The Alpha Plague - Books 1 - 8: A Post-Apocalyptic Action Thriller

by Michael Robertson

  The crowd booed and slips of paper rained down.

  A few seconds later, Flynn recovered his breath enough to do something more than just stay put. He looked back up the hill. He’d lost about half of the distance he’d climbed. He watched a couple of the front-runners, including Rose, climb the ledge at the top to safety. He couldn’t do it. Then he looked down at number thirteen. “Come on, Flynn,” he said to himself, “you don’t have a choice.”

  Chapter 28

  What felt like a lifetime had passed before Flynn reached the top of the slope. His entire body trembled from the effort of the climb. By the time he’d reached the halfway point, his limbs shook beyond control, but he kept his tense frame locked and inched up the hill, thinking only about the next step.

  It had taken him so long, even the crowd had fallen silent as they watched him climb.

  A sheer wall ran along the top of the hill. No more than two metres tall, it stood between Flynn and freedom. Or at least freedom from the shitty slope.

  After Flynn reached up and grabbed the ledge, he looked down to check his footing and a stream of hot liquid rained down on him. Had he been more alert, he probably wouldn’t have looked up again. Had he been more alert, he wouldn’t have ended up staring at an exposed penis as one of the spectators pissed on him, half of the stale urine running straight into his eyes and mouth. Several more men stood on either side of the pissing man and then they too emptied their bladders on his head.

  The crowd had picked back up again, and they whooped and hollered as if geeing the pissing men on.

  Despite his rage sending his pulse hammering and winding his shoulders tight, Flynn could do nothing but take it. If he let go of the ledge to grab one of them, he might slide back down the slope. He’d remember the men and he’d make sure they paid when he got the chance. He’d make sure every one of the vicious fuckers in the fucked-up community paid. He spat on the ground several times, but it did nothing to rid his mouth of the taste of piss.

  When the streams of urine stopped, Flynn looked up again to see the men put their shrivelled dicks away. Many of them stared down at him, sneering as if proud of what they’d just done. They’d get theirs. He’d make sure of it.

  The men turned away to be replaced by one woman. She had a bucket in her grip. She appeared to be struggling under its weight. Flynn looked down just in time for the cold splash of it to hit the back of his head rather than his face.

  From the smell, consistency, and what he saw of the bucket’s contents before it slid down the hill, Flynn assumed it to be excrement, rancid animal guts, and some kind of rotten food. His stomach flipped in response to the acrid reek. A second later he vomited bitter-tasting bile on his shoes.

  A shake of his head and Flynn spat again. “So this is what happens to the last one up the slope.”

  Despite the assault, Flynn kept his grip on the ledge. The ground had turned slicker beneath his feet because of all the liquid they’d poured on him. If he let go now, he’d be screwed.

  A searing pain then burned through the back of Flynn’s right hand. He managed to hold on and looked up at the woman who’d held the bucket. The words came out before he’d a chance to hold them back. “What the fuck?”

  The woman hissed at him while twisting her foot. Much more and she’d break the bones in the back of his hand.

  Before she could stamp on him again, a guard rushed up behind her. Flynn continued to hold onto the ledge but ducked.

  The vicious woman screamed as she flew over the top of Flynn. She hit the slope hard enough for the impact to drive the air from her body. The sound of her shrill cry raced down the hill with her.

  The woman’s scream ended with a now familiar wet squelch. Flynn looked behind to see her impaled like the prisoners had been. He also saw rope ladders had been dropped down to Mistress and the guards, and they were currently climbing up one of the sheer walls to the top of the pit.

  “That’s not on,” the guard shouted at the people as he pointed down the slope at the now dead woman. “They may be prisoners, but we don’t cheat.” He pointed his thick finger at Flynn. “He deserves to be here. From what I’ve just seen, he’s more than earned it.”

  The crowd didn’t respond, but they backed away as Flynn pulled himself up over the ledge. He couldn’t see any of the other prisoners.

