Revenge of the Chickens Read online

  BLOCKS

  Part Three – Revenge of the Chickens

  By

  Tara Basi

  Copyright © Tara Basi 2017

  All rights reserved

  The right of Tara Basi to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Contents

  Chapter One – Debts

  Chapter Two – The Tour

  Chapter Three – Friends Divided

  Chapter Four – Rise and Rise

  Chapter Five – Insurance

  Chapter Six – The Purge

  Chapter Seven – BB Town

  Chapter Eight – Goodbye Gateway

  Chapter Nine – Tuning Out

  Chapter Ten – Hello Earth

  Chapter Eleven – Reprieved

  Chapter Twelve – Fall and Rise

  Chapter Thirteen – False Memory Syndrome

  Chapter Fourteen – Back

  Chapter Fifteen – Block Seven

  Chapter Sixteen – Imperial Duel

  Chapter Seventeen – Horribly Familiar

  Chapter Eighteen – For Reals

  Chapter Nineteen – Caught

  Chapter Twenty – The Eva Show

  Chapter Twenty-One – Banded

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Truth

  Chapter Twenty-Three – Priestly Business

  Chapter Twenty-Four – The Broadcasts

  Chapter Twenty-Five –Put a Hex On You

  Chapter Twenty-Six – The Battle for Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Seven– Tuned In

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – Parklands

  Chapter Twenty-Nine – The Garden

  Chapter Thirty – Poor Bernie

  Chapter Thirty-One – Detox

  Chapter Thirty-Two – Out of Control

  Chapter Thirty-Three – UnBlocked Day

  Chapter Thirty-Four – Health Warning

  Chapter Thirty-Five – Revenge of the Chickens

  Chapter One – Debts

  He couldn’t see. He could hardly breathe. Throwing up his hands in panic his knuckles rapped against hard wood. His thinking was broken. He thrashed out in all directions banging his knees, bare feet and fists against the same unyielding wood. The mindless banging made terrible dull noises. Low heavy thuds that were immediately dampened, almost before he’d registered the sound. A fine shower of dirt powdered his face, getting in his mouth, his nostrils, his eyes. He coughed hard and rubbed his sightless eye sockets. His insides were dissolving into mush along with his capacity to reason. The air was already stale. Every breath left him wanting. Screaming would only use it up faster. He screamed anyway. An orgasm of terror sent him into a fruitless spastic frenzy that skinned his extremities and tore away his nails. Abruptly, he stopped dead. Something silent and hard bodied had wrapped long snaky limbs around his legs and pinned him down. Every bone in his body calcified. It was moving up over his thighs. His unseen tormentor was holding up a luminous white loop. The only thought he could muster was a plea for the air to run out before the old terror Banded him.

  “Stuff, wake up, you’re having a nightmare. Wake up.”

  The familiar voice and a gentle touch on his forearm drew him up out of the earth and back to a purple hued dark bedroom.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” was all he could say in between gasps for air. He felt clammy and was shivering.

  “What brought this on? Never mind. I’m knackered and you’ve got that meeting in the city,” she mumbled and turned away, tucking herself back up under the duvet.

  Seconds later Martha’s steady breathing told him she was asleep.

  Stuff felt guilty about waking her. It was just after four in the morning. He’d only been asleep for a couple of hours at most. Many years had gone by since he’d suffered from nightmares. There was a time, a long time ago, when the only kind of night he’d ever had was filled with terror. It was obvious what had brought it on. A whirlpool of the same thoughts which had kept him awake for most of the night started up again. The tormenting memories threatened to suck away his reason and drown him in dark imaginings. Why now? Was he going to die today? It had been so long. Surely, she’d have forgotten about him. He was nobody. He’d done nothing. Why? Why?

  Last night, as he was locking up the school, his name had floated out of the shadows.

  “Who’s there? Why are you creeping about like that? You scared the hell out of me.”

  When Trinity stepped into the pool of light, Stuff’s insides hollowed out. He instinctively retreated while reaching backwards and desperately feeling for the door handle.

