The Infected Chronicles (Book 1): Origin Page 8

  The other two men readied themselves with the sacks of stone, tied to the bottom of the legs of the embracing figures.

  The creature possessed a cloth tied tightly around its head and within its mouth, keeping its teeth at bay, though the vile odour of its breath seeped through.

  Pulling Hugh closer by his hair, Godfrey stared deep into his eyes.

  “Rot in hell,” he spat, taking the cloth from the creature’s head, freeing its snarling mouth.

  With his men’s silent assistance, they pushed the heavy bags of stone over the side of the boat, watching as Hugh and his eternal companion followed overboard, into the dark waters of the River Mersey.

  Chapter Eight

  Present Day

  The history of the city of Liverpool can be traced through the centuries, to the year Eleven Hundred and Ninety. The borough itself, later founded in Twelve Hundred and Seven by decree of Royal Charter.

  Liverpool remained a small settlement, until its then trade with Ireland and coastal parts of England and Wales, became overtaken by trade with Africa and the West Indies, including, sadly, the slave trade.

  The first wet dock in Britain was built in Liverpool and completed in Seventeen Fifteen. The first commercial enclosed wet dock in the world, constructed for a capacity of one hundred ships, leading to Liverpool's expansion as a major city, continuing over the next couple of centuries.

  By the start of the nineteenth century, the volume of trade passing through Liverpool increased dramatically. To further endorse Liverpool as a prosperous city, the Liverpool and Manchester Railway line opened in Eighteen Thirty.

  The population of the city grew rapidly and by Eighteen Fifty-One, with the massive influx of Irish immigrants, one quarter of the city's population were Irish born.

  During the Second World War, the city became the central point for the planning of the crucial ‘Battle of the Atlantic’, and subsequently suffered at the hands of the Axis, second only to the blitz of London.

  Due in part to containerisation forcing the city's docks nearly obsolete, Liverpool's docks and traditional manufacturing industries fell into a sharp decline, resulting in one of the highest unemployment rates in the UK.

  Now, a new era dawned for the City and the Port of Liverpool. The construction of one of the United Kingdoms’ most important infrastructure projects, to turn a substantial part of the Port into a deep-water container terminal.

  Specialist rock drilling equipment provided sockets for three hundred and twenty-nine tubular steel piles, weighing over forty-seven tonnes each. These huge piles provided the backbone for the new in-river terminal, facilitating a new generation of shipping for Liverpool.

  Several thousand tonnes of steelwork were required to create the eight hundred and fifty-four-metre-long quay wall, followed by thirty thousand cubic metres of concrete to build the capping beam. At nearly thirty metres high this was now, one of the highest quay walls in Europe.

  Historically the port of Liverpool was restricted by its lock system to vessels of no more than four thousand five hundred TEU (the standard unit for describing a ship's cargo carrying capacity, or a shipping terminal's cargo handling capacity. A standard forty-foot container equals two TEU).

  This meant over the years, as container ships constructed around the world became bigger, Liverpool lost countless volumes to southern container ports like Southampton and Felixstowe, possessing the capability to handle larger vessels.

  This new dawn for the city heralded a change to that.

  “Those frigging bastards have gone and done it again,” Mike grumbled.

  Dave looked up from the large holdall, he was pulling fishing tackle from.

  Here we go again.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Those frigging nobheads out there who’ve been dredging the river,” Mike replied.

  “No frigging fish will be out in that bloody sludge they’ve left.”

  “That’s right,” the lad stated, pulling rods from the boot of the car belonging to Dave, “wankers.”

  “Oi, watch your mouth!” Dave ordered.

  “I expect that language from him,” he said, nodding to Mike, now exchanging the boots he wore for a pair of oilskins, “but if you want to go out tonight with us, less of it, alright?”

  “Yeah, but I reckon.”

  “Don’t reckon Brad,” Dave interrupted, “don’t think, don’t have any more opinions, just do as you are told, please.”

