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

by Michael Robertson

  “Maybe no one has it in them to kill something so beautiful,” Flynn said, watching the creature disappear from his view. He reattached his crossbow and reached out for Rose’s hand again.

  The meadow stretched out in front of them as they walked in a direction Flynn hadn’t yet walked in. In all the time he’d been in Home, they’d stuck to familiar paths. It had always been enough. But now they wanted to go somewhere different.

  “So where are we going?” Rose said as she looked across at Flynn, the wind tossing her long blonde hair.

  A shrug and Flynn smiled. “Wherever fate takes us.”

  The End.

  Thank you for reading The Alpha Plague Books 1 - 8.

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  Masked - A Psychological Horror - Available Now

  SOMETIMES IT’S BETTER TO NOT KNOW WHAT’S UNDERNEATH …

  Jacob Davies is an alcoholic who’s been sober for twenty years. When he watches his dad lose his battle against pancreatic cancer it sends his life into chaos and the cravings return stronger than ever. Lost in his grief, he starts to see visions of a masked man that no one else can see. A man who knows things Jacob is yet to find out. A man who has answers to questions Jacob didn’t realise he had.

  Lucy, Jacob’s wife, stood by him the first time he fell into alcoholism. As he starts to drink again, she makes it perfectly clear she won’t do it a second time. Not now they have two teenage children to protect.

  The visions and Jacob’s grief send him on a journey that leads him to the brink of losing both his family and sanity. As he tries to hold everything together, maybe his only way out is to understand why he’s seeing the masked figure ...

  ... Although maybe it will make everything a hell of a lot worse.

  Masked is a psychological horror about grief, addiction, and deceit.

  Masked is available to buy HERE

  Chapter One

  The second Jacob entered the building he knew today was the day. It started as an anxious flutter in his chest, but the deeper he walked into the place, the heavier his dread got until it felt like he had lead in his ankles. If he could have, he would have turned around and walked out of there. But that wouldn’t change the inevitable. Today would alter his life forever whether he continued forward or not.

  Despite his numerous visits, Jacob never got accustomed to the smell of the place. The strong reek of bleach—sometimes so potent his eyes watered—filled his nostrils, forcing him to ruffle his nose. They say you get used to a scent after a while. Maybe they hadn’t ever been here.

  The air might have reeked, but Jacob still inhaled deeply as he walked. Better to tolerate it so he could use what little meditation techniques he knew to calm his rampaging heart and relax his tense stomach. He needed to hold it together; for the time being at least. Although the breathing seemed for nought. The closer he got, the quicker his pulse ran and the knot in his guts tightened.

  Upon entering the ward, Jacob stopped and looked straight at his dad’s room. The door hung open. Although he’d gone private and had his own space, he wanted to feel like a part of the community so he never shut them out. On more than one occasion, he’d talked about moving into the main area just for the company. But he didn’t really want that. His semi-delirium clouded his mind to the reality of the geriatric unit. The smell of death hung in the air as a heavy and cloying funk. It even overpowered the potent stench of bleach.

  Had Jacob visited his dad in different circumstances, he might have seen more to the place. However, the lens he viewed the entire hospital through had been tainted by bearing witness to his old man’s rapid demise.

  Even from where he stood, Jacob could see the failing of his dad’s physical form. What were once strong hands—the hands of a protector—safe hands—were now twisted with arthritis. They were so brittle he worried he’d break them whenever he held one. Also, his once rigid back had buckled with time, the last few weeks seeming to wring every last drop of life from his form.

  Jacob did his best to ignore those around him, pulled in one final breath of the death-rich air, and moved towards his dad. Running away wouldn’t change anything. He had to face this. While he walked the last few steps, he focused on his old man asleep in his bed. After a long battle with pancreatic cancer that had spanned several months, his father had finally asked for his treatment to stop. Oddly enough, the thing that pushed him over the edge wasn’t the cancer, but rather the bedsore that had re-opened on his right buttock. The festering wound, which sent up a rancid waft of decay whenever the old man moved, had gnawed away at his resolve like it had chewed into his flesh. At eighty-seven, he’d had a good innings and the time had come for him to go and be with his wife again. It had been thirty-two years since Jacob’s mother died of the same rotten disease that now ate away at his father. His dad had waited long enough to be reunited with her.

  The chair screeched over the blue linoleum floor when Jacob pulled it away from the bed and sat down. His dad didn’t stir.

  A familiar line of pain shot up Jacob’s back and balled at the base of his neck. Despite snapping his head from side to side, it did little to relieve the pressure. The aches that he’d accumulated over the past few months felt like they’d stay there forever. A physical throb of pain to go with the emotional one that drained him so. But how could he complain about back pain with his dad in his current state?