  Trinity didn’t chase him. It stood quite still. “Eva demands your presence. Tomorrow morning at seven. Anton’s Observatory.”

  “What? No. No. Why?” Stuff whispered, his voice barely under control.

  “You may come of your own accord. Or.”

  From behind Trinity a floating black horror dripping snaking limbs moved into the light.

  Stuff was instantly dropped into an ice bath. He couldn’t move. Speak. Hardly breathe. His mouth was opening wide but he couldn’t even muster a scream.

  The Crawler extended one sinuous black tentacle that was dangling a white loop.

  His bladder capitulated. Steaming piss flooded his leg. Words were too much for Stuff, he nodded like a woodpecker. He was still nodding long after Trinity and the Crawler had disappeared back into the shadows.

  The memory of the encounter set his limbs trembling. If he stayed in bed he wouldn’t sleep, he’d be too afraid that the nightmare would come back. The rendezvous was still hours away. Getting up carefully, trying not to disturb Martha, he headed to the kitchen to start the coffeemaker and then into the shower. It felt better to be up and doing something, not just waiting. The long hot shower flushed away some of the cold fear.

  The kitchen clock was edging towards five as he sipped nervously at a mug of hot milky coffee. Everything was so normal. The Sun was rising and splashing the sky with crimson and dissolving away the purple night. The kitchen table under his clenched hands was solid and etched with his family’s history, like an ancient tablet. If you could read the marks, it told a good story about good times. He raised his head and took in the whole kitchen. The little room held a lot of wonderful memories. The blue and white kitchen tiles that the twins had messily helped him put up, shimmered under dawn’s light. The rows of old oak cupboard doors at floor level were scarred with more rambunctious dents than he could count. Every scar told the epic tales of a multitude of toy crashes and sibling skirmishes.

  Until last night, today was going to be another good ordinary day. Now he really understood how good these days were, and how much he’d taken them for granted.

  He would leave Martha a note. She’d get it tonight if he didn’t come back. He couldn’t tell her the truth. Nobody would believe the truth. The note would say he was seriously ill, dying, and he’d gone away to spare them and they should go on. He wouldn’t be coming back. It was the best he could come up with. And it was so much better than the reality, his, Martha’s the children’s, everyone’s.

  Stuff shook his head and clasped his hands tightly together. It might be okay. Tomorrow might be another ordinary fantastic day. That’s what he had to think, to believe. So what would he do, on an ordinary day, being up so early?

  There was still plenty of time to visit the village bakers and get some croissants. Suddenly, he was desperate for croissant.

  Riffling through the laundry basket rather than going back up to the bedroom and risk waking Martha, he found underwear, socks, an old pair of jeans and a favourite short-sleeve shirt. He dressed quickly, slipped out the front door and crossed the square to the bakers. It wa
s a minute or so to five. All the lights were on in the bakery and warm happy smells were escaping from under the door. Don must be in the back feeding the oven with dough. He did not knock; baker Don was famously punctual. As the church bell chimed five, Don appeared at the door red-faced, wearing his familiar white overalls and with his hands covered in a light dusting of flour.

  “You’re up early.”

  “Have a morning meeting in town, before school. Croissant ready?”

  “Sure and escargot, fresh out the oven.”

  “Great, give me six of each, the twins love the snails. Martha hates the mess.”

  Back at the kitchen table, with a warm half-eaten croissant dripping strawberry jam in one greasy hand and another mug of milky coffee in the other, he felt better. Reconciled. Fatalistic. Whatever it was that he was feeling it was better than being scared to death.

  It was nearly five-thirty. He mustn’t be late. He didn’t know what would happen if he was late or just didn’t turn up. Maybe nothing would happen, or maybe everybody he cared about would be dead before the Sun had finish rising.

