First novel - LIFELINERS

I self published my first novel, a sort of science fiction, horror, romance, fantasy last week on Amazon. It was fun writing, and from chats with a couple of folk, an entertaining read. I don't like going through the motions of chasing literary agents and publishers, although a proofreader and editor would've picked up obvious errors and undoubtedly vastly improved the book. It was supposed to be three chapters longer, however I decided what I intended was simply padding and dropped them in favour of resolving the plot. Anyway, see below for details, and beneath that Chapter 1.

Chapter 1

Doppelganger

I despise jackhammers. In my hierarchy of detestation, they rank second to chainsaws and only marginally above angle grinders. The fact that all three of my most hated sounds were currently performing a post-modern opera inside my head reinforced this opinion. Another irksome detail of existence I would gladly abolish if the power was presented is bright light, particularly the incandescent globe variety. This too confronted me, providing an exceedingly unwelcome sight to the pustules I laughingly called eyes.

I think the sound oozing from my mouth was a groan, but perhaps it was more a moan. Hazy memories of the final night after party clawed their way to the front of my head and flopped exhausted on a lobe. Even that hurt. The expression ‘painful memories’ might be literal truth. Now only one more excruciating detail of my current state remained to be examined at leisure – where the hell am I?

I know who I am. That at least is still clear, lamentable but clear. Prognathous Jōre. Yes, yes, I know, a damned stupid name I can only blame on a bipolar father with the surname Jōre and a blindingly ridiculous obsession with Neanderthals. Or was it Pithecanthropus? Anthropology documentaries on obscure cable TV channels tended to soothe him. Doesn’t really matter, I was his little Proggy and in between manic episodes he loved me in a fashion. Often 17^th century fashion, don’t spoil the whip or leave the cane idle lest Demons occupy my stick thin kiddy frame. I sort of came to like my forename but very few people with whom I came into contact could tolerate it, hence I’m usually called Prog. I tell people it’s short for ‘Progressive’, since my family were the Fabian equivalent of Quakers. Utter bullshit of course. My father was so reactionary he made Genghis Khan look like a Kindergarten teacher, and my mother was so far under his thumb you could barely make out her splayed limbs. I could go all Ned Kelly cliched and utter ‘such is life’ except it makes absolutely no difference and the thought of it is currently raising decidedly unwanted bile.

There’s that sound again, yep, a moan, but this time not coming from my mouth. I raise the tree stump masquerading as my head and peer around. The surroundings are unfamiliar and utterly disquieting.

I’m lying on a filthy mattress on a concrete floor. I can feel the cold of concrete seeping through the mattress adding another dimension of pleasure to my already delightful circumstance. Directly above me the incandescent light globe desultorily hangs from a sagging plaster ceiling crisscrossed with rusty pipes and rotting timber beams. A factory? Warehouse? A previously unknown circle of Hell? Probably all of the above. Looking around I can see wooden crates and unidentifiable pieces of metal lit by the small circle of light. Past this comforting sight are shadows, and someone or something moaning. Do rats moan? I’m sure this place plays host to hordes of rats, probably mutated six-foot rodents with radioactive fangs and electrified tails. Imagination can be a boon for an actor but too much of a good thing makes for dyspeptic visions. Do giant mutated radioactive rats enjoy munching on washed out actors? Doubtful. Even they would have to have standards, a beautiful leading lady or lantern-jawed leading man would be far preferable.

I roll off the mattress and fail to climb to my feet. Crawling is an option however several million years of evolution tweak the bipedal instinct and I manage to stagger to my feet. The extraordinary biped benefits kick in as I blurrily survey an especially unsavoury environment. There are no lions so I’m not in a sub-Saharan veldt. The light bulb is not the African sun. Tick two for the good guy. Now where the hell am I?

“Hello” I squeak, not feeling particularly hairy chested, “is anyone here?”. I stagger around, away from the mattress. The moaning groan seems to drift from all corners of the room, from everywhere, but my senses focus on a shadowy corner in what seems to be a basement service area. An old building, I think, probably built in the 1930s or 40s. I hear the faint drip of water along with a slight clang indicative of antique plumbing. The floor is littered with the accumulated detritus of decades; plaster, bricks, glass, mouldering cardboard boxes, pieces of rusted metal. The cacophonous opera in my head is slowly conceding soundscape rights and more ambient noises filter through my ears. Scurrying of small furry legs – probably not six-foot radioactive mutant rats just the mundane variety. I examine the shadowy corner. Nothing, only more debris. I search for the source of the moans across the basement, stubbing my toe on a brick. The sound strangely seems to be coming from where I awoke on the grubby mattress.

Hmm, I’ve somehow lost my shoes and socks. Come to think of it, I’m not wearing my usual shabby jeans and moth-eaten jumper. No wonder the concrete was cold, I’m stark naked. I didn’t go to the party commando, although my usual attire wouldn’t win awards at the Fashion Festival, at least I don’t try to frighten stray children. Starkers is a different proposition. Even I couldn’t tolerate the sight of my naked torso. “Where are you?” I ask, “are you OK?” Another groan adequately answers the latter and confirms the directional clue. I carefully navigate my bare feet across the concrete floor back toward the source, guided by the light globe.