  Because he’d come from work, Jacob still had his suit on. Not designed for comfort, it pissed him off every time its restrictive fit reminded him he had to wear it. Customers never visited his office, yet everyone there had to dress like clowns simply because it pleased the MD. A man with more enthusiasm than sense, he made up for what he lacked in insight with hard work and empty corporate speak. A shake of his head, he put his work frustrations to the back of his mind.

  The stillness of the room smothered Jacob. Not complete silence because the ECG machine still emitted a quiet blip with every beat of his dad’s fading pulse, but all of the other devices had been removed.

  When Jacob reached over and put a hand on his dad’s arm, he flinched at the touch of his cold skin. The withered appendage looked and felt like it belonged to a corpse. If it had to bear too much weight it would snap like a dry twig. Hell, the man’s entire body seemed that way now.

  A flutter of his eyelids, Jacob’s dad opened them to no more than slits. He lifted a crooked smile and spoke breathy words. “Hey, boy.” After several weak coughs he added, “Don’t think it’ll be long now.” His smile broadened.

  The lump in Jacob’s throat nearly cut his words off, but he pushed through it and spoke them with a croaky voice. “You’re ready, aren’t you?”

  “This is my lot, son.” Jacob’s dad paused for a few seconds before he gathered the wind to keep going. “Who wouldn’t want an extra decade?” A shake of his head, he covered his mouth while he coughed. “But not a decade like this. I’m ready to go now.” The blue of his dad’s eyes sharpened. The person before the cancer still resided within the wrecked shell, and when he came to the surface, he still looked at his son like he was the most important person in the world.

  Soft footsteps approached the room, and when Jacob turned around, he saw Jane—one of the nurses—in the doorway. She offered him a tight-lipped smile and pulled the door closed. The only thing she could give them now was privacy.

  Jacob watched his dad lie back in the bed. “Shall I read
to you today, Pops?”

  The old man dipped his head ever so slightly while dropping a long blink. For a moment, it looked like he might not open his eyes again. When he did, they only lifted half way.

  Not one for reading, Jacob bought an e-reader when his father got admitted to hospital. The man had consumed books with a rabid voracity, but his illness had taken that away from him too. Most days he couldn’t do anything more than stare at the television in the corner of the room. If Jacob could offer him a little of what he loved when he visited, then the investment in the device had been well worth it. Besides, with the breathlessness that had characterised his father’s slow demise, they couldn’t rely on conversations to fill the silence. Because his father had expressed an interest in reading Charles Dickens for his entire life, they’d chosen to start there.

  After opening the reader, Jacob stared at the final page of The Pickwick Papers. A lump caught and swelled in his throat. Only a small accomplishment, but they’d finished at least one of the master’s books. His dad could pass with a small tick on his bucket list.

  “Oliver Twist today, Dad.”

  When Jacob looked up, his father had drifted away again. The clarity of only a few moments ago had vanished. In its place, a distant glaze to his stare.

  “Among other public buildings in a certain town,” Jacob read, “which for many reasons it would be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.”

  Jacob laughed as he stared at the verbose paragraph. “Reading Dickens has given me a profound appreciation for the man. Sure, you can tell he was paid by the word, but I must say, when I get into the flow of his prose, I actually quite like him.”

  When his dad offered no response, Jacob looked up from his device. Cold dread sank through his heart. He loved this man as much as one human could love another; as much as he loved Lucy and the kids. His eyes were now closed to mere slits. He lay with his mouth hanging open as if he hoped to catch oxygen rather than inhale it. His chest barely moved with his respiration and he made a slight click between inhale and exhale. Even the rattle that had come from deep within him in the past few weeks had gone.

  Probably the last chance he’d get, Jacob had to say something. He’d regret it if he didn’t. After putting the ereader down, he said, “Dad, I don’t know exactly how to say this, so forgive my clunky delivery. As much as I’ve thought about what I’d say to you in this moment, I’ve never managed to find the words when I’ve tried to rehearse. I suppose words can’t do justice to how deeply I love you. You’ve been there for me every time I’ve needed you. You’ve always been there, watching over me, only intervening when I wanted you to. You were the fun dad when I was a kid. You played with me, you took me fishing, watched me climb trees, pushed me for hours on swings … You even bought me a puppy. Do you remember Wilson?”

  Jacob watched his dad for a second, a painful ball twisting through his chest. “Despite spoiling me with love, you taught me respect. Your selflessness knew no bounds, and your unconditional acceptance of who I am set me up to become a man. Nowhere near the man you are, but if I get even remotely close to it, my kids will be blessed. When Mum died, you were there. You hugged me when I needed it and gave me space at the right times. I never had to ask for anything. You taught me about the seven stages of grief and helped me accept each one as it hit me. Do you remember?” A deep breath, he blinked away his tears as he watched him.

