Extracted Read online

  ALSO BY RR HAYWOOD

  The Undead Series

  The Undead Day One-Twenty

  Blood at the Premiere: A Day One Undead Adventure

  Blood on the Floor: An Undead Adventure

  Demon Series

  Recruited: A Mike Humber Novella

  Huntington House: A Mike Humber Detective Novel

  Book of Shorts Volume One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 RR Haywood

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503941861

  ISBN-10: 1503941868

  Cover design by Mark Swan

  Contents

  Prologue

  2046

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  About the Author

  Prologue

  By twenty sixty-one the digital age of ownership and possession of almost intangible products is significant, but consumers still want physical goods. They still want to buy physical objects. They go online. Peruse the selections. Make the purchase and let the retailer do the rest.

  Those retailers at the forefront of technology use drones and advanced logistical networks run by supercomputers. They excel in taking that product from warehouse to recipient, but as good as they get, they still have to rely on the physical carriage from point A to point B, which takes time, and time is money.

  The research those retailers and tech companies invest in is called many different things. No matter the names they use, they are hoping for teleportation and the ability to take an object and move it from manufacturer to customer instantly.

  If the technology could be developed for the instantaneous delivery of objects then perhaps, given time, research and understanding, it could also be used for the movement of people. Instantaneous travel.

  The problem of course is that teleportation is not possible. It is a thing of fiction, of stories, of imagination. The theoretical science can theorise as much as it wants, but it is not, and nor would it ever be, possible. Everyone knows the dangers of monkeying around with the fundamental laws of nature. Anyone who has ever read popular science fiction knows what can go wrong. So the companies say it is purely research and development theory. They say they are forward planning for a hypothetical future because teleportation is not possible. It is a thing of fiction. It does not exist. It will never exist.

  Then a whisper starts. The source is unknown but it grows and spreads through the intelligence community. Someone has done it. Someone has made a device, but not for the transit of goods over distance. The device is for the transit of goods and people across space and time.

  Time travel.

  All eyes turn to the retailers and tech giants. To the last, they deny knowledge and are as surprised as everyone else.

  The virtual world becomes infested with advanced intrusive codes written to monitor the billions of social networking accounts and the written and spoken word in any and all forms. Secretly of course, because the wider public could never be told such a thing.

  The quest starts. The hunt begins, but without a specific location, without a starting point, they are fishing in the dark in an ocean the size of a planet using a few rods in the vain hope of catching the one fish in the water.

  2046

  He looks down at his almost naked body trying to decide if he should remove his boxer shorts. The symbolism of walking naked into the sea conflicts with his desire to maintain standards. He decides that dying naked is not something he wishes to do and lifts his head to look out at the mirror sea reflecting the full moon. Stars overhead. So many of them. So bright too. A calm night. Peaceful. Fitting. The sand moves softly between his toes as he places the note on the neatly folded clothes stacked tidily atop his shiny black business shoes.

  It is time. Time to go.

  Control has been lost. Dignity and pride taken away, but all from his own actions. Now he must pay the price and in choosing this fate, he can best serve his family.

  ‘Okay,’ Roland mutters, nervously tapping the sides of his thighs. ‘Right, okay.’

  Still he waits. Unable to take the first step. His mind desperate to find reasons to stay another moment. He looks round to check his clothes and the handwritten letter are still there. What if a breeze gets up and blows the note away? It shouldn’t. The forecast was fine for the next few days. He bends down to adjust the pile of clothes and takes the shoes to place on top of the paper. Another adjustment to make sure the note is visible. Then another to alter the gap between the shoes. Should he put one shoe on the note or both of them? What if one shoe is under the pile of clothes and the other is on top? Will that make a difference? Will it be analysed later as the final loss of cognitive function? Will experts decide that he was stark raving mad to put one shoe on top and one underneath before walking into the sea in his executive-style boxer shorts?

  At this point, the placing of his shoes becomes extremely important. It is his final act as a human being and it needs to be right. A fleeting obsession is born. A myriad of thoughts flood his mind about what each adjustment will mean later. For a second he even considers putting the note inside one of the shoes but then worries someone might steal the shoes.

  ‘God’s sake,’ he says under his breath, standing upright to smooth his dark hair flat against his skull with trembling hands. He glances back down at the shoes, frowning as he fights the impulse to stay and make more adjustments.

  He gives a determined nod and stiffens his resolve. He is British. He will go with dignity and a stiff upper lip. The first step is firm and solid. A man taking control back. A man forging ahead to make his own future, albeit a very limited one.