The moaning groans emanate from a pale bundle curled on the filthy mattress. This is truly, scarily weird. I’d just risen from that same disgusting mattress. As tension heightens my senses and my befuddled brain climbs from the swamp I notice a foul stench. The basement could never be considered a field of lavender but this scent is more than background aroma. Old graveyard mixed with a hint of rotten egg prodded my gagging reflex, but remarkably I managed to keep the previous night’s excesses in my stomach. Reluctance is an inadequate noun to describe my unwillingness to approach Mr. or Ms. Pongy, but a long-ossified sense of obligation rears its annoying head.

There are no windows so the only light source was the bulb hanging over the mattress. From what I can dimly see Pongy is in a similar state of undress to myself, excruciatingly naked. How he came to be sprawled on the mattress I’d just vacated is a conundrum my brain can’t process. I’m concluding he’s probably male when he shouts “RUN”, moan groans weakly, then says faintly “get away, now…”. He rolls over and I see skin hanging from the side of his face, raw flesh faintly visible where cheeks should be. His eyes are pus, weeping some poisonous ichor and his mouth is drooling yellow phlegm. He has no nose, only a gash. I glimpse rotting flesh stripped from his chest and limbs. How did I see this so clearly? A flashlight from a door which had opened behind Pongy swept across his pox riddled near-corpse. I stagger backwards, stepping on a rusty nail, but the pain is overwhelmed by disgust, potent fear and a White Rabbit level of disorientated absurdity and confusion. Mr Pongy is me.

“Prog! What on Earth are you doing down here?” I recognise the voice of the shadowy figure in the door as Georgia ‘Gee’ Gvazava, one of the members of our theatre company ‘Red Square’. She hadn’t been in the just finished production being busy having a baby but I knew her well. We liked each other, although she justly considered me a complete idiot. The flashlight was trained directly on my face. I raised my arm to shield my eyes from the glare and said “I haven’t the faintest idea Gee, all I can remember is the party last night and waking up here, wherever ‘here’ is.” She pointed the torch down at the rotting, stinking imitation of my unimpressive body and gasped “that looks like you Prog. What the fuck is going on?” My thoughts to a tee.

“This is the Lower Ground floor of Building 6” said Gee, “a cleaner smelled something funny in the stairwell and reported it to us.” She stared at the figure on the mattress. Green goo was coming from the gash where its nose should be. A blackened ear seemed about to drop off. Gee was a security guard for the private firm which guarded the university’s City campus. In her spare time she was a mother, partner, actor and a pretty decent painter. She was also an ex-cop and tough as nails, nothing ever fazed her. Except perhaps seeing two of me, one of whom appeared to be a rotting ghoul lying on the floor of a creepy basement in the middle of the university. It most assuredly fazed me.

Ghoul me then spoke, although the gurgle croak issuing from his ruined mouth barely met the definition of speech, “the Editor…the Editor is coming. Run you fool” then the gurgle croaking ceased. Before our eyes, lit by Gee’s flashlight Ghoul Prog began to melt. Limbs oozed into slimy green puddles and dripped from the edge of the mattress onto the concrete floor, spreading in a noxious puddle towards our feet. The torso began to melt, and finally the head. “The Editor” it croaked one last time, “Run!”, then there was only a small pool of ichor soaking the mattress and fouling the floor.

Gee yelped, fumbling and nearly dropping her flashlight as she backed into the doorway. Shadows leapt across the room. I squealed in fear and disgust, then ignoring all sharp and dangerous debris leapt across the mattress and barrelled into Gee. We both tumbled out the doorway, Gee having the presence of mind to slam shut the old wooden door behind us. We both fell to our knees breathing heavily. Gee was shaking, but I was too petrified to bother with such nonsense as shock. What in the name of everything sacred was The Editor? And how had I just melted into a pool of slime in the basement of an old uni building? I ran my hands across my torso, good, still intact.

The door we had exited banged loudly, as if an iron clad boot had kicked it. Another kick, more powerful this time followed, and the rusty hinges began to creak. Another kick, and I could hear wood splintering.

“Run” I screamed, and we scrambled to our feet and began clawing our way up the rickety metal staircase at the end of a short, dank hall. I briefly wondered why whatever was coming after us hadn’t bothered to use the door handle but guessed monstrous Editors preferred a dramatic exit. The door shattered as we were half way up the stairs. I glanced over my shoulder and instantly regretted the action.