  Just as Flynn opened his mouth to thank the guard, someone dropped a sack over his head and his world turned dark. Maybe his gratitude had come a little too soon.

  Chapter 29

  A rough grip clamped around Flynn’s right bicep and stung where it clung on. Clearly one of the place’s many guards, but fuck knew where he planned on taking him. It would serve no purpose to fight it. Not at that moment. He let the guard lead him wherever they were going.

  After a few minutes of walking over what felt like a broken road—the long grass pushing up through its uneven surface—the acoustics of Flynn’s surroundings changed. The path sloped downwards and both his and the guard’s footsteps echoed off what sounded like the enclosed walls of a tunnel.

  At a guess, Flynn would have said they walked about one hundred metres before the sound of his environment changed again. The echo stretched away from him where the enclosed space clearly opened up.

  The grip on Flynn’s right bicep eased and the guard behind him grabbed the top of the sack on his head before ripping it off.

  Before Flynn found his bearings, a powerful rush of frigid water smothered him in an icy blast, forcing him to inhale hard. Every muscle in his body snapped tight in reaction to the chill, and his pulse ran off the charts.

  When Flynn tried to back away from the water—his arms folded protectively across his body—a pole of some sort jabbed straight into his brand and he arched his back in response. He rushed towards the icy assault again. The message seemed pretty clear: stay the fuck still and take it!

  The aggressive and frigid soaking cleaned all the shit from Flynn’s body and damn near ripped his skin off too. The chill wound him so tight he felt brittle.

  The water stopped and the place fell silent. Flynn looked around. They were in the centre of what looked to be an underground car park. It looked like the kind of place that would have an old commercial building stretching above where they stood.

  Several guards stared at Flynn and one of them threw a towel at him. It hit him in the face.

  “Take those disgusting clothes off,” the guard—a large man with broad shoulders, a bald head, and a sword in his hands—said.

  Flynn stripped, threw his clothes down, wrapped the towel around himself, and tried to dry off as quickly as he could.

  Thank god he had cropped hair; the sewage would have been a nightmare to get out were it any longer. No doubt they would have turned the hose on him for longer too.

  Once Flynn had dried himself off, the same large guard picked some clothes up and threw them at him one item at a time. Briefs, tracksuit bottoms, and a T-shirt.

  Flynn put all the clothes on.

  Even though he’d gotten dressed, Flynn continued to shiver. They were far enough underground it made the June heat redundant.

  For a few seconds, the guards—six of them in total—stared at Flynn and he stared back. So occupied with the motley crew in front of him, he didn’t hear a guard approach from behind. He jumped as the whoosh of fabric turned his world dark again. By the smell of things, they’d used a different hood because any trace of shit had gone. Silver linings and all that.

  Although the guard grabbed his right bicep like he had before, this time he used much less force. He led Flynn away from where he currently stood.

  After about a minute and a few twists and turns, they came to a flight of stairs. The guard slowed down to allow Flynn to feel his way up without tripping.

  The metal stairs clocked beneath Flynn’s steps as they continued their climb. The cold had already left Flynn’s bones. Sweat itched all over his body from both the exertion and the change in temperature as they scaled high
er. Although only faint at that moment, he could hear the sound of people—another fucking crowd.

  “Where are you taking me?” Flynn asked.

  The guard gripped harder and shoved Flynn forward. He caught his foot on the next step and he would have tripped were it not for the guard holding onto him.

  “Okay, okay, I get it. No more questions.”

  The grip eased and the guard slowed down again.

  After another few minutes of climbing, Flynn’s legs shook and he panted beneath his oppressive hood. The guard gave him a sharp tug to halt him and then walked past him.

  What sounded like a metal handle snapped down in front of them. A moment later the sounds of the crowd raised in volume. They’d clearly just opened a door separating them and the spectators. Although, what they’d come to spectate, Flynn couldn’t guess.

  Before Flynn could think on it any further, the guard tugged him forward through the open doorway.

