He reached the top and crossed the river. In the centre of the bridge he paused and stared across London. There was nothing. No movement, no noise, nothing. Even the pigeons were quiet. He was alone, utterly alone. He sniffed and scrubbed a hand across his nose. His eyes were stinging and it couldn't be from tears, but they came running down his face just the same.
He rubbed them away and stomped on, left leg aching and dragging behind him. He took the stairs down as slowly as he could. Once he saw the flower seller standing behind his table, David couldn't help but speed up, ignoring the stabbing going through his leg with each step.
He reached the bottom and stopped, gasping and blinking away the spots before his eyes. He was fit, why was he struggling so much? The fall hurt like a bastard, but it shouldn't make him suddenly ill. Still, his sides hurt and he couldn't draw breath. He meandered down Embankment to the flower seller and stopped, hands on his knees.
'Hello, David. You don't look so well, perhaps you should take a seat.'
The flower seller motioned to a bench and David dropped gratefully into it, grunting as his leg jarred.
'What have you done?'
'Me? Nothing.'
'You lying bastard. What have you done?'
'Did your wife enjoy the flowers?'
David ground his teeth together, eyes getting wet again. Who was he? And where the hell were they?
'Where are we?'
'London of course, the most beautiful, wonderful city in the world. You know why I like London so much, David?'
'Stop using my name, stop calling me that.'
The flower seller went on, as though he hadn't spoken. 'You can meet anyone in London. You can just be walking along, enjoying the sunshine, or the rain, and bump into someone remarkable. Don't you think that's great?'
His head was spinning and he rested it on the back of the bench. His voice seemed to come from far away.'What's wrong with me?'
'Tell me, David, wh--'
'STOP CALLING ME THAT, STOP SAYING MY NAME.'
'Goodness. Well, I'm not sure that's entirely called for. What would you have me call you? How about D?'
David blushed and clenched his fist. How did he know? Was it a lucky guess? He knew it wasn't, though. He knew, somehow. He hated D, almost as much as he hated David. It was one of the many things he wouldn't miss about Amber. It was like the cornflakes. She knew he hated it, but still she did it. What made it somehow worse was that she didn't do it to deliberately annoy him, she just didn't think. Or she didn't think it mattered.
'My name is Dave.' He snarled between clenched teeth. The flower seller looked understanding.
'I see, well, of course. You asked a question, I believe?'
He made it sound reproachful and David sat silent, staring at the ground in front of the bench. The silence stretched out and he caved in. 'What's wrong with me?'
'Well, as I was saying, what's the one thing you're most afraid of?'
The flower seller finally came out from behind his table and stood before him, nodding and smiling like he'd just sold him a car. David frowned. He'd never really thought about it, not properly. He didn't like spiders all that much, but then, who did?
He didn't like heights but he could handle them. He'd always found woollen jumpers a bit creepy, but so long as no one in the room was wearing one he was fine. There was something else.
He ignored it and shook his head. 'I don't know. Nothing, really, I guess.'
The man raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. David stared back, determined not to crack first. He did, though. 'Okay, so maybe there is something.'
He looked around at the long empty expanse of street and the deserted river. He looked across at the London Eye, still spinning and entirely empty.
'You already know, so why ask me?'
'Just curious. It takes a certain courage to admit to one's fears. Just as it does to live a lie.'
The flower seller turned away and wandered back to his stall. David raised a hand and dropped it again.
'Fine, fine. I'm scared of dying alone.'
The flower seller stopped, hands clasped behind his back, and faced him, face sombre. 'That's right. And you always have been, haven't you?' A smile lit his features. 'Well, what you're feeling is an advanced case of pneumonia. Given the right medical treatment at this moment, you might live. It's probably fifty fifty, if I'm honest.'
David sobbed, his chest tightening, his throat burning and filling with mucus. The flower seller nodded, smile still painted across his face. David loathed him. At that moment he thought he'd be happy to kill him, to beat him to death. But he could barely lift a hand.
'Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be anyone around to help out. Which is a shame, isn't it?'
'What do you want from me?'
'Why do they always assume I want something?'
The flower seller tutted and strode past David to the black railing above the Thames. David twisted his body so he could watch him. The man, or whatever he was, stared down into the water. David was about to speak when the flower seller nodded, turned to him and smiled.
'Normally at this point, I'm tempted to say goodbye and leave you to it. But alas that's not the gig. I'll never fill the quota beginning the week like that and you're a good bet. Still, I've been wrong before. Perhaps a little time to think...'
He waved a hand and strolled back to his stall. David watched him all the way, but somewhere between the river and the flowers, he seemed to fade. One moment he was there, the next David could see the bridge through him, and then he was gone.
The silence closed in like the arms of a particularly greedy aunt yearning for a goodbye kiss.
The bench was cold against his trousers and his legs were stiffening up, so he climbed to his feet. He felt about a hundred, every bone in his neck cracking as he moved his head. He took slow steps towards his office but got only a few yards down the road before a coughing fit overtook him and he doubled up, one hand pressed to his mouth and the other resting on the road.