  Stuff wolfed down the remains of his pastry, slurped the coffee dregs and headed up the stairs. Martha was still soundly asleep. He bent over and kissed her softly on the forehead. Quietly closing the bedroom door, he crossed the landing to the twins’ room. It surprised him every morning how the two five-year-olds could become so tangled up in their blankets. They were never pointing in the direction he’d left them in at bedtime. Lilly’s head was actually hanging over the end of the bed. He paused to stare for a while, unable to suppress a contented smile despite the churn in his gut, before kissing them both and leaving. Silly really, nothing might happen today; there could be time to say a proper goodbye. Immediately, he cursed his own naive stupidity. There could never be a proper goodbye, not without telling the truth. He could never tell the truth.

  Stuff opened the shed door, wheeled out his bicycle and checked the tires, they were fine. A barrage of clucking erupted. Lilly’s chickens thought he’d come to feed them. He walked over to the coop and stared at the brightly coloured birds as they frantically searched for the feed that he hadn’t brought. It made him think of the time Martha had first suggested getting them.

  “You like eggs don’t you? And it’ll be good for the kids, teach them some discipline and responsibility.”

  Stuff didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell Martha he loathed chickens and everything in his past that was associated with them. “What about a dog?”

  “Dogs don’t lay eggs, do they Stuff? I’ve always wanted chickens, we have the space and they’re really easy to look after, and no walkies required.”

  Stuff recognised the tone. Martha had probably already ordered a flock. She wasn’t really seeking his agreement just his acquiescence. Stuff shrugged, he couldn’t tell her he hated chickens without saying more than she was capable of understanding or believing.

  The chickens and the coop arrived a few days later. Ben’s interest didn’t last when he wasn’t allowed to chase them around the garden. But Lilly loved her Chicky-chicks.

  One day he was sitting in the garden reading his paper-screen when Lilly strolled over. “Daddy, want to hold Chicky-Ben? Don’t worry he won’t bite.”

  Somehow, four-year-old Lilly had picked up that he wasn’t that relaxed around the fowls. She was holding out the gently clucking bird between two pudgy hands. Her head was tilted to one side of the body of the plump bird so he could see her reassuring smile. He felt a little stupid as he took the young chicken and set it on his lap. Lilly stroked its little head as the bird made itself comfortable. Despite feeling unsettled, being so close to the chicken, he couldn’t hold back a big smile. He had a wonderful family. After that, he didn’t mind being around the simple creatures.

  The growing brightness reminded Stuff that he needed to get a move on. Unlatching the back-garden gate, he cycled out into the narrow lane that ran along the rear of the row of Georgian terraced houses on his side of the village square. A Victorian terrace made up another side, and a mid-20th century mini-high street, housing the local shops and a number of flats above, the third side. The village church and its school finished off the encirclement of the green with its trees and duck pond. Surrounding the village were open fields that, on this jarringly beautiful morning, played host to the odd tractor, noisy ravens and other early birds.

  It was going to be a glorious late spring day that mocked his mood. A warm dawn was turning the sky ice-cream raspberry ripple. Nearly a quarter-to-six, he needed to pedal faster. There it was, a few hundred metres ahead, the station. Arriving out of breath he lent his bike against a tree and rushed inside, sweeping past Postman Jones picking up parcels. The express pod to the Terminus left at exactly six; from there he would catch a second pod to Anton’s Observatory. Even if he missed this first one, he would still make it on time but he didn’t want to risk being late. The door swished shut just as he jumped over the threshold. Ten minutes later he was at the Terminus, a vast hive of inactivity. It was still too early for the main commuter rush. He dashed across the central domed hall. Its rosy sandstone walls warmly reflected the brightening daylight streaming through the stained-glass roof far overhead. The Terminus was the gateway to every Ark level, from the Parklands at the bottom to level Twenty-Two and the mega-city New Tokyo at the very top. Only the Observatory was higher. With plenty of time to spare he found the archway leading to the direct Observatory transports. No surprise that the area was empty, Anton’s Observatory wasn’t that popular anymore. He got into one of the many waiting lifts and headed towards the roof.

  Sitting in the rapidly climbing elevator, Stuff was suddenly reminded of a very special visit up top. It was over seven years ago, on one of his first dates with Martha. It had been a dramatic day. Waterfall rain had streamed over the Observatory roof, the incomparable view was shrouded in angry black clouds, with continuous bolts of harsh lightning biting into the lake-lands far below. Despite it being so alien and the monstrous weather, it was all made extraordinarily warm and beautiful by Martha’s presence.

