Reaction (Wildfire Chronicles Volume 6)

  REACTION

  K.R. GRIFFITHS

  Copyright © K.R. Griffiths 2014

  all rights reserved

  Also by K.R. Griffiths

  Wildfire Chronicles series:

  Panic (Vol. 1)

  Shock (Vol. 2)

  Psychosis (Vol. 3)

  Mutation (Vol. 4)

  Trauma (Vol. 5)

  Coming soon:

  Adrift

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  www.krgriffiths.org

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  Prologue

  The world ended not with a bang, but with a steady dissolve, like the final shot of a movie fading to black as the credits prepared to roll. It began suddenly and without warning, but the end of all things was ongoing; a process of steady decay that advanced and corrupted, growing like a malignant tumour.

  All across the UK, as the new species created by Project Wildfire's disastrous genetic interference scoured the land, the resistance of humans was fractured and fragmented; weak and isolated as dead pixels on a vast screen.

  There were a number of places that humanity could, if not thrive, then perhaps at least survive, but survival had become something of an abstract concept, and humanity even more so.

  The new world had been born in fire and savagery, and the response of the few that had lived through the collapse of civilization was like a reflection in a cracked mirror. Violence and brutality came easily; for those that remained it made more sense than any other approach. Wildfire had created one species and driven another back to its primal roots, until a casual observer might struggle to distinguish one from the other, though of course there were no observers, casual or otherwise.

  To Charlotte Elleray, 'civilization' wasn’t even a memory. In fact there were no memories.

  Just the hunt.

  Just the constant, insatiable need to locate and track; to eradicate the human stain from the land.

  She had no more idea why she hunted now than she did when she had killed her first—her husband, who died in a frenzy of teeth and blood and bewilderment—or the many since. Tearing apart her own two young children had meant nothing to Charlotte, nothing beyond the fact that their presence buzzed with a peculiar intensity and filled her with a primordial rage. Their removal had been as necessary as amputating rotten flesh, as natural as breathing.

  Charlotte had no idea why. The why didn't matter, and that fact gave her a freedom she didn't have the resources to understand.

  Killing the children had been an act of shrieking fury and orgasmic release, but the event had faded from her mind, running like fresh paint in a rainstorm; draining away until there was nothing left.

  Just the vacuum.

  Just the hunt.

  The creature that had once been Charlotte stalked the countryside, naked and barefoot, sometimes circling aimlessly like a bird of prey searching for its next meal and sometimes swooping forward and tearing at the humans she stumbled across, forever silencing the terrible noise of their presence. The noise that made her head feel like it was burning.

  For weeks she wandered, and in the beginning the hunt was frantic and plentiful, and she was able to launch herself from one victim to the next without pause. Some fell and became like her: new siblings that comforted her and helped in her quest to silence the noise that seemed to be everywhere and everything.

  Gradually the world began to fall silent, and increasingly the time between Charlotte's kills began to stretch out. Sometimes she could go several days without locking onto prey. The emptiness of the land underlined just how successful her hunt had been and might have satisfied her, but satisfaction was a human trait that she had left behind the moment her blood boiled in her veins.

  She felt nothing other than the insistent need to press ahead, but the success of the hunt and the scarcity of humans did have one consequence: even with an altered metabolism which allowed her to function without eating for long periods, hunger eventually began to gnaw at Charlotte, and her movements began to slow and weaken.

  The people she had killed outright had provided a few morsels of meat; scant drops of energy that sustained her for a time, but after that first glorious orgy of killing was over, she began to find that when she attacked she no longer had the strength or the speed to kill, merely to convert.

  More hungry mouths meant less food, and slowly Charlotte began to die, a process as long and slow and catastrophic as the collapse of the world itself.

  After an age of solitary wandering, Charlotte happened across a small herd, and discovered a sibling that was different to the others. It hummed, and she followed it in surprise, humming her own answer to a question she did not understand.

  The leader of the herd taught her that she was able to eat beyond the meat her kills provided, and its humming both soothed and energised her. It showed her how to find fruits and berries on the trees, how to focus her attention on tracking animals that provided precious fuel.

  Their meat was different, but it sustained her, and Charlotte felt her body growing strong once more.

  In the increasingly infrequent encounters with the humans, the leader hummed constantly, orchestrating its brethren as best it could throughout the ensuing battles. The humans were cunning and dangerous, but with each encounter, marshalled by the humming of the leader, the herd swelled and life became easier.

  For a time, when the number of humans nearby had dwindled to zero, the herd circled just as Charlotte had when she had been alone, pouring across the countryside like a toxic spill, rolling and searching.

  Until the noise.

  The roaring of an engine.

  The shattering, violent cacophony of humans. A sound so loud in the endless silence that it seemed to shake Charlotte to her very bones, and the herd knew as one that the hunt had been renewed.