  After several steps, a strong wind crashed into Flynn. Before he had time to think, the guard had walked around behind him again and ripped his hood away.

  Flynn’s stomach lurched and he instinctively stepped back a pace from the edge of the tall building. At least twenty storeys up, maybe more, he looked at the small people below. They all whooped and hollered at his arrival. It had to be the same crowd who’d watched him climb the hill.

  A derelict town much like the one close to Home, Flynn looked out over it from his vantage point on top of an old tower block.

  Now he’d stepped back from the edge, Flynn relaxed a little, the strong breeze cooling his sweating face. He looked to his right down the line of prisoners and saw what he assumed to be all of the ones who’d climbed the shitty hill successfully. They all wore the same clothes as him.

  It took Flynn a few seconds, but when he saw Rose, he relaxed a little and let go of a relieved sigh.

  When Flynn looked at the guard behind him who’d led him up the stairs, his blood ran cold. A wide smile on her wicked face, Mistress stared back at him. She then walked past him and stood on the edge of the building, about to address the crowd. Whatever she had to say to them at that point, it wouldn’t be good.

  Chapter 30

  Mistress paraded up and down in front of the line of prisoners and said nothing. Flynn’s sight had fully adjusted to the bright glare of the sun and he now saw the glisten of fresh blood on her leather apron. Again. So slick, it shimmered like oil riding the top of a wave.

  A wide and leering grin split Mistress’ gaunt face. Her black hair danced in the wind and she moved with sure-footed steps. She firmly planted her weight down with each stride forward, the gravel on the rooftop crunching beneath her strut.

  From the way Mistress looked at them, Flynn knew they existed on a knife edge. At any moment, she could send any one of them flying from the top of the building. They’d best recognise and respect that.

  Despite walking right on the lip of the building, Mistress didn’t seem in the least bit bothered about the fall. Clearly familiar with being up there, she owned the space. Flynn watched her and eased back a step. How many people had she launched from the top in the past?

  To look at the vicious woman sent chills through Flynn, so he looked at the abandoned town beyond instead. Like all of the other towns he’d visited, many of the buildings had fallen into disrepair. Maybe rats lived down there like in the town close to Home. Although probably not. He scanned the shadows regardless and looked for the movement of small bodies.

  At least one hundred people gathered around the bottom of the tower block and stared up. Flynn had to shield his eyes from the sun to see all their gawking faces. The hot June day pressed down on him, and despite the strong breeze, Flynn sweated in his T-shirt and joggers.

  The town didn’t look like home for the people, and no matter where Flynn looked, he couldn’t see any signs of either fortification or dwellings. Maybe he’d find out where they lived if he won the stupid competition.

  When Mistress shouted at the prisoners, it snapped Flynn from his musings and he jumped.

  “Right,” she screeched like a cawing bird, “we need to know your numbers. One by one, I’d like you to step forward and tell the good people down below what your number is. We need to make sure the people with skin in the game know who they’re rooting for.”

  A skinny girl with matted hair stepped forward. She looked to be barely out of her teens and her voice wobbled as she shook and said, “Hi—”

  “Louder!” Mistress yelled and stamped a black-booted foot against the gravel roof of the building.

  “Hi!” the girl shouted to the people below. “I’m Samantha—”

  In two steps, Mistress rushed at the girl and leaned into her face. She shouted so loud Samantha pulled back as if from the force of it. “I don’t give a fuck what your name is. What number are you, sweetheart?”

  Samantha flushed red and stammered for a few seconds. “N-number … number five. I’m number five.”

  When Mistress spun her finger at the girl, Samantha turned around. She lifted her T-shirt to show the crowd her number five over her right kidney. The angry red wound looked a long way from healed, the glisten of pus turning it shiny.

  If the permanent throb of his brand gave him any indication, Flynn’s probably looked as bad. Or would when it got as old and infected as Samantha’s had.

