Chapter one and two

Chapter One


Kelly slowly opened her eyes. It was most definitely day time, though the exact hour was elusive. Fully clothed, Kelly crawled out from underneath the blanket that someone had draped over her and surveyed the mess that was her lounge.

There had been a party, that much was sure - something big and moving, most likely, though Kelly couldn't for the life of her remember much of it. She scanned the most breakable things, of which there were very few, making sure that nothing too important had been broken. The standby light on her TV was still there, so they hadn't demolished that at least, but shards of pottery suggested that a couple of small figurines had met their end.

Sighing, Kelly set about cleaning up the mess, shovelling empty beer cans and pre-mix bottles into a black plastic bin bag that then went outside with all the other bin bags, to lie in state, waiting for a future where rubbish was again collected for free.

Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she cringed at how wild and unruly her long, dyed black hair looked, vowing never to fall asleep on the couch in future. For now it would have to stay that way, for she had driven herself into being motivated to clean, and taking a break to comb her hair would just be procrastination of the highest order.

Next Kelly emptied the ashtray, hoping beyond hope that there would be an unfinished joint somewhere, but fate chose this moment to deny her such a nicety, and there wasn't one - not even the smallest roach. This was extremely surprising, as basically everyone Kelly knew smoked weed, though with the scarceness of good weed and the glut of cannabis oil people were now smoking their roaches until not even ash remained.

Finally Kelly checked the contents of the fridge, only to find that the party last night had claimed all her butter, a loaf of bread, and a jar of jam – not too bad, and it could have been a lot worse; Kelly had been a part of other parties that would clean out all of the food from a kitchen like a swarm of piranhas.

As nobody else in the flat had emerged from their rooms, even though it was almost 2pm according to the wall clock, Kelly decided that this was enough cleaning and went back to her room to read. Let someone else deal with the remainder of the mess. There wasn’t much else to clean, truth be told, but Kelly had had enough of housework for now, and was happy to climb into bed and escape into the fantasy realm her book promised.

Maybe half an hour later, just when Kelly was firmly engrossed in the trials and tribulations of a group of fantasy knights and their attempts to catch and ride dragons, she heard someone else stir in the flat. At this point it would have taken a crowbar to prise Kelly away from her book, so she ignored the sounds and slipped back into the tale.

Seven, one of Kelly’s flatmates, walked past her closed door on his way to the kitchen. Seven, unlike Kelly, could remember the party the night before as he did not drink, much preferring to stay sober and laugh at all the alcoholic mishaps his friends endured whilst drunk. Seven’s drug of choice was technology. He had studied a dual degree at the local university in computer science and engineering, and his room bore testimony to this, as every spare space apart from that where he slept on a rolled up bedroll in a sleeping bag was infested with half demolished computer hardware.

Completely ignoring the mess in the lounge and its spill over into the kitchen, Seven grabbed a bottle of milk from the fridge and poured himself a glass.  He didn’t know whose milk this was, the flat having a strong policy on everyone buying their own supplies and cooking their own meals, but he didn’t really care – other flatmates regularly pinched his cheese, slicing it thin so as not to arouse suspicion, but he could tell that this theft had been done as he routinely measured the cheese with a ruler each day to see if it had been shaved.

Seven felt like he was slumming it here, and was very irritated by the fact that he was unemployed, what with his two degrees and self-taught experience with computer repair. Sevens problem, a problem he couldn’t recognise himself, was two-fold. He refused to apply for entry level jobs and he radiated an air of arrogance that came out in in the handful of interviews he had secured over the previous year. Seven just knew he was better than other applicants for positions, and in many cases was much more skilled than the people interviewing him, so instead of a sterling career in computer hardware design he was left unemployed, on a benefit, and in a world where roving parties of drunken hooligans invaded his home.

Not seeing any reason to stay in the communal areas of the flat, Seven then returned to his own room again. He had been working on building a monitoring suite, complete with remote cameras and movement activated recording, which he planned to rig up in his room so as to monitor if anyone went into it while he was away. Seven wasn’t paranoid, he was just very seriously into protecting his things, plus this would be a challenge. He had all the parts; old cameras bought for next to nothing from a shop that sold junked tech, other hardware being cannibalised from amongst his collection. No, compared to daytime television, his experiments were much more interesting and were bearing fruit. The motion sensor drivers would need to be re-written as they were incompatible with the rest of the hardware, but other than that he could see nothing that would stop him from completing the task.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Seven considered just ignoring it, as seldom were visitors for him, Seven mostly keeping to himself and his tech, but the knock was insistent and the way the person knocking just kept pounding on the door suggested it was something important. Eventually Seven gave up pretending that nobody was home and opened the door. Standing outside, her hand raised to knock once more, was a short punk looking woman who he didn’t immediately recognise, but assumed was one of Kelly’s friends.

“It’s Christchurch,” the short punk said, her face contorted in a grimace of sheer dread. “Christchurch is no more – it’s been completely destroyed by an enormous earthquake. The Cathedral has been smashed and, from the looks of it, most of the town centre has been levelled. All my family are down there, what am I going to do?”

Chapter Two

Dougal was tired and wished he could go back to bed. Long international flights always did this to him, even though he flew first class. He knew however that this feeling of intense jet lag would pass quickly, and within the space of the weekend he would adapt to the time zone, just in time to fly out to another destination.

