Death Tide Read online

  DEATH TIDE

  ©2019 DEVON C. FORD

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

  Print and eBook formatting, and cover design by Steve Beaulieu.

  Published by Aethon Books LLC. 2019

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Preface

  All spelling and grammar in this book is UK English except for proper nouns and those American terms which just don’t anglicize.

  Part One

  Book One

  APOCALYPSE

  ©2019 DEVON C. FORD

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

  Print and eBook formatting, and cover design by Steve Beaulieu.

  Published by Aethon Books LLC. 2019

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Family is everything

  Preface

  All spelling and grammar in this book is UK English except for proper nouns and those American terms which just don’t anglicize.

  Prologue

  They say the eyes are the window to the soul.

  Given that the damn things clearly didn’t have souls, then their eyes made a little more sense. As he looked into a pair of the milky, shrouded orbs from a distance he was very uncomfortable with, he could see nothing behind them.

  That wasn’t entirely true; he could see that the eyes used to be a light brown, maybe even hazel, but the thing, that something which made a person an actual living person, just wasn’t there. Drawing back from the crack in the door, tentatively held by a weak chain fastened into the wood that used to give people a ridiculously false sense of security, he raised his trusted corpse-sticker and eased one of the tines of the old pitchfork through the milky eyeball with an unpleasant squelch, feeling little resistance until the tip of the metal probed far enough into the brain to disrupt whatever happened in there.

  The thing that used to have light brown eyes stopped moaning, stiffened, then exhaled slowly and slumped, like its batteries had run out in fast-forward. The gap it left was filled rapidly by another one, and his heart began to pump a little too hard in response to the ear-splitting screech that ripped from its mouth. The biggest problem with getting caught up in fighting them instead of avoiding them was focus. By that, he meant that a person could easily get so focused on the hissing, moaning, screaming things, on the dead teeth snapping and the broken fingers reaching for them, that their concentration wouldn’t let in any other information that they needed. Having been caught out more than once over the last months, and only surviving by dumb luck, he liked to think he was starting to tune in to that.

  Luckily for him, because as soon as he’d stuck another one in its squishy brain, like you’d be tempted to with a facia salesman who had overstayed his welcome at the front door, the stumbling, moaning sounds began to come from behind him. From inside the house. He stuck a third, somehow gauging that he had enough time before the moaning behind him became his next priority, and then he turned to regard the next horror he had to face.

  Now the smell wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the first few weeks, especially if they’d been trapped inside where the rain couldn’t freshen up their stale flesh, but the thing that descended the stairs still possessed an aura that made his eyes sting. It was a musty, dried-out aroma that was almost sickly. That sickly-sweet smell catapulted him back to memories he’d intentionally forgotten, which now fought with all the other things going on in his head for space at the front of the queue. The memories, encouraged by a random smell as they so often were, threatened to momentarily debilitate him; to send him back into the mind of the naive nine-year-old child he had been when it had all started, and make him want to rush past the thing coming down the stairs at him, so that he could hide under his bed.

  Only this isn’t my house, he thought, the thing coming down the stairs isn’t my alcoholic mother, reeling from another all-day session. And hiding under a bed here is as sensible as shooting myself in the head.

  Less sensible, actually.

  An unbidden and natural change in footing to line up square to his nearest threat, a controlled thrust forward, followed by the equally brisk withdrawal of the weapon, then a short wave of satisfaction as the thing dropped lifelessly to the musty carpet to remain still.

  Not looking back, he used his meagre body weight to shut the partially open and tenuously secured front door. One of the benefits of fighting things that had been in that weirdly suspended state, in most cases for many months, was that they were physically pretty soft. That general softness rewarded his actions with a soft patter as three digits, severed by the closing of the door, tumbled lightly onto the carpet where they twitched once each, then went still.

  Shuddering, he thanked whatever thing up there looked out for people that they weren’t the rare kind of fresh ones and returned his attention to getting out of the house without having to fight his way through the nest he’d just disturbed in the innocent-looking bungalow opposite. He hefted his weapon of choice ahead of him ready for any more crusty ones still hidden and dormant within. Dormant, that was, until some idiot burst through their front door to get away from the dozen or so other things outside.

  Finding that the downstairs of the house was empty, he decided to get the hell away from it without raiding the cupboards, before the crowd out the front flowed around the sides like water and cut off any chance of escape.