  The lad sniffed loudly, continuing to unload the car.

  Bloody hell, I wish I’d never agreed to take him out tonight.

  As a favour to the landlady of his regular pub, he agreed to take her son night sea fishing.

  No wonder she appeared relieved when I agreed to take him, he hasn’t stopped talking! Still, we’re here now, and a promise is a promise.

  “The dredging finished weeks ago, so the water should be fine,” he said

  “Hurry up for fucks sake will you Brad!” Mike called, losing patience with the youth, taking his time retrieving the gear.

  “I think we should have brought.”

  Dave shot him a look, silencing him for now at least.

  This is going to be a long night.

  Their tackle retrieved, they walked along the path to the jetty, where Dave’s boat lay berthed.

  The boat itself, Dave’s pride and joy, a Lochin Thirty-Three Sports Fisherman, purchased with some of the money his late parents left for him.

  Built in 1988, she saw better days when he signed to take ownership of her, but it did not matter to him in the slightest.

  A lick of paint and she’ll be as good as new.

  His wife made her feelings clear, believing the money should be spent on the house, but Dave pointed out, the money belonged to him and his money alone paid for the house and bills.

  What he failed to inform her, the boat was purchased with only half of the inheritance he received from his parents, the other half being placed safely into an account for their daughter Rose, which she could access when she turned eighteen.

  As they approached the boat, Brad noticed the name of it, located on a large rectangular sign on its side.

  ‘Beautiful Rose.’

  “Why is it called ‘Beautiful Rose’?” Brad asked, as they approached it.

  “What?” Dave responded, placing his tackle over the side of the boat.

  “Why, ‘Beautiful Rose’?”

  “My daughter is called Rose,” Dave replied, “so I had her reregistered in that name”

  “Oh,” Brad uttered, placing his own tackle next to Dave’s, as Mike began checking the ropes securing her to the berth.

  “If I had a boat, I would give it a proper name like ‘The Hunter’ or ‘The Predator’ or something,” Brad said, stepping onto the small deck.

  Dave looked at him, shaking his head.

  Entering the small cabin, he sat on the pilot’s seat, turning to look at Mike, who signalled they were ready to go.

  Turning the key to start the two Perkins Sabre engines powering her, he piloted her into Liverpool bay under the cloudless night sky.

  After twenty minutes travelling across the water to the centre of the bay, they stopped.

  “What do you think we’ll catch,” Brad asked, readying his rods.

  “No idea Brad,” Dave replied, “could be cod, whities, school bass, flounder or whatever. Mike actually caught a salmon a while back, didn’t you Mike?”

  “Aye,” Mike replied, “that was a good night that night. Don’t think we will be catching much tonight though. Have you seen the state of this bloody water?”

  Glancing over the edge of the boat into the water, he could see Mike was right. He hoped it would have settled by now, but it appeared only a murky swirl.

  “We are out here now,” he said, “so we may as well enjoy it.”

  Settling into the seats on the deck, they concentrated on their joint passion.

  Hours drifted by, wi
thout any of them getting a single bite.

  Now nearly dawn, a light drizzle begun to fall, small beads of water bouncing off the boat and merging with the waters of the river, when Mike suddenly leaned forward.

  “Looks like I may have something,” he said, stopping the spool on his reel from spinning.

  “More than me,” Brad complained, sitting with his arms folded across his chest.

  “It must be some debris or something Dave,” Mike said, reeling his line in, “it’s not fighting.”

  “Well, pull it in and then you can cast out again,” Dave replied.

  “Bloody heavy, whatever it is.” Mike exclaimed, reeling in his catch.

  Watching Mike struggle, Dave left his seat, stepping across to help him.

  Whatever Mike’s caught, it’s bloody dragging on the line.

  “All the way out to the middle of the bloody bay and you’ve more than likely snagged a bloody shopping trolley,” Dave said, laughing.

  “With my bloody luck you are probably right,” Mike replied.

  The two men progressed with the line, whilst Brad readied a net.

