by Greg Dragon
For updates on other books and free book giveaways, sign up at http://eepurl.com/btAd5z.
Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright c 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved. The “NIV” and “New International Version” trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society.
INK: RED
Al K. Line
RUN
Edsel crunched into neutral, slammed on the brakes and was out of the car before it stopped moving. The smell of burning rubber was lost behind him in seconds as his legs pumped for all they were worth, arms moving like pistons as he vaulted over the ripped refuse sacks spilling into the road just as a fox ran for the safety of an alley, disturbed from its scavenging.
Already the lactic acid was building in his thighs and his calves were beginning to cramp. Edsel ignored it, just carried on running. He had worse things to worry about than just a little bit of soreness from all the sprinting he’d been doing — The Eventuals that were pursuing him for one, and the scabs he could feel ripping all over his body where The Ink, that damned disgusting blood red Ink, had began to heal, leaving the curse permanently staining his once pale skin, singling him out whether he liked it or not as a member of the fastest growing religion society, or the pathetic tatters of what was left of it, had ever seen.
Thank god I got away before they did my face.
Edsel winced as he felt taut, dry skin rip across his back, the crook of his elbows and under his arms. The back of his knees began to ooze a wet goop of pus, blood and who knew what else, as the scabs cracked and popped while he tried to run for all he was worth, not just fall over screaming and let the group of acolytes finish the job and inject The Ink all over his head. They’d nearly got there too — the back of his neck at the nape was permanently red now. As was the rest of him from his toes to his groin, up his legs, across his torso, arms and most of the way up his pectorals — he looked like a damn lobster and felt sick at the thought of having to one day look at himself in the mirror. If he survived the next few minutes.
It was seven years since The Lethargy first got a name, and Edsel was alone in the world now; apart from Kathy.
Kathy, Kathy, Kathy. The one thing that had kept him going since he thought he would never talk to another living soul again. He had to get to her, had to make sure she was all right; that she was at home.
Edsel was lucky enough to have remained what the media had named Whole, before it shut down as nobody could be bothered to run it, or do much of anything any longer. By the time mankind had actually realized something was destroying the minds of people all over the world, and they slowly fell into a coma-like existence, it was too late. Not that anybody knew what to do about it anyway.
But Whole, he was Whole. He had escaped The Lethargy so far and so had Kathy. So far.
Turning as he heard tins, bottles and the accumulated trash of years scatter, Edsel saw three red-faced men ranging from early twenties to late forties kicking it all out of their way as they panted after him.
Where to now? Where’s safe? I’ve got to get home.
Looking around frantically, Edsel couldn’t see an easy way out. The damn car had been a stupid idea — he’d got less than a quarter mile through the city before the road was impassible, blocked by all manner of vehicles from motorbikes to public buses, some still containing drivers slumped in their seats, passengers that became lost to The Lethargy and never came back to themselves, dying where they sat, uncaring, unknowing.
“Argh,” grunted Edsel, as the pain flared like a dart to a frayed nerve.
Must not scratch my arms. Must not touch my skin.
With dry and gritty eyes, Edsel scanned in all directions as he ran, trying to find something, anything, that would help him get free of his pursuers. He wasn’t a big guy, not strong particularly, didn’t have a gun with him, or one stored anywhere as they were next to impossible to find. The few gun clubs he’d finally decided to hunt down out of misplaced hope had been ransacked years ago, the strict British control over firearms making guns the most expensive bartering tool less than a few months after The Lethargy really got going. Everything fell apart slowly at first, nobody even really noticing, but the minute the media gave it a name and people actually understood the reason why nothing worked properly any more and the streets were always half empty, well, all hell broke loose.
No fear of reprisal for actions meant that society unraveled in a heartbeat. But it was more than that, it was the knowledge that sooner or later, maybe that very day, The Lethargy would wrap you in its warm blanket of forgetfulness and you would fade in and out of self-awareness until you were nothing but an empty vessel. Then you died.
He had seen it happen to his very own family. His mum and sister were both gone within a few years and he had to watch it happen, help feed and clean them, until he couldn’t cope and thought he would go mad as sadness enveloped him and refused to let him surface to breathe the air of if not the happy, then at least the not morbidly depressed.
And that’s when it happened: he almost got turned, but not quite. A chance encounter with one of the crazy Inked Eventuals had led to him pouring his heart out to a stranger, telling of the loss of his family, the way he had finally had to kill them just to end the misery — they were never coming back anyway. He told of the despair, the sorrow and the utter pointlessness of it all, and the shame he felt for the way society had reacted to such a catastrophic event.
Rather than coming together and helping each other, it was every man and woman for themselves — looting, murders, rapes, slavery and worse were all the norm as the prisons overflowed, until there was nobody left to arrest, try, or imprison the diseased remnants of a once modern society.
The man had sympathized, had told him of the religion he followed, talked of The Ink and why it was taken, and that their belief was that what had happened was a punishment from Him for ruining the planet — they wanted it finished, wiped clean of the disease that was humanity.