His eyes were watering when he straightened up and resumed walking. A movement to one side caught his eye, but when he turned he saw nothing. The sharp movement made the world spin and he stopped, setting his feet and holding his arms up. When it steadied, he walked on.
The office was empty, every desk just as it had been when he left for lunch. A few bore evidence of other people's lunch, open foil and empty lunch boxes beside half-empty cups of coffee. They'd all just gone. Everyone had gone.
It hit him, properly, and he sank to his knees. His face pressed against the carpet and he sobbed. His shoulders heaved and he hated every second, but he couldn't stop. He was alone, completely and utterly. He was dying too, but that seemed somehow far less important than the silence.
A thought struck him and he lunged towards the nearest desk and grabbed the phone. He lifted it to his ear and listened to silence. There was no dial tone, nothing. He typed the number for home, knowing it wouldn't ring, but it did.
His heart leapt, sweat springing up on his forehead. What would he say? He listened, intent, eyes focused on nothing as he waited. And waited. She wasn't home. Was she gone, too? But the phone was ringing, surely that meant something? The line clicked and went dead. He slammed it into the cradle, picked it up and dialled again.
It rang and rang and he smashed it against the desk, again and again until the plastic shattered and fragments flew across the office. Once he'd killed it, he dropped to his knees and wailed.
The evening sun disappeared behind the Houses of Parliament. David stood on Waterloo Bridge, staring down into the murky brown waters of the Thames. His hands gripped the railing, knuckles white and shaking. He was dying. He was alone. He'd spent the last three hours creeping around the city.
He shouted for a time, screaming the name of everyone he'd ever known, just to fill the silence. But it made it worse. When he stopped, it closed in again, choking and blinding him. The silence was the worst part. He'd found a TV in a sho
p and turned it on, but the screen had resolutely refused to spring to life and he ended up putting his foot through it. Even the sound of the glass breaking had been muted and dull.
There was no way out of this. He didn't know where he was, or what he'd done, but he would die here. So why not choose the way he went? He couldn't die choking on his own innards, curled up in a corner somewhere. But the Thames was flowing fast and it would take him out to sea. With winter coming, it was cold enough to stun him when he hit and he'd barely know he was drowning.
He put a foot on the bottom rail and pushed himself up. If he'd known what was going to happen, he'd have stayed with Steph. He could still be there with her, where he should be. He choked back a sob and lifted one foot over the railing.
David Part Three
David fell back from the railing, landing on his arse on the concrete. He lay back and screamed until his throat gave out. The sky above was clear and the stars peeked through the light pollution, mocking him with their silent regard. Maybe everyone was out there. Maybe they were all on the moon, looking down at him and pointing and laughing.
He rolled onto his side and put a hand over his face. The floor was cold. He slept.
He woke once in the night and the sound of the Thames rushing below the bridge was so loud it made him jump. It faded just as quickly as he realised there was nothing else. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his face with the heel of his palm and waited. The waiting lasted forever and every second was filled with the silence but, eventually, he went back to sleep.
He woke to sunlight creeping over the OXO Tower and prying into his eyes. It seemed to welcome him back, as though he'd stood on the edge of death and been pulled away at the last moment.
He stood, feeling better than he had in days. Then the pain hit and the silence hit and he crumpled to the floor. He was pathetic. He couldn't even end it when the end was coming anyway. Why was he here?
It was the first time he'd asked himself that and it surprised him enough that he stopped shaking and sat up. The movement sent pain through his shoulder, spasms running up and down his back. He could barely move his arm. His throat was clogged and filled with gunk, and he hawked and spat over the edge.
Why was he here? The flower seller had given him roses for his wife and he'd given them to Steph. That was bloody stupid. He was in hell all because some weirdo got on his high horse. The word God floated through his mind and he snorted. Weirdo with some serious mojo was nearer the truth. Actually, was there much of a difference?
He wasn't in hell. Hell didn't exist, although he decided the guy who invented the whole fire and brimstone thing was a bit lacking in imagination. This was some kind of altered reality. Maybe there were drugs in the roses, something he smelled that made him think this was all happening. Or maybe he was strapped in, Matrix-style, to some giant computer. It was fake either way.
But he felt sick, there was no denying that. They could do anything with computers these days, though. He sniffed and pulled himself up the railings. It all felt so real. Well, if there was no one here, there was no one to stop him doing anything he liked. There was an Aston Martin garage in Kensington.
With his first smile in twenty four hours, David made his slow way over the bridge.
Doing ninety down Oxford Street was as much fun as he'd imagined. As was going on a shopping spree around Harrods and raiding the ice cream parlour. But every time he paused, the silence came flooding back like the tide running up the beach.
After a couple of days of living like a Sultan, it began to wear thin. There was no TV, no one to cook anything, no one to do anything with or to. And the silence kept coming.
After a week, he took to talking to himself, loudly commentating on everything he did. But his throat was hoarse and he soon ran out of words. He was supposed to be dying, but the sickness had frozen where it was, leaving him washed out and snotty all the time.