  A few seconds passed where neither Mistress nor Samantha spoke, but Mistress glared at the young girl as if she would cave her skull in at any moment.

  As much as Flynn wanted to tell the girl to step back, he wouldn’t put his neck on the line for her.

  Samantha finally got the hint and moved back into line with the others.

  It took a few more seconds for Mistress to move on and stare at Rose. Flynn’s heart beat faster and he balled his fists. Would he step in if he needed to?

  “Hi,” she called down to the people. “I’m number one.” Some of the crowd cheered as she spun around and showed them the brand over her left kidney. Clearly the people with a number one ticket. She promptly stepped back into line.

  “Quite the confident one, aren’t we?” Mistress said, but Rose didn’t respond.

  Each prisoner stepped forward at Mistress’ request, repeating the same routine Rose had laid down for them. Flynn paid extra attention when they came to the brute.

  Although overweight, the thickset ginger man wore strength in his heavy frame. Farmer strength rather than athlete strength, he looked like he could break bones. The wind tossed his fine ginger hair as he stepped forward and looked at the people down below. “I’m number seven.”

  A small section of the crowd responded to his number with cheers and shouts.

  The ego of the brute seemed to drive him and would no doubt get him into trouble. Unlike the other prisoners, he remained a step ahead of the line and glared at Mistress. Almost an open challenge to the woman, it took for her to tilt her head to one side in an avian twist for him to turn around, reveal the number seven over his right kidney, and step back.

  Mistress watched him like she’d peck his eyes out. If only she’d throw him off the roof. She then looked at the next prisoner, who stepped forward, introduced herself, and stepped back quicker than any of the others had as if to make up for the brute’s faux pas.

  By the time Mistress got to Flynn on the end of the line, he’d grown so nervous his stomach clamped and he felt nauseated. He stepped forward and called down, “Sixteen,” to the people below before turning around and showing them his right kidney. He stepped back into line with the others.

  Like she had with the brute, Mistress stared at Flynn as if contemplating her next move. She then pointed at him and his legs shook. If he made a break for it, how far would he get before someone took him out? Surely there had to be guards waiting just behind the metal door to the stairs.

  “One,” Mistress said and moved onto the person next to him. “Two, three, four, five …” She paused, the strong wind rocking her where she stoo
d, and stared at the brute. “Six, seven, eight, nine.”

  Samantha stood at the end of the line, skinny and still shaking. Mistress hadn’t counted her yet.

  Another twist of her head and Mistress said, “Well, well.”

  It happened so quickly, Flynn nearly missed it.

  In one fluid movement, the vicious woman lurched forward, grabbed Samantha’s forearm, dragged her towards the edge of the building and said, “Ten’s my unlucky number,” as she threw her off.

  The poor girl screamed all the way down, and Flynn—like the others—stepped forward to watch her hit the ground. The crowd parted in time for her to connect with the concrete with a deep crack. Her body fell instantly limp and lay as a twisted approximation of a human form, her limbs bent and buckled in ways that shouldn’t be possible.

  As one, the prisoners all stepped back from the edge of the building again. They all moved a little farther away than they’d stood before and watched Mistress with wide, fearful eyes. When Flynn looked across, he saw shock even on the brute’s face.

  Chapter 31

  “Now,” Mistress called out as she walked along the edge of the building’s roof again. She stamped a foot down with each word. “Now, now, now, now, now.” When she reached the brute, she stopped.

  The thickset ginger man clenched his jaw, pulled his shoulders back, and raised his chin. Not quite as defiant since poor Samantha had been launched from the roof, but a clear show of strength nonetheless. It told Mistress he wouldn’t go down as easily as Samantha had.

  It felt like the longest time as Mistress said nothing; she simply stared at him. “You want to follow her, do you?” she finally said.

  The large red-headed man didn’t say no. He most certainly didn’t say yes either. It would have been much better if she’d thrown him off instead of Samantha—and she still could. The brute finally lowered his stare, subservient enough to appease her.