  Staring over the side of the boat as they reeled the line in, they noticed the waves were as relatively calm as they could be in the middle of Liverpool bay.

  The surface of the water broke.

  At the end of the line hung what appeared to be a large mound of black dripping sludge.

  “Well done Mike.” Dave said, laughing as he slapped him on the shoulder, “you caught yourself some mud for fucks sake!”

  “Piss off Dave.” Mike replied, laughing himself, “help me get this shit off the line.”

  “What the fuck’s that for fucks sake” Mike exclaimed, as the odour of the black mound they hauled to the boat, hit them.

  “Have you shit yourself Brad?” Dave asked, pulling the mound closer.

  Jesus, its rancid.

  “Urgh,” Brad exclaimed, stepping across to help them, covering his mouth with his arm, “what is that?”

  “Whale shit for all I know,” Mike replied. “now give us a hand please lad.”

  “I’m not going anywhere near that,” Brad replied.

  “Cut the fucking line for fucks sake Mike and get rid of it,” Dave instructed, the stench unbearable, causing him to gag.

  Mike fumbled, opening his pocket to locate his knife, finding it difficult whilst he still held his rod.

  “Brad, use your knife to cut the line, I can’t get mine out of my pocket.”

  “I told you. I’m not going anywhere near it.”

  “Will you please stop being such a dozy git and help us will yer.” Dave asked.

  Brad edged closer, taking his knife from his pocket as Mike pulled the ‘catch’ to the side of the boat.

  “I may be able to get the hook out,” Mike said, turning to Brad, “but pass your knife anyway son.”

  With his gloved right hand now free, he placed his hand into the sludge, feeling for the hook at the end of the line. It felt icy cold and not as smooth as he expected mud or silt to be.

  Squeezing his grip around a handful more, he felt something crackle and snap within the force of his grip, he pulled the repulsive handful out, turning to Brad.

  “You said you hadn’t caught anything yet,” he said, “catch this!”

  He flung the handful at Brad, catching him on the side of the face, laughing aloud as the boy hurriedly wiped it off.

  “Fuck off!” Brad yelled, wiping furiously at the thick substance with his hand, the majority now falling to the surface of the deck, “some of that shit got in my mouth!”

  Taking the knife from Mike’s hand, Dave cut the line.

  Feeling sorry for Brad, he fetched a large bottle of spring water from the cooler on the deck, passing it to him.

  “Here, use that Brad,” he said, “Mike was only joking around.”

  “Aye,” Mike added, “sorry son, no harm meant.”

  Brad opened it, taking a couple of deep swigs of the cold water to take the salty taste away, before pouring it onto his face.

  “It’s okay,” he said, drying his face on a small cloth whilst looking down at the small pile, pouring the rest of the water over the pile, “I can take a joke.”

  “Dave, what is that?” He asked, pointing at the pile.

  “Silt,” Dave replied, without looking over, helping Mike with his line.

  “No, I mean what is that, in the silt.”

  “A stone then.”

  “Mersey coral,” Mike laughed, “part of Liverpool’s Great Barrier Reef!”

  Laughing along with Mike but, noticing Brad’s concern he made his way over to him, kneeling in front of the pile.

  Taking a bottle of water from the nearby container, he poured the liquid onto the silt.

  Using Brad’s knife, he scraped and moved away the silt from what he thought a stone.

  “Mike. Come and have a look at this,” he said, stopping.

  Laying his rod down, Mike walked across the deck, slowly kneeling besides them.

  Bloody hell my knees are getting old.

  He stared at the item Dave uncovered.

  “What do you think it is?” Dave asked.

  Picking up the object in his gloved hand, Mike brought it closer to his face to examine it.

  Pulling a small torch from his pocket, he illuminated the object he held, within its beam.

  Throwing it to the deck, he stood up, stepping back a couple of steps.

  “What is it?” Dave asked, standing, noticing his friend’s obvious concern.

  Mike glanced at Brad, poking his knife into the remaining silt.