  Minutes later, jogging uncomfortably with the sole of one shoe flapping noisily with each awkward step, he thanked that same unknown deity for his managing to escape another bloody situation that should have killed him.

  I guess I was just lucky, he told himself. But to know just how lucky, he supposed he should start from the beginning.

  ONE

  1989

  Living on a farm in what was basically the arse-end of nowhere had its perks for a boy of nine. His older sister said she felt trapped there, but he thought it was the ultimate freedom.

  A few years after moving there, he thought he’d learned enough about life to know that her feelings of being trapped were nothing to do with the geography.

  There were some surrounding villages, and a dozen or so other places in sight if you climbed on top of the biggest barn, but other than that, it was totally isolated. He thought the farm was the biggest single place on earth, but then again, he was young when his family moved there.

  He’d been in that happy bubble of childhood ignorance for years, right up until he noticed that things had begun to change at home. He and his sister had to walk just under two miles to the ma
in road where their bus would take them towards the bigger towns along the south coast, and their schools were on an army base. This was another happy note from way back when in his mind; stopping lessons and being allowed to run to the window to watch a convoy of Chieftain tanks roll by with an impossibly loud roar caused by their heavy tracks. Hundreds of tonnes of armour screeching past on their way to the training grounds, feeding the fantasies of the children.

  Some of the other boys bragged about how they bet their Dad was in one of them, or about how their Mum did something else equally heroic. He remembered one particular time that happened, when he retook his seat with a sudden shroud of realism, of unhappiness, and he finally saw the difference between him and the other kids.

  His Dad wasn’t driving a tank. If he was driving anything, it was a tractor on the farm, and his mother didn’t work because she… well, he didn’t know why; all he did know was that if she didn’t get her glass bottles with her special water in that he wasn’t allowed to touch, and if she ran out of her cigarettes, then all hell would break loose in the house. With that cloud of realism descending permanently on him and never leaving, he suffered the taunting of other children as he cried in the middle of the classroom.

  The truth was, he had been shielded from a lot of the bad things that went on under ‘the roof that had been provided for him’, a refrain he had heard shouted so often; like a roof made anything better. His sister was the one, he realised much too late, who had protected him. It was she who threw herself in front of their parents to take the punishment he had apparently earned, and she did it tight-lipped, so she couldn’t cry out and give either of them the satisfaction of knowing they had caused someone pain.

  That only made things worse, and by the time he knew something was truly wrong and his behaviour invited more punishments, she had already hurt herself once too often to cope with the pressure.

  To that day, despite every unfathomable, insane thing that had since transpired, he could still see the vivid images of his sister being taken away to hospital, screaming his name, telling him to be brave as she kept fighting all the way until the van doors slammed shut to muffle her voice.

  “Good bloody riddance,” his – their – mother spat at the white ambulance as it shrank into the distance, until finally rounding a bend to be swallowed up into the green surroundings. “Ungrateful little cow never knew which side her bread was buttered.”

  With that last cruel and callous remark, she lit another cigarette and scowled down at her son, smacking him hard across the back of his head. He looked back up at her and was careful to keep the rebellion out of his eyes. He could tell that she was desperate to say something, almost itching to respond to the words she expected from him, so he stayed silent.

  “That was for nothing,” she said smugly as she turned away, “and there’s plenty more where that came from, you little shit.”

  He still said nothing, just watched her back and imagined the actions before her: transfer cigarette to right hand, pick up bottle and unscrew cap with left hand, pour, put down bottle, drink, inhale on cigarette.

  His father’s presence suddenly stabbed his consciousness and his gaze darted to him. He had let the edge of the curtain fall by then, having watched the ambulance drive out of sight, just as the young boy had. Then the father turned from the window to face him. He couldn’t tell whether his father was angry with him or not, but his face was heavy with blame.

  “Go to bed,” he growled at the boy.

  “But I haven’t had any tea…” he said reflexively, regretting his outburst instantly.

  Crossing the room in two long strides, his father’s hand followed suit and struck him just where his mother had, rocking him off his feet this time. Pausing a moment on his knees to fight the tears back inside his eyes, he stood and climbed the stairs to go to bed hungry. Before he had even closed his bedroom door fully, he heard the nightly argument downstairs begin with real venom.

  That night was when his childhood ended, in the late spring of 1989, but that happened to coincide with the end of the whole damned world.