Everything had frozen. His beard stopped growing and his hunger soon went away. And after a couple of weeks, he found himself back before the flower stall. The flowers were still in bloom, bright and beautiful and the only things that smelled of anything anymore. He sucked in the aromas, clinging to that one small sign of his previous life.
His mind wandered. His thoughts became simple, images that meant nothing. He spoke out loud now and then, but the words no longer made sense. They were just sounds, with no one to hear them. His sleep dried up as well. He did everything he could to exhaust himself, but he'd fall into a light sleep that would last only a couple of hours at most before he woke.
The flower stall became his refuge and it was just as he was trying to remember why when someone appeared. In the dim recesses of his memory, in the part that still worked, he recognised the man as the flower seller. But he saw much more now. He saw the light surrounding him and the darkness hiding behind it.
'Hello, David, how are you?'
He stared blankly at the man, waiting for this David person to reply. When no one did, he thought that perhaps he was David. How was he? He shook his head, mouth hanging open and the man smiled.
'Have you learned?'
'Learned?'
'Why are you here, David?'
'Roses. Something, there were roses.'
The man sighed and shook his head. 'Perhaps I left it too long. No, it shouldn't have happened this quickly.'
He leaned closer, pursing up his lips. Finally he spoke. 'When you wake, examine your life. And if you are in doubt, remember that you can always come back to this place.'
The flower seller took careful steps backwards to stand beside his stall. There he froze and the scene faded until David stared at the blackness and wondered why he was suddenly so warm. He reached out a hand and pressed it against warm flesh.
The person sighed and rolled over, dislodging his hand and his eyes flew open. The first thing he saw was the bedside clock, the numbers 5:32 glowing gently in the darkness. Almost time for work. He blinked, expecting to drift back off. But he felt oddly awake and stretched, revelling in not feeling crappy at half five in the morning.
Amber rolled over again and he stared at her face as it came into view. How had he ever loved her? Just the sight of her grated and made him want to leap from the bed. With a grunt he rolled back to stare at the alarm clock. There was something on top of it and he reached out a hand.
He hissed as his fingers closed around something sharp. He jerked them away, then took it more gently and lifted it to his face. It was a rose, a single red rose and it smelled wonderful. It made him think of Steph. He reached for his phone then looked again at the time. She wouldn't thank him. Maybe he'd text her on the way to the station.
As he stepped into the shower, he wondered where the rose had come from. A voice inside told him he knew exactly where, but he couldn't remember. Didn't matter. Dammit, the shower was bloody freezing. When he stepped out of the house, he didn't notice the silence. It was only when he reached the train station and found it dark and empty, that it came flooding back.
Interlude
That was a shame. He'd expected more. Some people just weren't ready to change. Now that sounded like he was making excuses. It was another in Purg, though, and they all had to be accounted for. Which meant more paperwork.
Was he losing his touch? The last three had all gone to the dogs and he thought his choices were perfect. Maybe he should listen to Seph and do what he suggested. Take the easy ones, get your quota, and get ambitious at the end of the month when it wasn't so important.
But that didn't work. What was the point if they weren't on the edge? And there didn't seem to be any easy ones. There were easier and harder, but no shoe-ins. That wasn't how Seph told it, though. To listen to him over a beer, he was swimming in easy subjects, lining them up and knocking them down.
Luke picked up his list and stared at it. Were they getting the same list? Several names faded in the minute he looked at it, so they were working from the same sheets. Was he losing his touch?
> He swung around in his chair and gazed out the back of his chamber. The Flights were quiet. Most of them were still at work and the rest down at the Dome. He peered over the edge and stared down through the stars, past the thousands of chambers to the Dome. He could go for a beer.
His eyes were heavy though. Keeping David in Purg for that long without the Engine was hard work. He'd rest and start again tomorrow.
Bayleigh Part One
They were just flowers. He was there every day, and every day she slowed as she walked past and took deep breaths and carried the smell with her all the way to the shop. And every day she thought, 'I'll buy some today.' And every day she walked past without buying them.
But every month when she checked the bank statement she was happy she'd resisted. Because every month a little more money went into the account and she moved one step closer.
Today was particularly difficult. There were roses, the most beautiful red roses that smelled like a holiday, and were the colour of romance and belonged on a table in a tiny café in Paris. She would sit and smell them, her dyed-blonde hair tied up atop her head. Her too-thin lips would be made full through the arty application of lipstick that matched the petals, and brought out the green in her eyes. A gorgeous man in tight jeans would part them and lean through, and murmur how much he loved her tiny snug nose as their lips pressed together.
She shivered, turned her eyes from the stall and breathed deep. The morning traffic was thin on the ground when she opened the shop and went in. The alarm beeped a good morning and she scampered to the back and punched in the code. She imagined, as she did at least once a week, that she'd just prevented the explosion of a number of bombs placed all over London. With her simple action, she averted a terrible crisis.
The front door binged and Ali bustled in, the scent of freshly baked bread coming with him.
Thirteen Roses Book One: Before: An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga Page 2