  “I think it’s a piece of jaw Dave,” he whispered in reply, “a human jaw.”

  Dave knelt next to it, turning it over with his own knife, whilst Mike shone his torch.

  Examining it closely, he discovered the remains of teeth attached to bone.

  “Oh fuck.”

  Picking it up, he threw it, returning it into the cold, dark water.

  “What was it?” Brad asked, turning to face them.

  “Fish bones,” Mike answered, staring at Dave, “it was just fish bones son.”

  “Eurghh! Some of that shit went in my mouth.”

  Gagging, he rushed to the side of the boat and proceeded to vomit into the water.

  Dave stared into his friend’s eyes for moment and nodded.

  Like any other city, Liverpool possessed its own underworld. In Dave’s view, it was probably the cause of what they found and he felt in no mood to get involved in anything with the police and possibly any gangsters.

  “Aye Brad,” Dave said, “it was only fish bones.”

  Walking to the front of the boat, he sat in the pilot’s chair, looking over his shoulder at his two companions.

  Brad was wiping his mouth with the cloth, this time to clean the sick from it.

  “Let’s get our things together and go back home.”

  Brad and Mike nodded in agreement, working on the rods.

  He turned the ignition on and the boat slowly made its way through the dark waters, under the now breaking dawn sky, returning to land.

  Chapter Nine

  “Jake!” She called, “your coffee is going cold love.”

  Looking up from the display in front of him, he waved to her.

  She stood leaning against the railing stretching the length of the path, leading from the old Seaforth Radar Station a couple of miles away, to the Crosby Lifeguard station.

  “Be there in a minute love,” he replied.

  He continued to walk in a circle in the sound, around a pool of water entrapped upon the beach.

  His son, Nate, walked the same circle, a few yards from him. Their right arms sweeping the sand in wide arcs, as they slowly walked around the pool of sea water.

  His son carried a mid-range metal detector, an inexpensive model as Jake felt unsure if Nate would take up the pastime with the same enthusiasm as him

  Jake carried a Deus XP detector, a top of the
range wireless model, purchased as a present to himself, when he finally left his job.

  “Mum will go mad at you,” Nate said, as they continued walking.

  “Yup,” Jake replied.

  “You know I could be playing football right now.”

  “Yup.”

  Nate smiled, staring at his father.

  He hasn’t even got his headphones on and he’s still oblivious.

  “I have a match on Call of Duty later and I don’t want to be late for it.”

  “Yup.”

  “Dad, I’m coming out of the closet and I’m gay,” he exclaimed.

  “Yup.”

  They walked a few more minutes, before Nate raised his detector to the Michael Korn watch his parents gifted him as he flew to join a volunteer youth camp in America, the previous year.

  The detector emitted a loud electronic squeal. Nate quickly placed it a few inches above the ground, before his father could turn around.

  “Wow,” Nate exclaimed, “it’s showing on the bandwidth as precious metal.”

  Jake stopped midstride, walking quickly to his son’s side.

  As he did so, Nate raised the detector to his wrist and the distinctive sound emitted again.

  “Very precious,” he said, grinning.

  “Sorry son, I was miles away.” Jake said, smiling.

  “No shit Sherlock,” Nate said, still grinning.

  “Oi!” His father exclaimed, placing his arm over his shoulder, “come on son, let’s go grab those coffees.”

  Nate placed his arm over his father’s shoulder, as they returned to the carpark, where Jake’s wife Abigail sat at the rear of the 4x4, sipping her coffee.

  Jake felt blessed he and his son were so close. The relationship between his him and his own father, never been as close as theirs.

  Jake’s father loved him completely, without a shadow of a doubt, and he in turn absolutely worshipped his Father, but neither of them found it easy to display their emotions.

  His father passed away a few years ago, shortly afterwards his mother fell to a sudden illness, passing away without him unable to be at her side.

  He worked in the South at the time, when he received the call to say his mother lay ill in hospital.