  The following morning, he was awake early, having spent what felt like all night trying to hold back more tears caused by his aching belly. He had dressed for school after darting a hand out from under the warm covers to retrieve the uniform, which had been washed, dried and ironed by his sister. He’d placed it ready the night before and wriggled into it without getting out of bed. One of the unwelcome delights of living so remotely was that the place was permanently cold, except for in the summer when it was unbearably hot for a few weeks. He hated the cold and couldn’t face the prospect of getting out of a warm bed into the chilly air to strip off and get into cold garments. His system was, to him at the naïve age of nine, a stroke of pure genius.

  Having stayed under the covers until the new clothes were warm, he climbed out and carefully made his bed so as not to offer any opportunity to earn a punishment. He gently kissed the soft stuffed toy lamb which had been his sister’s, hid him gently under the pillow, and went downstairs.

  His mother normally didn’t surface until after he had to leave for school, but that morning he found them both up and staring at the television set. Like all young boys his age, he was obsessed with the new colour television in the lounge. There was talk of there being a fifth channel soon, and he just hoped that there would be some programmes he would be allowed to watch.

  Seeing both of his parents still and inexplicably silent, he helped himself to a piece of toast from a chipped plate and leaned around their legs to see what was so interesting.

  “…have confirmed reports of violent behaviour and cannibalism in those affected by the mysterious disease. Our correspondent in London has more…” said the woman sitting behind her desk on the screen. The picture changed to shaky filming of something he couldn’t make out, like a riot, and his need for information blinded him to the risks of speaking aloud.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, feeling the air rip in two with the simultaneous scream and yell of fright that tore from them both. Fearing instant physical reprisal, he threw myself clear and, sure enough, a meaty hand whistled though the air to miss him by an uncomfortable margin. Evidently deciding that he was too far away to be worth the effort of leaving the television screen, his mother satisfied herself by flicking the ash of her cigarette towards him with an accompanying vicious glare.

  “Go to school, now!” she shrieked and turned away to reach towards the set to twist the volume dial up high.

  Retreating to the kitchen, he looked around for his lunchbox, finding it still bearing the mouldy crusts and wrappers from the last time. His heart dropped with the reminder that his sister wasn’t there to look out for him anymore, and it both saddened him and strengthened his resolve.

  Snatching up more toast before he could be noticed again, he opened a kitchen cupboard to grab crisps and the last chocolate biscuit, all crunchy goodness nestled inside its foil and paper wrappers. Then he pulled open the unlocked front door to put his shoes on in the porch. Still being ignored, not that him telling them he was half an hour early would make a difference, the young boy left his parents to their TV and snatched up his parka to head up the lane as he ate the toast.

  After walking half a mile past all the farm buildings to his right and open fields to his left, he continued past the three small houses nestled in a side road and surrounded by tall pines. They were called The Pines, ingeniously. Normally there would be some activity there, but today there was nothing. Ignoring the sense of unease he felt, he trudged onwards to pass the only other entrance off the lane before it met the main road. That track always seemed dark and foreboding to him, and together with his sister, he had made up stories about the dark deeds which had occurred there.

  Legend had it, or at least the legends they had conjured, that an old woman lived there. Alone in her mansion, she protected the money she had inherited against anyone who came to steal it. That inheritance had cost her family de
arly, as she had killed everyone who was ahead of her until it was all hers.

  They had laughed about her, not that either of them had ever seen her or even knew if she truly existed, and they took turns in scaring one another when they passed by the overgrown entrance twice a day.

  Eventually reaching the wider road, which to his child’s eyes seemed like a motorway because there were white lines painted on the pitted surface, he settled down with his backside on the top bar of a wooden gate to keep the rest of him out of the dewy-wet grass. The toast had long been finished and he considered tucking into the two items which constituted his entire lunch but disciplined himself to hold out.

  It wasn’t as though he could beg food from his friends at school at lunch time; with his sister gone he had nobody to speak to now anyway.

  As that harsh reality finally convinced his brain of the recent facts and what they meant, his tears flowed to fill the time until the tired coach pulled up to hiss its creaking door open.

  TWO

  The long coach ride was uncomfortable, as he’d already passed two boys who he knew would pick on him as soon as they were kicked out into the warzone of the playground. Not having his sister to talk to and keep the others away, he knew he would be in for some trouble even before the first bell sounded.

  The seats were usually half-filled by the time they climbed on board, but that day there seemed to be fewer children there. He considered this as he stared out of the vibrating window, looking through the shroud of condensation and over rolling fields passing by at speed outside.