  The short journey across the soft sand seems to take hours but then, as with all things, it is over and as his left foot slides into the cool water of the ocean so the tear falls from his eye to roll fat down his cheek. His lips tremble. His legs start to weaken. A shiver runs up his back. His mind whirls frantic and desperate. His vision closes in. His heart thunders. His breathing becomes short, shallow and close to hyperventilating.

  Onwards he walks deeper into the sea until the first splashes hit his knees, his thighs, his groin, his stomach, and for each one so the tears run faster, thicker, and he whimpers soft and terrified. For his family he will do this. For their sake he must do this.

  ‘Don’t g
o.’

  The voice is jarring in the silence of the beach. Sparking a guilty reaction in Roland, who turns quickly in the chest-high water to stare at the lone figure on the beach, bathed in blue from a shimmering, iridescent square of light.

  ‘Is it you?’ the man calls out in a voice choking with emotion. A stranger but something familiar about him, the voice and the way he is standing.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Roland asks, his eyes flicking between the strange light and the man.

  ‘It’s me . . .’ the man says, gulping to swallow his sobs.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know you,’ Roland stammers while his brain screams for the connection to be made.

  ‘I need your help.’ The man’s voice breaks as he walks fully clothed into the sea towards Roland. ‘It went wrong . . . I . . . I broke it . . .’

  ‘I don’t know you, go away,’ Roland says, stepping back deeper into the water in alarm, but there is something about the man. Something about the voice and the way he walks. The plaintive tone. The emotion. All of it is jarringly familiar.

  ‘I broke it . . . I . . . don’t go . . . please, don’t go . . .’

  A magic eye picture. A jigsaw finished wrong. The feeling you get when you see identical twins dressed in different clothes. That jolt of the eye at seeing something that the brain cannot process.

  Roland is scared. Terrified. He is walking into the sea to die with all the emotion that brings but this man walking towards him is broken beyond compare. Fear and misery etched into every line of the man’s face. A young man too. The jawline. The hairline. The colour of that hair. The way he walks. The voice.

  With a wrenching drop of his stomach, Roland makes the sickening connection of recognition of something that cannot be possible. He staggers back. His hands slap the surface of the sea. His eyes wide and unblinking.

  ‘No . . .’ Roland whispers, flicking to the blue square of light then back to the man he knows so well but not as a man. As a child. He knows him as a child. His own child that is at home in his teddy bear pyjamas.

  ‘I broke it,’ the man sobs. ‘I need you . . . help me . . . please, Dad . . .’

  One

  2015

  ‘Steph,’ Ben shouts up the stairs. ‘Steph? I’ve got to go . . .’ He checks his watch then heads up, muttering under his breath that he’s running late. ‘Steph?’

  ‘Huh?’ She drops the phone on the bed as he walks into the room. ‘You off?’ she asks with a sudden beaming smile of white teeth and blue eyes that flutter as she walks towards him. Wet hair hanging down on slender shoulders and a soaking wet towel cinched tight over her breasts.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replies and glances again at his watch as she comes in for a kiss. ‘I might be late tonight—’

  ‘You said,’ she cuts him off and leans in for a peck to avoid pressing her wet body against his clothes.

  ‘Did I?’ he asks, bending forward at the waist.

  ‘Underground? Electrocution?’ she says, pulling her head back and staring at him before blinking and looking away quickly.

  ‘When did I—’

  ‘Last night,’ she interrupts with that beaming smile and quickly pulls the towel off to stand naked.

  ‘Shit,’ he mumbles, staring at her perfect breasts and down to her long legs. She comes in for a hug, filling his nose with the womanly scents of shampoo, conditioner, deodorant and creams. His mouth finds her neck, kissing down to her shoulders. She murmurs in pleasure but pulls away.

  ‘Your train,’ she says, placing an open palm on his chest. ‘You’ll be late.’

  ‘I’ll be late then,’ he says with a grin.

  ‘No,’ she laughs, ‘sod off . . . go on . . .’

  ‘You’ve turned me on now.’ He reaches out but she’s gone to grab the towel, which gets wrapped round her body with one deft movement.

  ‘You’ll survive,’ she says with a brief smile, then darts round as her phone vibrates on the bed. She thumbs the screen and turns away. Which is clearly an invite to come up behind her and continue the neck kissing and maybe steal a glance at the screen, but the second his hands touch her waist she steps away, deactivates the phone and glares at him. ‘Ben, you’ll be late.’

  ‘I don’t mind. We can do what we did last night . . .’

  ‘I said no. Stop being a pervert.’

  ‘Eh?’ He comes to a stop at the harsh tone.

  She turns away to the dresser to grab her hairbrush. ‘I hate being pawed. You know that.’

  ‘Pawed? You took your towel off . . .’