  Driven by hunger and gene-deep necessity; directed by the insistent humming of its leader, the herd charged toward the source of the noise, and was engulfed in fire and another noise, far louder and more terrible than anything Charlotte's mind could comprehend. A shockwave ripped through her consciousness a fraction of a second before a concussive blast hammered into her body, and both did terrible damage.

  For a time she rested on the cold ground, broken and burned and slowly dying, until her ears caught a sound in the distance, faint; barely-there. She dragged herself toward it through the agony, across rocks and rough ground that scraped and bit at her charred flesh until she suddenly felt smooth stone beneath her.

  The noise was impossible to miss, now: an insistent clanging of metal on metal, ringing out rhythmically, like the beat of a drum.

  A human sound; a sound that wanted to be heard.

  A sound that beckoned her forward.

  Summoning up the last vestiges of her energy, oblivious to the pain in her shattered body, Charlotte crawled in the direction of the noise, powerless to resist the magnetic draw of the creatures she was hardwired to kill, yet when the metallic clatter ceased it was like sight had been ripped away from her once more. There was no human. There was nothing but silence and the vacuum.

  Charlotte moaned in despair and incomprehension, low and guttural. It was the sound of an animal in pain.

  *

  Jason Roberts stared down at the creature that had stopped a few feet away from him. It appeared to be crying. Somewhere deep in his broken mind, a spark of empathy tried to light the fractured darkness, but flickered away to nothing until all that was left was an incessant itch and a burning need.

  He watched impassively for a moment, and then took a single st
ep forward and swung the lead pipe. The blunt weapon lodged into the creature's head with a dull, wet thud, driving fragments of bone deep into its brain and ending its pitiful torment.

  With a grunt, Jason heaved the pipe clear of the twitching mess and straightened. There was no victory in his eyes, no sense of satisfaction.

  Just emptiness.

  Just the hunt.

  After a moment he extended the hand that clutched the gore-drenched pipe and began to tap out the rhythm on the dumpster once more, drawing the next one toward him.

  Clang.

  Clang.

  Clang…

  Chapter 1

  You'll all have a chance to demonstrate your loyalty.

  The old woman's words had provided at least a crumb of comfort to Michael Evans: she wasn't going to have them all executed on the spot.

  Just John.

  When she had finished bringing her people to the castle—Michael estimated there were around sixty in total—the woman had introduced herself to him as Annie Holloway. It was a pleasant introduction, delivered with a warm smile and a sympathetic glance at Michael's useless legs. Watching her act like a kindly grandmother making polite conversation, Michael thought it was almost possible to overlook the fact that she was a psychopath.

  Almost. The old woman’s normality was a fleeting notion, evaporating like morning dew as soon as she turned her attention to other matters.

  Immediately after the cordial introduction she had told her two sons to nail John's corpse to a cross in the centre of the courtyard, and told Michael that he would watch, and that he would hold the wood and the nails for them while they worked.

  If he wanted to get along, Michael would have to make himself useful, she said brightly, as though she were demanding nothing more unusual than that he boil a kettle and make a pot of tea for everybody to enjoy.

  Then she turned to a middle-aged man who hovered at her side like an advisor, and informed him that he was to have the boat that they had all arrived in sunk so that nobody would get any 'funny ideas’.

  Crucifixion and wilfully destroying the only legitimate means of getting away from the castle, Michael thought grimly. And that's just day one.

  There was no mistaking the dark chasms in her sanity then.

  *

  Michael sat in the courtyard of Caernarfon Castle, locked into place in the wheelchair, watching with grim fascination as the two men strapped together two enormous wooden beams to make the cross and began to strip John Francis’ body of its clothes.

  The Holloway boys—Rhys and Bryn—looked to Michael like the sort of men that made a hobby of beating the shit out of people who accidentally bumped into them in pubs. Small town bullies; all sneering ignorance and low-level menace, suddenly vaulted into a position of power that they were clearly unequipped to handle.

  They might be even more crazy than their mother, he thought, as he watched the two men pointing and laughing at John’s exposed genitals.

  Things can’t get much worse.

  He dropped his gaze to his paralysed legs for a moment, urging them to tremble; to move even a fraction of an inch as he was so certain they had earlier, but there was no response.

  Frustrated, he lifted his gaze once more to see Rhys Holloway driving a handful of huge nails into the wooden cross to shore it up, and then the two men lifted the enormous structure upright, driving the base down into the soft earth of one of the castle’s once-pretty flowerbeds to hold it steady.

  Michael wondered for a moment why Annie felt the need to have the grisly monument erected in her new home: all the people that had been at the castle—the people she presumably thought of as her enemies—had seen her execute what the old woman assumed had been their leader, and all but Michael and the children had already been locked up.

  If spreading fear was the old woman’s objective, she had already accomplished it. It seemed like there was nothing further to be gained by decorating the courtyard in such an horrific manner. Certainly there seemed little point in putting on such a show for two young children and a man confined to a wheelchair.