  “When I was lost to alcoholism, you never gave up on me. You stood by my side as a pillar of strength during my recovery. You even helped Lucy deal with it. You helped us buy our first house, you gave my kids a grandad to be proud of. You went to every sports day, every play, every show and tell … every single one of them.” A deep stuttering breath, Jacob rubbed his sore eyes.

  “You’re my best friend, my wisdom, my rock. I don’t know what I’ll do without you around, but you’ve suffered enough already. I know you’ll be watching over me. I suppose, above all else, I want you to know you’ve been the perfect dad. I want you to be proud of who you are and to go with your head held high.”

  Jacob’s bottom lip buckled and his eyes continued to burn with tears. As he watched the blurred image of his father, he took a deep breath to try to settle himself.

  The gaps between his dad’s breaths increased. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Pause.

  A snap then kicked through his father’s frail frame and Jacob jumped back. The chair screeched as it dragged a few inches across the linoleum floor. Although he expected the sharp sound to startle his dad, the old boy didn’t seem to notice.

  Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Pause.

  Clarity suddenly returned to his dad’s eyes as if someone had switched a light on inside his skull. It burned brighter than Jacob had seen in weeks. Despite never having witnessed someone dying, he knew what lay before him at that moment. He’d heard it described as one last hurrah; one final kick of utter clarity. It was supposed to be the purest glimpse of peace and insight before the tenuous gift of life slipped away.

  But Jacob didn’t see joy in his father’s stare; he saw child-like panic. It twisted his face and cracked him wide open, exposing his soul. He’d never seen the composed man this raw. As he looked at him—the breath ripped from his lungs—he realised he was witnessing something other than fear. Regret maybe; almost as if the hood of strength that he’d worn for his entire life had been pulled back.

  Although Jacob’s dad spoke in a whisper, he forced his words out. “I’m sorry, son.” He looked at the moon shaped scar on Jacob’s right temple.

  Jacob’s frown darkened his view of his dad and he shook his head. “What do you mean sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve been the most amazing dad. You’ve been there for me for every step of my life. I wouldn’t have been able to cope with Mum’s death were it not for you. I wouldn’t have been able to buy my first house were it not for you.” When he saw his dad needed to talk, Jacob shut up. He’d been too used to having to talk for both of them.

  “I’ve let you down,” his dad said. He reached out with his shaking hand and touched the scar. “This reminds me how I could have been better.”

  “What?” Tears blurred Jacob’s view and he shook his head. “Please don’t take guilt with you. I fell off my bike, Dad. You were the one teaching me. That’s what I remember, not the accident.”

  “Your memory,” his dad said. “It’s never returned.”

  “I probably wouldn’t have remembered much from before my eighth birthday anyway.”

  “I should have been a better father. I should have been stronger for you.”

  “No!” The burn of tears itched Jacob’s eyes again. “Don’t say that. Not now. I won’t let you go with regrets. You’ve been everything and more.” It took a couple of attempts for Jacob to find his dad’s withered hand through his blurred grief. When he found it, he squeezed and looked at the man.

  The clarity had gone. He’d closed his eyes. Jacob watched as the gaps between inhale and exhale lasted longer with each cycle.

  And then he stopped breathing.

  Having sat in that seat beside his father for months, the exhaustion of it finally hit Jacob. His energy flooded out of him and he grabbed the side of the bed to stop himself sliding to the floor.

  What little tension there had been in his dad’s grip eased. Jacob watched the man’s pink hue drain from his skin. A flat greyness swept up his arms all the way to his face. As he left this technicolour world, he slipped into the grey-toned existence of lifeless flesh. His eye sockets—already dark pits in his face—sank deeper. His mouth fell open a little wider.

  Jacob shook as his tears now ran hot streams do
wn his cheeks. He fell forwards and hunched over his father’s corpse. He’d held on for months. He’d tried to be strong while his dad lived. Now he let everything pour out of him.

  Masked is available to buy HERE

  Rat Run - A Post-Apocalyptic Tale

  Edited and Cover By

  Edited by:

  Terri King

  And

  Sara Jones - www.torchbeareredits.com

  Cover Design by James at www.goonwrite.com

  Rat Run

  Michael Robertson

  © 2015 Michael Robertson

  Rat Run is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, situations, and all dialogue are entirely a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not in any way representative of real people, places or things.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Chapter 1

  Even through his heavy boots, Matt felt the delicate crunch of the small cockroach. It registered as a slight vibration through his thick sole, like he’d stood on a porcelain shard. Despite their fierce resilience to the drastic decline in living conditions, it didn’t take much to break the thing’s back. After months of this new world, Matt had turned killing the horrible little things into an art. His practice meant he could now rid the tiny bug of all life while he kept it in one piece. On his route to cockroach-killing perfection, many had been turned into a wet mess on the dirty and dusty ground; nobody wanted to see that. A squashed cockroach served no purpose for anyone. May as well just let the damned thing live.