and blissful as it sluiced down his parched throat. The bottle clonked on the bar as he replaced it. He sighed and spun his mobile phone with agitated finger
s, pulled at his tie and loosened it before he left it dangling on his chest. The words on his phone infuriated him.

  NO SIGNAL.

  Alex shook his head.

  In this technological day and age, how?

  How does a pub not have Wi-Fi?

  He remembered the manager's response; 'We called a guy. He hasn't turned up yet.' Seconds later, the surly manager had collected his coat and briefcase and left the establishment, his 'more-ten-than-nine-to-nearly-five' complete, his slapdash customer service duties no longer a concern.

  Which is when Stephen had arrived.

  The first time Alex had smiled all day.

  Alex watched as Stephen went about his business, a permanent smile cemented on his handsome face. His hands were always in motion; buffing glasses, cleaning the bar, stacking shelves, tending to drink orders. He was polite and courteous, and received the same demeanour in return. Proper customer service, executed right. Alex admired the man's strict dedication; a dead-end job with minimal prospects, and he was treating it like the opportunity of a lifetime.

  Alex sighed. A dead-end job to you, maybe.

  Every opportunity is an opportunity, regardless of social rank or strata.

  Alex found himself thinking about that. Tapped the glass bottle with a chipped fingernail. A bar man starts off slowly, but come one day, in the distant future, he could actually own his own establishment, or even several. He could become his own boss. A bar man could easily tap into a market frequented by millions of paying customers on an annual basis. One day, it could make the man a millionaire. It would be the ultimate underdog story. All success starts with the wipe of a glass or the change of a barrel, in his case.

  If rumours are to be believed, Apple was started in a garage. Never judge.

  Alex sipped his beer and sighed. Checked his phone in a moment of mild hope.

  NO SIGNAL.

  He slammed the phone onto the bar. "Shit."

  Stephen nodded to a departing customer and walked over. "Everything alright, sir?"

  Alex waved a hand. "Nothing, just me being petty."

  Stephen collected a glass from the dishwasher tray. Wiped it and placed it on a shelf above him. Repeated the process. "About…"

  "My phone has no signal. No Wi Fi. Its petty, I sound like a fucking child."

  "We are in a terrible area for mobile phone signal."

  Alex shook his head. "I need to speak to my wife. She recently had surgery, and actually sent me on this trip. This training seminar was a great opportunity for me … for us, and my wife would rather I attend then stay at home and care for her. I'm the luckiest guy in the world, and I certainly know it, but I'm worried sick. Three more days of this two-week slog and I can go home, but fuck me is it dragging. I just need to check on her. Make sure she's okay. Trust me to pick the one pub in this city that has no connectivity."

  "I see," Stephen added.

  "Yeah, and your boss said the internet is broken. He's waiting on a guy to fix it, apparently. Who has broken internet in this day and age?"

  Stephen placed a glass on the bar and paused, a twinkle in his eye. "BT customers. People who don't know any better. And people who have no clue."

  Alex looked up. "Excuse me?"

  Stephen chuckled, baring pristine white teeth. "Allow me to rephrase, sir." He walked over to the corner, opened a cupboard, and revealed a black box with an ambient orange light. He clicked a button and waited. The orange light blinked for a moment, paused, and turned a solid blue. Stephen closed the cupboard and smiled. "Check your phone."

  Alex narrowed his eyes and lifted his phone. NO SIGNAL. But, a small logo of four curled waves blinked in the corner, signalling the potential for Wi Fi connectivity. A slow smile split Alex's face, a natural gesture that caused Stephen to chuckle once more.

  "How the … he said it was broken?"

  Stephen nodded. "And it will remain 'broken' until the accounts and beer orders are up to date. Until he does some … pardon my French … fucking work around here. There's a few reasons I work the evening shift, sir. One of those is my manager's unhealthy penchant for internet pornography. Because of my little ploy, let's just say his wristwork in the office can be best served doing his actual job. Trust me, walking in on that particular masturbatory practice – just once – is enough to make the most sensible of people take immediate action."

  Alex chuckled and sipped his beer. "Really?"

  "It was repugnant, sir. Disgusting. Vile. And the smell…"

  Alex waved a hand in the air, and grimaced. "Yeah, I don't need the gory details. I've seen your boss, and that mental image will now scar me for life." He recalled the rotund man from their earlier conversation, and shuddered deeply.

  "You see why I had to take action?" Stephen concluded. He began wiping glasses once more, with a smug smile on his face. "I couldn’t come to work knowing that was going on. And now, at least you can call your wife."