  Unless, Michael realised abruptly, the crucified corpse wasn't meant for them, but was instead a grisly message for the old woman's own people.

  He thought back to the faces of the men and women that he had watched as they were being ferried across to the castle from the nearby island of Anglesey. Stilted, barely-controlled masks of stoicism that reminded him of Rachel’s face as she had stood, helpless, in an underground bunker with a psychopath’s arm around her waist like a lover’s embrace.

  To Michael, they had been the expressions of people that were fully engaged in trying to prevent a scream from escaping their lips.

  Holloway's small army of followers outnumbered Michael's people by roughly three-to-one, but he couldn't shake the feeling that most of them followed her in a state of numb terror. Ruled by fear.

  This wasn't some marauding army, but a desperate battalion of the lost and the wounded, driven ahead of the Holloway family like cattle fleeing the sharp crack of a bullwhip.

  The fear Annie wanted to create was designed for them.

  Michael swept his gaze around the courtyard.

  It certainly didn’t look like the castle held dozens of people now: all of Holloway’s people, other than those few that Michael thought of as her inner circle, had retreated to the castle's eight huge towers, hibernating and hoping that the storm of violence outside would pass while they remained hidden.

  That gave Michael some hope. His first impression of Holloway had been that she was the leader of a large cult of demented and loyal followers, but it no longer looked like that was true. At least, not yet.

  He stared at the cross in growing horror as Rhys Holloway drove the first of the nails through John’s wrist.

  That’s clearly her endgame, though. Terror, intimidation and unassailable control. Leadership of an army of maniacs.

  Michael guessed, from the way the people of Anglesey acted, that Annie had no more than seven or eight followers who were actually insane enough to follow her voluntarily. Not many, but in the new world, with survivors scattered and broken, even seven people could represent a powerful force.

  All it took to secure the castle was a tiny group of people loyal to her and threatening enough to subdue any notions anybody might have of offering resistance. A couple of guns; probably with no more than thirty bullets between them. In the world that existed now, that was all it took to found an empire. Many of the old woman's people had a haunted not-quite-there look in their eyes that reminded Michael of his first meeting with Jason Roberts.

  People with broken minds, he thought, could more easily be persuaded to follow.

  Jason.

  The big man, it turned out, was still alive, but also not.

  The vacant misery in Jason's eyes had given way to something else: a fractured, opaque darkness. Holloway's two sons were snarling guard dogs, but Jason was a different weapon altogether: strangely separate from all the others, and apparently only able or willing to interact directly with the old woman.

  Jason gave Annie Holloway power in a way Michael didn't understand. At least, not as clearly as he understood the hold she had over the big man: a firm grip that stemmed from the drugs she poured into his system constantly and the catastrophic fracture in his mind.

  Michael remembered the way Jason had slowly faded away as the group of survivors entered Aberystwyth; remembered the big man calling Michael mum, like he was trapped in some parallel dimension in which he hadn't been forced to kill his own mother with a fragment of roofing tile.

  Jason had been damaged then. In the period that had followed that devastating event, it seemed clear that the trauma he had suffered had only been exacerbated further. Michael saw the way Jason looked at Annie Holloway; watched in disbelief as the man nuzzled at her palm like a faithful pet, and he felt certain that on some level, Jason actually believed she was his mother.

  Michael had heard of Stockho
lm Syndrome, and had always thought it sounded bizarre and far-fetched. The notion that somebody could grow to love the very person that imprisoned and tortured them; it sounded impossible.

  Yet it was the only theory Michael had when it came to explaining the big man’s behaviour. Holloway tortured him until there was nothing left for him to do but love her.

  Jason’s body was ravaged by scars. His tongue had been cut out. The old woman poured a cocktail of prescription drugs down his throat at every opportunity, sealing him off from the world in a haze.

  Despite all that torment, the only time Michael ever saw a flicker of emotion in Jason’s eyes was when he looked at the old woman who led him around the castle on a leash like a mutt: a sickly sort of adoration. No, more than that: Jason appeared to worship Annie Holloway.

  As baffling as Jason's attachment to Annie was, his survival bewildered Michael even more. He should have died in Aberystwyth, torn to pieces by a herd of Infected, and Michael clung stubbornly to that belief right up until he saw Jason shuffling into the castle, led like a dog by the old woman.

  An explanation of sorts presented itself as soon as Annie sent Jason out through the castle's huge wooden gate and into the town of Caernarfon beyond the river with no more than a lead pipe for company for the first time, and the air filled with the distant sound of Infected shrieks.

  She had sent him out there to take on the Infected. Alone.

  What would have been a death sentence for any normal human being proved to be something else entirely for Jason.

  A couple of hours later Michael was sitting in his chair, holding the tools for the two lunatics building a giant cross, when Jason returned, led by Annie’s bald advisor. The man pulled Jason into the castle, clutching the leash tied around the big man’s thick neck in white-knuckled fists.