In terms of airports, Wellington airport didn’t promise anything different to the hundreds of other airports he had ended up in over his time as a courier for the building giant Toll Brothers Incorporated. In the end, Dougal picked up a bottle of Scotch whiskey that promised to be his personal companion whilst here in New Zealand, paid with an EFTPOS card under the name of David Jones, the same alias he had travelled under from New York, and made for the exit. Dougal always travelled light – one cabin bag was all he ever needed for his courier work as he was seldom in the same place for a week at a time, so he had no luggage to collect and then manoeuvre to a waiting taxi, something he had always hated when he had travelled for long periods of time in the past.

The only thing that mattered here was the flashdrive that was attached to his wallet, safely secured in the front right pocket of the jeans he wore. Dougal had no idea what was on the flashdrive, but it was definitely important, and had required a personal delivery, the information obviously too important to trust to the secrecy of the World Wide Web. Dougal never asked questions, but the increased frequency of flashdrives, hard drives, and once an entire laptop he had been carrying around the world for Toll suggested that something serious and secretive was taking place, and he was simply the messenger of choice.

Dougal had enough forged passports to travel unnoticed, the frequency of his travels drawing no attention, much in contrast to the degree of interest Customs would have in him for his constant travelling if he used just one. The other forged documents safely stashed in a safe back at home – home that just felt like another hotel bedroom, as he was seldom there for a night, using his home base as a storage point for a substantial number of illegal documents, the passports included. The safe also held letterhead from three large companies that he used to write himself access into areas that would otherwise be closed to him, five birth certificates, three University degrees from a prominent Ivy League college, and certification to drive a car in America, the United Kingdom, and South Africa, all under assumed aliases. Other than that, the safe contained a cut down .38 revolver, the barrel cut back to protrude only slightly out from the cylinder, a gun he kept on him at all times when he was back State-side, mostly as protection from the muggers that television and radio warned could strike at any time.
Leaving the airport and not really thinking straight because of the jet-lag hangover, Dougal collided with a rather run down looking punk kid who also appeared to not be looking where he was going.

“Watch where youre going, you stupid feral,” Dougal snapped. “You could have knocked me flat.”
“Damn, sorry man, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Nothing broken though, so no need to get all worked up about it,” The punk replied, running a fingerless-gloved hand through his matted hair. “Sorry though, I have to go. Sorry about crashing into you again, I really should have been looking where I was going.”

Somewhat placated by the quickness and readiness of this feral to apologise for what had obviously been his fault, Dougal pushed the punk kid aside and walked towards the main doors, out of the airport terminal and in to a stream of taxis. Jumping in the back of the first one on the rank, Dougal directed the driver to the Hotel Intercontinental, and the taxi was away, leaving the airport grounds.
Dougal quietly dozed in the passenger seat of the taxi as it sped past the airport, past Hataitai, and into the tunnel that led into the city. Sensing a good fare, the taxi driver ensured he was driving ten kilometres under the speed limit at all times as his passenger snored softly on the chair beside him.

Finally they arrived at the Hotel Intercontinental, the taxi driver having taken Dougal for a very scenic tour of Wellington, this being lost on him due to his being asleep. Snapping awake as the car stopped outside the hotel, Dougal reached for his wallet, only to find it wasn’t there. Blind panic starting, Dougal quickly checked his other pockets in vain, but it was no use – the wallet just wasn’t there, and that meant the flashdrive was missing too. Hands trembling and sweat beading on his forehead, Dougal turned to the taxi driver.

“My wallet has been stolen, probably in the airport. I had my wallet in duty free, but now its gone.” Dougal explained.

The taxi driver had heard this before, and knew that the airport was a breeding ground for pickpockets. That said, this passenger owed him a fair bit, a fact that he loudly brought to Dougals attention.

Reaching in to his top pocket, hands still shaking as he tried to control his heartbeat, Dougal fished out a company card and gave it to the driver.

“This is my company – Aerospace Aeronautics. They have offices in Wellington and will pay the fare if you call them up. Im sorry I don’t have the money myself to pay you, but I’ll let my office know I’ve been robbed and they will pay you instead.”

Taking the card, the taxi driver knew that there was little he could do otherwise. Being an over-stayer, he avoided the police whenever possible, much preferring to resolve issues himself. In this case it seemed pointless to press this passenger for full payment, as this too would create a scene and might attract attention from the police, this fact compounded by the hotels close proximity to the Wellington Police station, and a common path for beat police to take into the city proper.

As the taxi driver grunted and handled the business card like it might explode at any minute, Dougal slammed the passenger door shut and entered the hotel. His first thought was that he must call Toll Brothers and let them know of the situation, then he would try to check into his room with no identifying documents to verify who he was. But first, the phone.

Calling collect, Dougal placed a call to Toll Brothers. Angela, the receptionist, accepted the charges like she had been instructed to do so for all Toll couriers, and quickly put Dougal through to Mr Williams, his supervisor.

Alex Williams, board member and head of Logistics, took the call in his spacious office, sitting back in his heavily padded office chair. Alex was a keen collector of taxidermy animals, and strewn around the office were some of his most treasured pieces. A bear stood in one corner, fully erect, and on the shelves a collection of birds stared out at him from their glass eyes.

“Dougal, how are you?” asked Alex, knowing full well that if his courier was calling this early into his assignment that something terrible must have happened. He wasn’t to be  proven wrong as a breathless courier proved his concern to not be unfounded.

“It’s the flashdrive, Sir. It’s been stolen.”