A black, oily cloud was slithering over the ruins of the wooden door. It may as well had flashing neon signs pointing to it and a heavy metal soundtrack screeching “EVIL”. Gee is younger and far fitter than me, so reached the top of the staircase well in the lead. I was breathless when I reached the top, another hall, more used and less dilapidated. Several doors lined it and a glass door at the end revealed daylight and street trees. We raced toward the daylight, Gee several lengths ahead. Neither looked back as we bounded through the door into the street. Gee grabbed the walkie talkie from a holster on her shoulder and began frantically babbling to the security centre. I don’t think she had any idea what she was saying, I sure as hell had no words to describe what had just happened. It was semester break so there were few students around to stare critically at my flabby torso, nevertheless I was suddenly, acutely aware of my nudity. “We have to keep moving” I said to Gee, “and I desperately need to find some clothes”. She nodded and we began running toward the security centre at the entrance off Franklin Street. There was no sign of The Editor, black cloud, or slimy ghouls, only a couple of curious academics watching this strange procession. You have to love universities.

By the time we staggered into the security office I had crashed into a near semblance of sobriety. Someone mercifully passed me a jacket. The power tools buzzing in my head had subsided to a dulled explosion and I realised I probably wasn’t actually pissed or stoned. Memories of the previous night’s party were slowly filtering through my synapses and I recalled I drank very little, a few light beers and a glass of cheap red plonk. Not nearly enough to pass out and awaken with an armageddon of a hangover. A responsible driver in my old age the pleasures of raging till dawn had become a fond memory. I suffered all the pain but still couldn’t remember any preceding pleasure. What was my last memory of the night?

Talking. I was talking a lot. I’m usually a fairly reticent fella but the high of a last night performance and a few drinks made me more voluble than normal. I’m characterised as a ‘character actor’, a loose phrase applying to someone who doesn’t possess any significant skills or outstanding appearance but can fill a one-dimensional role. A Rosencrantz if you will, the classic ‘attendant Lord’. My speciality was an ‘irascible old man’. I’ve become an old man playing an ‘irascible old man’. Not highly in demand but I can fill in for other minor roles, usually vaguely comic and slightly obnoxious. Strangely I’m mostly considered a pretty mild mannered, easy going bloke. Reasonably erudite and fairly well-educated for a mediocre Arts graduate. Creative too. I write, sing, and can even paint a bit. Sadly, though unsurprisingly, none of these talents have led to financial success and I survive pushing a book trolley and helping on the service desk at Yarra Plenty Libraries. Alicia Fields is the library manager who helped me score the job 25 years ago, one of the actors in our company and an old uni friend from back in the day. I was chatting with her last night before…before when? What happened after talking with Alicia?

It was around 10:30 when seven of us tumbled in to the Sleaze Bar in Swanston Street. The play had run for 10 days at the Barley Theatre in Southbank and was a great success. The small theatre was packed for every performance and on the final night we had people standing at the back and sitting on the stairs. The director, Ivan, was expostulating wildly to the producer Liz, a huge grin on his face. Liz was mellow, responsibility slipping from her shoulders like a silken shawl. Alicia, myself, leading actors Spencer and Colleen, and lighting come sound guru Natasha made up the after-party group. Costumier Sally had classes in the morning and in her sensible manner had absconded safely home to bed. I was talking with Alicia about how hilarious her ancient nanna character had been that night when a stranger slipped beside me. Alicia smiled and nodded farewell as she merged into the rest of the group. Happily married for decades with three kids, she recognised an opportunity for intimate socialising materialising for her single friend and colleague.

The stranger was a raven haired, green-eyed woman apparently in her late 30s or early 40s. Nearly as tall as my six-foot two-inch frame she would be striking in any company. Exquisitely attired in a black evening dress and astonishingly beautiful, in this crowded bar she exuded a presence rarely found. Tongue-tied at the best of times when meeting a new person, this woman not only tied my tongue but left it flopping on my lips. After that, nothing. I couldn’t remember a thing until waking up on that stinking mattress. Had the strange, beautiful woman drugged me? I felt she was hauntingly familiar, like distant faint notes from a forgotten song, or lines from a poem read at school. Almost a nostalgic familiarity.

I was distracted from my musings by Gee shaking my bare shoulder.
“Bob and Ian went down to the room in building 6” she said. “They reckon the door had been blown out by a gas explosion…the smell was still hanging around and they thought it might’ve been something from the labs above. It looked like someone had broken into the lab and messed around, the lights were still on but nothing was damaged. The old mattress was down there, but no sign of anything else, and your clothes were next to it. Here.” She handed me a plastic garbage bag containing my clothes and shoes. I turned away to preserve whatever modesty I still possessed and quickly dressed.

“I’ve got no idea what we saw down there” she continued softly, “maybe it was a hallucination brought on by the gas or whatever.” She looked like she didn’t really believe that, and neither did I. For a few moments I’d been confronted by my decomposing doppelganger, and it had been the most frightening experience of my life. Something damned strange had gone on in that scungy basement but exactly what I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. I do want to know what happened to the missing hours after I’d encountered the mystery woman. I also wouldn’t mind seeing the mystery woman once more. She was spectacular, a scene stealer in any play, but was she dangerous? Probably. Given my luck she is a demonic serial killer toying with her prey. To hell with all that, I’m tired, hungry, scared, confused and embarrassed. I just want to go home and hide under my blankets.