He nearly joined. Then he met Kathy.
There was peace for a while, happiness, then they began to hunt him, to chase him and never leave him be. Crazed religious extremists following a faith that felt that once you showed an interest in their fatalistic dogma then you would be turned to becoming a believer whether you wanted to or not.
But they didn’t know about Kathy.
They pursued him, unaware of her presence, Edsel keeping her hidden. Safe. There hadn’t been a day of peace since.
This time was different though, this time they had caught him, and he’d been gone for a few days at least. It could have been longer, he didn’t know, he just knew he had to get back to Kathy and nothing, nothing, was going to get in his way.
Not even the pain that constantly ripped through his body.
RAIN
Perfect. Rain, just what I needed.
Edsel wiped the water from his eyes, cursing his tattooists as pain screamed up his arm from his palm that was blistering and peeling. At least the water was soothing his skin a little, but it would help if he could see more, even if it meant hurting more.
Thick cloud descended, hiding the city, which was something. It was so damn depressing looking at it now, half the buildings burned out or collapsed, the rest smashed, scavenged for anything of use, and the streets covered in the garbage that a first-world society took for granted would always be cleared away.
The rain beat down harder as Edsel splashed though the stinking puddles.
Great. Soaked feet now too.
Although it did cool them a little, easing the fire that he felt with every step. It had been excruciating the second they had begun — he had no idea that being Inked on the soles and on the whole foot would hurt quite as much.
All part of the ritual, his captors had said,
smiling through red lips, the insides of their mouths as red as the rest of their bodies. They ignored his pleas, ignored the fact he didn’t want to be a part of them, answered with grunts and more Ink, promises that he would come around eventually, and the alternative was death. Was that what he wanted?
No, it wasn’t. So he kept quiet and took The Ink against his will, listening to his own screams as they slowly stained more and more of his naked torso, all the while half aware of the inane chatter of the two tattooists.
They had shaved his head, right down to the bone, beard too, pubic hair, arms, legs, all of it — part of The Cleansing as much as The Ink. Naked and helpless before Him, all because of a weird warping of their religion, basing the ritual of The Ink on their leader’s red burns and disfigurement.
The Converse on his left foot began to flap. The sole was coming loose and it was slowing him down.
No matter, just keep going. Don’t stop, don’t pause for a second. Keep on running; keep on going. Shake your head to get rid of the rain in your eyes, don’t use your hands, it will just hurt too much.
Driving just the short distance he managed had been hell. The steering wheel felt like it was on fire, changing gears was a lesson in the spiteful design of human anatomy and just how many nerves a hand contained, and when it came to using the clutch whilst changing gear, well, the force needed to press the pedal had sent Edsel screaming out the open window like a woman giving birth.
But he thought he would make it, get away, get back to Kathy, his savior, his love, his hope and his only friend in the whole world.
Then the road was blocked and now here he was, damn sneaker flapping like a tired dog’s tongue, as he tried to avoid falling and tripping over... ugh, it was a person, still alive too by the looks of it — just.
He jumped over the skeletal figure, landing awkwardly, the sole causing his ankle to twist as his foot hit a plastic bag and he slid. His leg bent and he put his hands down for balance, even though every instinct in his body told him not to.
He screamed out in pain.
Damn, now they know where I am again. If I’d managed to lose them in the rain anyway.
At least the ankle wasn’t twisted, or worse — broken. Edsel was exhausted, and stopping was the worst thing he could possibly have done as a wave of tiredness swamped him.
Go, go, go.
He ran on, down the wide street, the signs of expensive department stores hanging like bodies from the hangman’s noose, swaying in the wind like the countless missed harvests all over the country, the world.
The rain beat down faster, flooding the street in seconds; turning it into a river that rushed down the slight decline, bringing yet more trash with it, threatening to make it impossible to run.
At least these red idiots have the same problem.
He splashed through the water, the polystyrene food containers and coffee cups, ignoring the cramps, the blisters, the pain and the cold as the rain soaked through what little clothing he wore.
Got to get away, got to get home, got to get Kathy. It’s only a few miles, nothing to worry about, this should be easy.
Edsel kidded himself, he knew it, but where there was life there was hope, and he was still alive — barely.
They were gaining on him. He could hear their feet hitting the sodden street, splashing like fish in shallow water flapping to get deep again. He picked up speed, pumping faster and faster, sure his heart would explode at any second.
Must practice running if I get away; I thought I was fitter than this. Twenty five and I’m like an old man already.
It wasn’t surprising though. Food wasn’t easy to come by so only a fool would put themselves through the misery of doing regular exercise on top of the long hunts for food — energy expenditure was already high enough. His slim body wasn’t built for such mad sprints — if anything he would have been a middle distance runner. He needed a steady pace, not sprinting for his life while well-fed Eventuals chased him through the dead streets of Manchester.
