Read Online Necropolis Rising by Dave Jeffery - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dave Jeffery
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Whittington was the harbinger of un-death; a devil in a white coat.
“ Half an hour from bite to rebirth,” Shipman answered.
“ Find that boy,” Carpenter whispered.
“ Finding him is the easy part,” the Major replied. “Whether he’s still alive or not is another matter.”
***
9
The blow to the head has left him dazed, confused; the blood rushes in his ears like a fierce, rampant torrent. It is a visceral, feral sound but it is reassuring. It means that he is alive. He will come to realize it soon enough but for now he listens to it, relishing its pulse; its rhythm.
The darkness grows bored and moves on, becoming a murky grey; the shade of dawn light; the colour of consciousness. Sounds now, no longer internalized, no longer base: the fizz of electricity somewhere nearby; the insistent blanket rustle of the wind buffeting the air, the flapping of papers, the trickle of water. Dawn light relents; he feels pain; it is bright and real and reviving. His head pounds, his ankle throbs.
With the pain comes the feint flicker of awareness and the first conscious thought.
“ What the fuck happened?”
Thom Everett pulled himself upright, his head protesting at the unexpected movement. He winced, his eyes folding shut and bright spots flickering behind his lids.
“ Shit. Shit. Shit!”
His throat was thick with dust and his tirade brought with it a series of hacking coughs that wracked his body and sent fresh bouts of pain through his temples.
He lifted his hands and checked himself over. He could feel the egg-sized lump on his scalp almost immediately; nestling in his blonde, dust peppered hair and sticky with blood. He brought his hand away and wiped the spots of tacky gore on his trousers.
His trousers. Roberto Cavalli, now ruined. A memory - he was going out, meeting a gorgeous Asian girl - was her name Wei Lin? - taking the girl who could be Wei Lin for a linguini and a bottle of Dom Perignon at Simpsons ; then hopefully back here for some eastern promise, soft sheets and firm body; a perfect night.
There was a time when things were far from perfect. And that time wasn’t so long ago. Six months, in fact.
It seemed longer but good times have a habit of blunting the bad; the times of living in the hell hole that was Clydesdale Tower .
Clydesdale, a thirty two storey, 90 metre monstrosity of white paint and dull steel, rising from Birmingham’s Chinese Quarter. A place of notoriety; a place under constant covert surveillance by West Midlands police, where hepatitis carrying junkies taped their used needles under the banisters in the stairways, just for an embittered laugh; or embedded hypodermics in the elevator buttons ready to impale the helping hand of some witless health care professional.
Yet despite this, Thom had been initially grateful for his nineteenth floor flat because no matter how shitty it was, it was Utopia compared to living with his mum and dad.
His mum, Joy, was anything but joyful. She was a quiet woman who occasionally elevated her mood to surly for special occasions. But she looked after him well enough, going through the motions, parenting by numbers. She had her moments, the occasional joke, an evening of high spirits, usually after a few Christmas Sherries; a nod towards the woman she once was, the woman before becoming Mrs. Arthur Everett.
Arthur, Thom’s father was an artist of the vilest kind. He worked on people and created monsters. Arthur Everett was a bullish, ignorant bigot; Birmingham’s finest - and then some - a man who did what the fuck he wanted, when he wanted, and to whom he wanted. He brought out the worst in people with such little effort he was like some kind of poison, his mere presence corrupting humanity from the inside.
When he wasn’t speaking his ugly mind, Arthur Everett was communicating with his fists. Thom’s mum had been the main target in the early days. Thom stepped into her carpet slippers when he was old enough to
“ Half an hour from bite to rebirth,” Shipman answered.
“ Find that boy,” Carpenter whispered.
“ Finding him is the easy part,” the Major replied. “Whether he’s still alive or not is another matter.”
***
9
The blow to the head has left him dazed, confused; the blood rushes in his ears like a fierce, rampant torrent. It is a visceral, feral sound but it is reassuring. It means that he is alive. He will come to realize it soon enough but for now he listens to it, relishing its pulse; its rhythm.
The darkness grows bored and moves on, becoming a murky grey; the shade of dawn light; the colour of consciousness. Sounds now, no longer internalized, no longer base: the fizz of electricity somewhere nearby; the insistent blanket rustle of the wind buffeting the air, the flapping of papers, the trickle of water. Dawn light relents; he feels pain; it is bright and real and reviving. His head pounds, his ankle throbs.
With the pain comes the feint flicker of awareness and the first conscious thought.
“ What the fuck happened?”
Thom Everett pulled himself upright, his head protesting at the unexpected movement. He winced, his eyes folding shut and bright spots flickering behind his lids.
“ Shit. Shit. Shit!”
His throat was thick with dust and his tirade brought with it a series of hacking coughs that wracked his body and sent fresh bouts of pain through his temples.
He lifted his hands and checked himself over. He could feel the egg-sized lump on his scalp almost immediately; nestling in his blonde, dust peppered hair and sticky with blood. He brought his hand away and wiped the spots of tacky gore on his trousers.
His trousers. Roberto Cavalli, now ruined. A memory - he was going out, meeting a gorgeous Asian girl - was her name Wei Lin? - taking the girl who could be Wei Lin for a linguini and a bottle of Dom Perignon at Simpsons ; then hopefully back here for some eastern promise, soft sheets and firm body; a perfect night.
There was a time when things were far from perfect. And that time wasn’t so long ago. Six months, in fact.
It seemed longer but good times have a habit of blunting the bad; the times of living in the hell hole that was Clydesdale Tower .
Clydesdale, a thirty two storey, 90 metre monstrosity of white paint and dull steel, rising from Birmingham’s Chinese Quarter. A place of notoriety; a place under constant covert surveillance by West Midlands police, where hepatitis carrying junkies taped their used needles under the banisters in the stairways, just for an embittered laugh; or embedded hypodermics in the elevator buttons ready to impale the helping hand of some witless health care professional.
Yet despite this, Thom had been initially grateful for his nineteenth floor flat because no matter how shitty it was, it was Utopia compared to living with his mum and dad.
His mum, Joy, was anything but joyful. She was a quiet woman who occasionally elevated her mood to surly for special occasions. But she looked after him well enough, going through the motions, parenting by numbers. She had her moments, the occasional joke, an evening of high spirits, usually after a few Christmas Sherries; a nod towards the woman she once was, the woman before becoming Mrs. Arthur Everett.
Arthur, Thom’s father was an artist of the vilest kind. He worked on people and created monsters. Arthur Everett was a bullish, ignorant bigot; Birmingham’s finest - and then some - a man who did what the fuck he wanted, when he wanted, and to whom he wanted. He brought out the worst in people with such little effort he was like some kind of poison, his mere presence corrupting humanity from the inside.
When he wasn’t speaking his ugly mind, Arthur Everett was communicating with his fists. Thom’s mum had been the main target in the early days. Thom stepped into her carpet slippers when he was old enough to
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