  Alex held his beer in the air. "In that case, I should thank you. Allow me to buy you a drink, Stephen. Please, it's the least I can do."

  The bar man held his hand up. "No need, sir. I'm just doing my job. My patrons need not suffer, and I won't allow this place to go under due to the lazy habits of a perverted deviant. I was just doing my dutiful part."

  You were right. This guy is savvy.

  He'll be his own boss within a decade.

  "Please, enough of the sir. Call me Alex."

  Stephen nodded. "As you wish. Sir."

  FOUR

  His short time on this sacrilegious planet was coming to a fitting end.

  Six knew this, as did his team of dedicated comrades, and much like them, he had accepted his eventual fate long ago. It was rooted in unwritten fact and whispered doctrine, and provided the strict mantra for their entire crusade.

  The distribution of Oedema revolved around one core principal: No survivors.

  On either side.

  Six closed his eyes and played a cherished song in his head, a favoured tune that would never touch a set of speakers or an iPod in his presence because They would not allow it. Western culture was strictly forbidden in their sect, and anyone who enjoyed such media was deemed an immediate traitor, and executed before the remainder of their sect. To encourage or entertain such a simple notion was a deadly sin in the eyes of his superiors.

  But everyone had one vice.

  Every person, no matter their level of dedication, needed something to see through the dark days, something that offers a moment of relief and respite from the slog of the unending crusade. Music was Six's choice, a beautiful vice that could remain hidden in the secretive depths of his cerebrum. His only worry was falling foul to a lapse in concentration and humming or singing the song aloud, in the presence of those who forbade it, but his lack of personal confidence and hidden bravado ensured this was never a problem.

  Thus, the catchy melody of Maybe by The Chantels existed only in his mind, a melodic secret that would never be shared with anyone, a confidence that would go to the grave with him. Deep in his mind, he imagined an ancient record player spinning into life, the delicate hand floating across the vinyl and touching down with a crisp landing before playing the beautiful song from its crackly speakers. He would never share his love for the song, or the fact he had discovered it while playing a game on an Xbox 360, a console that now sat on the doorstep to his local charity shop. No, video games were just as bad, if not worse, than music. Some lucky soul would get a bargain on Monday, that was for sure.

  After all, he wouldn’t need it anymore.

  He wouldn’t fight his planned demise, and to even consider it would be hopeless. It was a pivotal cog in their entire cause, their fool proof plan to eliminate themselves from any suspicion. Many terrorist cells strive to take credit for their brutal attacks, but They were different. They wanted for nothing, They didn't want the fame, and They certainly didn't care about the press and the commercial fallout. They wanted humanity to suffer for its constant sin, and suffer i
t would, until nothing but piles of rotting bodies and utter despair remained. As a famous man once put it, in a film that Six saw before his conversion, some people just wanted to watch the world burn.

  Or drown, as the case may be.

  They were those people…

  And the drowning was about to begin.

  With a movement that was both routine and robotic, Six reached out a hand and answered the ringing phone beside him. The red one. The call was punctual, as always. He listened, obeying in silence and quaint reflection. He nodded just once before returning the phone to its cradle. He unplugged the phone with a swift wrench of the cable, tapped the keyboard beside him, activated the six-encryption firewall, and logged in. A small white box opened before him and hosted a blinking cursor. It patiently awaited input.

  He typed: We're a go. Activate in ten.

  A pause. Six stood up and walked across the empty warehouse. He dropped the phone into a drum of acid and watched as the device melted into multiple red pools of plastic nothingness. He observed for a moment, his dead eyes surmising the hissing liquid before him. He turned, repeated his journey back to his desk, and sat back in his chair.

  A pause. He stared at the screen. Agreeing replies appeared in the white box, arriving from the terminals of Ten, Seven, Eight, Twelve and Two.

  Six nodded. Typed: Plan B was activated. You know what to do. Six out.

  Six closed down the computer and disassembled it. He took the monitor over to the barrel of acid and dropped it in. It sizzled as he walked back to his desk. He repeated the action with the portable desktop unit and all connected cables, and watched as they dissolved to nothing. Once done, he walked back to the desk and opened the drawer. He stared at the bare bottom and collected the only item inside; a small black box with a red button.

  He glanced up and breathed out. A bead of perspiration trickled down his scarred face as he studied the empty storage warehouse around him. He squinted at the plain concrete, the sheet metal walls, the steel beams that stood deep in the dark corners, shrouded in shadow and cobwebs, and attempted to see the explosives that resided there. Blinking red lights were the only sign of their presence.