  Stuff resented today’s forced trip to the Observatory, though a part of him was also curious. After all this time, would their bitterness have finally drained away? Had they eventually discovered the same peace he had found? Would anyone still be recognisable? He had changed so much. Only she was eternal, never changing, never ageing, and usually appearing on some public broadcast at least twice a day.

  The swish of the lift’s opening door jolted him out of his thoughts. Stuff didn’t immediately move. It was tempting to stay and go back down. Swallowing hard, he headed out into the main hall. This was Observatory central, almost completely deserted at such an early hour, not that it was ever that busy at any time. It was a circular room with a massive central lift, easily capable of carrying hundreds on the final stage of the journey; once they’d bought their ticket.

  It had been popular once. Especially during the five-year journey to Eden and in the early years after they had landed.

  Around the outside wall were numerous vacant transport slots of varying sizes, like the one he’d arrived in. Not every slot was empty; others must already be up on the roof. He crossed the chequerboard floor into the cavernous lift and ascended the final few hundred metres in seconds. Stuff exited into the huge windowless shopping mall and hurried past the mostly closed-down and shuttered restaurants, kiosks and souvenir stands. A gently sloping incline led skyward. At the top of the ramp he took a deep breath as he crossed the threshold onto the roof itself, stunned again by how beautiful this place was. The very first time he’d been up here was when he was just a kid. There were vague memories of being quizzed about dying stars and the size of the universe. It was a time he’d tried very hard to forget.

  A transparent corridor, tall and wide, stretched in a straight line from the top of the ramp diagonally across the flat roof surface, like an arrow shaft pointing at one gargantuan corner. It continued right over the ed
ge where the corridor opened up into an inverted arrowhead, a huge V shaped space, capped by a vast gallery wall. There was a time when thousands of children would stream down the shaft, braking suddenly at the corner edges where the Ark ended and the corridor kept going. It was only ever a temporary pause before the screaming kids scattered across the vast glass-floored viewing gallery. The main Observatory floated over a twenty-three kilometre drop to the spiky wetlands. This place was mostly shunned by his generation, who would rather not be reminded there was an Outside. He was one of them. The Ark-born had little interest in anything beyond the Ark. Besides, why bother when everyone believed that one day soon they’d all be leaving and going back home? Stuff knew that was fantasy. There was no way back to Earth.

  From the start of the corridor he could just discern that a few souls were out in the main gallery, stick figures at this distance, spread out over a wide area. Approaching the overhang, they resolved into a painter bent over an easel, someone with an ancient camera and tripod, a small group kneeling in prayer, and two young couples. The sight of one distinctive lone figure caught the breath in his lungs. He was some way ahead, sitting alone on an isolated bench. His head was tipped back so he stared at the sky, rather than the view below. His arms were outstretched along either side of the backrest, legs fully extended with feet crossed at the ankles. It wasn’t a relaxed pose, he looked as if he’d been crucified in that position. The long-legged muscular figure was wearing the stained innards of an Outsider’s environmental suit. The beautiful long thick hair that Stuff remembered was mostly gone. What remained was cropped brutally short. His lower face sported a neatly trimmed black beard speckled with flecks of white. Stuff didn’t know how he recognised him, but he did. It had been a quarter-of-a-century since they’d last met. There was something about the shape of his face, and the way he held himself: tense and ready.

  As Stuff drew closer, he couldn’t help himself. He choked up and a lone tear escaped and ran down his cheek. His friend had grown old. If he had seen it happening, day by day, year by year, he wouldn’t have noticed. In an instant, the image of the strong and serious teenage boy he remembered so well had been replaced by the reality of a middle-aged man. He looked fit enough, but it was his face that shocked Stuff. It was much older than his body and deeply lined, as if he’d spent too much time Outside under Eden’s twin suns. It wasn’t just that he’d aged. Something else was missing, the spark, the drive that had saved his life so many times was gone.