  ‘Said the rapist to the judge.’

  ‘What the fuck . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t swear at me, Ben.’

  ‘Ah now,’ Ben says, smiling apologetically with one hand on the back of his neck as he dips his head and looks up at her.

  ‘Oh no,’ she snaps, shaking her head at him angrily. ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  ‘That ah now with the hand on your neck. Look, I’m running late now,’ she huffs. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘Steph, hang on . . .’

  ‘I said I will see you tonight,’ she snaps.

  ‘Okay okay.’ He backs away, feeling jarred from the sudden mood switch. She’s been doing that a lot lately, but then they are planning a wedding and both of them work demanding jobs in the city. He heads down the stairs and pauses at the door. His face pensive. The urge to ask her now is strong but her mood is already dark and it risks an argument which will make them both late for work. Sometimes things are best left. ‘I’ll see you tonight then,’ he calls up gently.

  ‘Yes, Ben,’ she shouts in that irritated tone.

  He sighs and heads outside to drive to the station where he parks up and rushes on to the platform towards the kiosk then curses when the front of the train comes into view down the tracks.

  ‘Ben.’

  He looks over and sees Judith leaning out of the kiosk window holding a large disposable cup. She smiles kindly, a face of wrinkles, grey hair and twinkling eyes. ‘You’re late this morning.’

  ‘Yeah, rushing about. Thank you so much though . . .’ he says, grabbing the cup and delving a hand into his pocket.

  ‘Pay me tomorrow,’ she says, waving him away. ‘You’ll miss it.’

  ‘Thanks, Judith.’

  ‘Steph on her way is she?’ she calls out as he moves across the platform.

  ‘Yep, drying her hair about now I think.’

  ‘I’ll have one waiting for her.’

  ‘Thanks, Judith.’

  Hey love, can you pay for my coffee if you have time, I almost missed the train? Judith said she’ll have yours waiting x

  He clicks ‘Send’ and settles in for the forty-minute journey but his phone vibrates within a few seconds of sending Steph the message.

  Ok

  He notes the distinct lack of kisses or any term of endearment. That has been going on for a while now too and it adds to the feeling of discomfort, like a worrying nagging sensation at the back of his mind. You know when someone is turning off from you. The lack of cuddles or kissing with her eyes open. She is having an affair. He knows it now. Not from any feeling of possessiveness or insecurity but simply from an assessment of the evidence all taken together to reach a logical conclusion. It will be her boss. Steph used to speak so highly of him and talked about how cool he was all the time. Ben didn’t mind any of that but he did notice when she suddenly stopped talking about him so much, which was the same time as the affection stopped and the bad moods started. The subtle changes in her appearance. The perfume she uses all the time that she had told Ben how much her boss liked. Little things. Lots of little things, but that is what Ben does. He takes the little things and works them through to find the logical conclusion. The only difference is that this is about his life and not an insurance claim. He hasn’t said anything for fear of sounding like a jealous control freak, and it’s making him feel like shit, with an ever-tightening knot in his gut.

  He’d asked
Steph what was wrong a couple of times. She said she was okay. He even asked her, just once, if she still wanted to get married, but she snapped and told him to stop being so insecure and needy.

  Strangely, it was last night that finally made him realise there was something very wrong. They had sex for the first time in ages but it was different. Very different. It was the early hours and he woke up to find her hand on his penis and her mouth in his ear.

  ‘Fuck me,’ she demanded almost angrily.

  Ben rolled over and started to kiss her neck but got pushed roughly away.

  ‘I said fuck me,’ she hissed and pulled him on top while rubbing his cock. The second he was rigid she thrust it inside, bucking, grunting and raking at his shoulders while demanding to be fucked harder. It was over quickly then she stared up at him in the moonlight coming through the blinds for a long minute before rolling over and going straight back to sleep. She was different. So angry, and she seemed so full of spite too. Ben didn’t recognise her.

  They live outside London. Close enough for property prices to be staggeringly high but far enough to be classed as a Home County.

  Forty minutes later he’s bouncing along the platform and jogging across the busy roads with veins full of caffeine.

  ‘Morning, Ben.’ The receptionist greets him with a smile as he bursts through the door and runs across the tiled floor towards the lift.

  ‘Hello, Tracy,’ he calls out with a wave and runs the last few steps into the packed lift being held open by a man in a suit with swept-back dark hair who nods and steps aside to let him in. Ben’s firm has the fifth floor. The chap who held the door open for him stays in as the doors close on the fourth.

  ‘You going to Hallows?’ Ben asks politely.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies, matching Ben’s politeness and raising it several notches with the strong cultured tone of the very well educated. ‘Do you work there?’