Gripping a lamppost before he remembered it was a really, really bad idea as the scabs on his palm ripped off and blood oozed out, he took the corner well with the extra leverage and ran through the narrower street looking back to see that his pursuers must have slowed — they were only now making it around the corner.
But there were only two of them, where was the third? Too tired? Given up? Or—
Oompf.
He nearly, but not quite, went down.
It was the third man. He’d obviously taken a shortcut through an alley and the smack into Edsel’s side meant it was nearly over. Nearly. Trying his best to combat the flare of pain, he stomped down sharply with his right leg, smiling as he heard a satisfying howl — even though it probably hurt him as much as it did the man.
No time to fight, gotta run.
With the wind knocked out of him from the punch to the belly, and his skin actually spasming, he carried on regardless, maybe at least cutting down on his pursuers to two for a few minutes while the other recovered. Hopefully a bone in the man’s foot would be broken and he would have improved his odds dramatically.
He kept running.
It kept raining.
The rain hurt like it was made of fire. Each nerve ending was opening up to greet the temporary cleansing of the fetid streets with a pain he never knew existed.
No good, the sole was hanging on by nothing but dogged determination now, so he reluctantly stopped for a second and ripped it off. He had to find safety soon — there was no way he could run with half a sneaker on his foot.
Go in.
He had to go inside a building, any building, just to try to lose them for a few minutes so he could take stock and sort out his feet. Barefoot would be better than this, anything would be better than this.
At least it can’t get any worse.
Edsel sprinted across the street, jumping puddles, body so hot he was amazed the rain didn’t fizzle before it made contact with his skin. The sign above the sports store was still in place, so he knew he was in with a chance, albeit a remote one. He didn’t really expect there to be any footwear left, but at least he could get out of the rain, try to lose the others, and somehow find a few seconds to deal with his feet.
I can always hope. Gotta stay positive or they’ve already won.
Edsel crashed to the ground; he hadn’t been watching where he was going. The smell of the putrid flesh of a half eaten dog greeted him as his face hit the creature’s midsection with a sickening thump. Hands slipped in rotten flesh and came away with clumps of fur stuck to skin that was almost liquid. He had the foul stench all over his scavenged jeans and t-shirt as he got carefully to his feet, the fear of slipping again a reality.
They were almost upon him, so Edsel took his chance and ran into the store through the large shattered full height window, praying he wouldn’t get glass stuck in his foot. If he did then it would all be over, he knew that now. They didn’t want to capture him and finish the job, desertion only had one punishment.
Death.
SOCKS
He had to walk; there was little choice inside the store. There was no room to run, but at least those behind him would be facing the same issues and hopefully would have an encounter with the dog too — Edsel wrinkled his nose at the smell that threatened to make him puke.
Like I haven’t had enough crap on me in the last few days. Ugh.
Edsel shook his head at things he really didn’t want to remember, but knew he would for the rest of his life — however long that might be — then moved as fast as he could between the rails, most on their sides, little in the way of clothing left. The racked walls dedicated to footwear were empty, nothing there. He guessed the stock rooms would be the same, if not worse, as that way people could find their sizes. Walking quickly through the store to the back he grabbed a sweatshirt from the floor and pulled off his stinking t-shirt, wiping his hands as best he could, the smell still almost overpowering, his empty stomach threatening to
purge foul acid.
What I wouldn’t give for something to eat though, I can’t go on like this.
The sweatshirt was a simple green thing, but the hood would be good against the rain and cold once he was back outside. Miraculously it fit — a little snug but it was better than nothing. His dark denim jeans would just have to stay on; it would take too long to even try to get them off.
A few mis-matched sneakers and more sturdy footwear littered the floor, and there were still quite a few kids shoes littered about the place. He scanned it quickly as he moved through the store, finding a left Adidas in his size.
He quickly unlaced his ruined Converse and put the new sneaker on. No time to search for the other one, it could be here or not, but at least he had something on his feet. The looser fit of the skater-style trainer was a welcome relief after the Converse he had luckily found only hours after he made his escape. They were the worst choice in footwear possible for someone that had just had their feet tattooed, but they didn’t hurt as much when he first put them on as they did now — two days later.
Scabs had started to form, then got ripped off repeatedly — it was a never-ending nightmare of pain, running, thirst, hunger, downright dread, and worst of all not knowing if Kathy was safe. Alive.
His foot stank. The soaking sock was thick with lumps of dead skin. Uncovered, the sight of his foot and The Ink going up his leg almost made him cry. Almost. He didn’t think he had any tears left now — he’d cried them all on the gurney as they ruined his body, branding him as belonging to everything he hated in the world.
What was wrong with these people?
With no better solution, he turned the sock inside out and was about to put it back on when he spotted a few pairs weirdly still on an upright rack. A bizarre slice of normality where all was chaos. He grabbed a pair, stuffing one in his pocket and putting the other on then quickly tying up the sneaker.