Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

chapter one

The disorder presented itself as a mild form of fatigue at first. 

A Mr Norman Eley was badgered into going to his local GP by his wife, Corrine, who’d noticed his continual lack of energy over the past couple of days. She also insisted on coming along with him, to make sure the doctor got the whole picture. Corrine knew how Norman was for hiding things, especially from figures of authority. 

‘So, let me see if I’m understanding this correctly,’ said Dr Marsha Wray of the East Middletown Community Health Centre, sitting behind her desk and glancing up at the anxious couple in-between jotting things down on the pad in front of her. ‘You say your husband has been feeling particularly tired of late, more so than usual?’

‘Definitely,’ stated Mrs Eley. ‘He’s been nodding off as soon as he gets home from work at night... well, from one of his jobs.’

Dr Wray paused. ‘Did you say one of his jobs?’

‘Er... yes,’ admitted Mrs Eley. 

‘So he... I mean you,’ she said, shifting her attention to Norman, as he was the patient after all, ‘are working more than one job, Mr Eley?’

‘He is,’ added his wife before he could answer. ‘Two; but both part-time. One at the college as a general odd-job man, the other as a porter at the hospital.’

Dr Wray sighed at the woman’s determination to speak for her husband. Why doesn’t she just sit him on her lap, stick her hand up his back and be done with it? she thought. Mr Eley, for his trouble, looked like the classic middle-aged, henpecked spouse who always just let his wife do exactly what she wanted and lived an easier life because of it. Probably feigning sleep so he doesn’t have to listen to all her nonsense. ‘And is this a recent thing?’ the doctor asked, brushing a strand of her strawberry blonde hair back over her ear. 

‘What do you mean, the sleeping? Yes, as I—’

‘No, no, no.’ Dr Wray shook her head sharply. ‘The jobs.’

Norman Eley opened his mouth, but again was cut off by his “better” half. ‘Oh, well he got the second one about a month or so ago, didn’t you?’ she continued before he could answer, like it was a game of Snap. ‘And we were lucky to get it, as well. Times are hard, Doctor... for some.’

Dr Wray arched an eyebrow. ‘And it never occurred to you that this might be the root of the problem, the sudden stepping up of working hours?’

‘It’s never been a problem before. Norman’s always been a hard worker, can’t stand laying about like those bloody dole spongers.’ Mrs Eley folded her arms over her ample chest, which matched the rest of her. ‘But it’s never worn him out like this before.’

‘We all have to slow down as we get a little older, though,’ said Dr Wray, rising to take a look at Norman. She could feel Mrs Eley’s eyes on her, could almost hear what she was thinking: And what would you know about getting older, you wet-behind-the-ears quack? You don’t even look like you’ve graduated school let alone got your medical diploma!   

‘I just know my husband,’ were Mrs Eley’s actual words, as she folded her arms even tighter now—so tight Dr Wray thought her boobs might pop. ‘There’s something wrong.’ 

‘Right,’ said the doctor, ‘let’s take a look at you, then.’ And, to be fair, the man did not look well. Whether that was a consequence of living with Mrs Eley for so long, or the recent increased workload was another matter. Dr Wray went through the motions, however, checking blood pressure, flashing her pen-light in his eyes—which actually showed traces of a slight anaemia—checking his ears... ‘Have you noticed yourself that you’ve been growing more tired, Mr Eley?’

‘As I said, he’s been—’

Dr Wray held up a finger. ‘I was asking your husband, Mrs Eley.’ Enough was enough and she wasn’t going to take any more crap from this cow.

Norman Eley scratched the back of his neck and shrugged, a half-hearted action for a man used to never getting a word in edgewise. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said eventually, after some coaxing, and after letting out an enormous yawn, ‘when I’ve had a little sleep.’

It was as she was feeling his pulse that Dr Wray noticed the clamminess of his skin. There was a sort of sheen to it now she looked more closely. She shook her head; it was only her imagination. Look, there was nothing there now. ‘It could be one of a couple of things,’ said Wray as she took her seat back round her side of the desk. 

‘Ah, so you do agree there’s something?’ cackled Mrs Eley, but the doctor ignored her. 

‘I’m prescribing some iron tablets, just to help with the slight anaemia your husband seems to have. But I’m also going to get the nurse to take a sample of his blood for analysis.’

Mrs Eley’s expression changed from victorious to deeply concerned. ‘Analysis? You don’t think it’s serious, do you? I mean, I just thought...’

For God’s sake, make up your mind. ‘Let’s just wait and see, shall we? As I say, chances are it’s nothing more than mild anaemia.’

Dr Wray sent them to a waiting nurse with instructions to take a blood sample, then buzzed for the next patient to be let through: a Mr Burkett, who was suffering from a case of halitosis. 

*    *    *

Dr Wray couldn’t help thinking about Mr Eley though, as she drove home that night; as she gave her partner Jackie a peck on the cheek and asked her how her day had been at the solicitors’; and as she sat down to eat the ready meals that had been lovingly prepared by Jackie (by placing them in the microwave). 

Marsha listened to Jackie talk about various clients, something her partner shouldn’t really do, but always did—because if anyone was aware of the seriousness of confidentiality it was a doctor—and she rubbed her thumb with her fingers. 

‘What are you doing?’ asked Jackie, through a mouthful of ocean pie. 

‘Hmm?’

‘That.’ Jackie pointed with her fork at Marsha, still absently rubbing her thumb. 

The doctor looked down, as if seeing her hand for the first time. She stopped and shrugged. Then she yawned.

Jackie laughed. ‘Busy day for you too, eh?’

‘You could say that. There was this one patient who...’ Marsha let the sentence tail off. 

‘What?’

She shrugged again. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Marsha stifled another yawn with the back of the hand she’d just been rubbing. 

‘Looks like you could do with an early night, sweetheart,’ said Jackie, and Dr Wray nodded. 

They did just that, hitting the sack at about ten—a good hour or more earlier than they usually did. In spite of the fact Marsha knew Jackie wanted to make love (she could tell by the way she kept snuggling into her, spooning, left hand creeping higher to cup one breast through the satin of her teddy, the right snaking much lower), Marsha was asleep not long after they climbed into bed. She never heard the sigh of frustration from her partner, nor the quiet moans as Jackie pleasured herself, laying next to her.

All Marsha knew—and wanted—was the embrace of a different kind of lover: the blackness of sleep; the comforting security of dreams.

*    *    *

By the time the anomaly in Mr Eley’s blood had been found, it was too late. 

It had already struck the teenagers at Middletown College of Technology and Arts, with waves of absences reported in classes. And those who did show up couldn’t keep their eyes open, some slumping across desks and having to be shaken before they’d wake up and pay attention. Senior lecturers suspected that there might have been yet another all-night rave over the weekend, but for so many of the students to be affected was unheard of. And they could get no sense out of those they questioned either, simple shakes of the heads, or ‘dunnos’ or shrugs was the most they could wheedle out of them. That and the complaints about itching. 

It was the same thing at Jackie’s office. She’d let Marsha have a lay-in that morning, calling in sick for her (‘Yeah, that’s right,’ she’d joked with the single receptionist still on duty, ‘physician heal thyself.’) but wasn’t feeling too clever herself if the truth be known. And now, with the clock-hand approaching lunch hour, she was knackered; could barely keep her eyes open. The liberal doses of caffeine she’d been chucking back—the strongest Nescafe could supply—seemed to have done little either, and it was as she made her way down the flight of stairs from the third to the second floor, reasoning the exercise might help, that she blacked out.

Jackie was found at the bottom of the stairs half an hour later, her neck broken; her body like a forgotten toy at the back of a wardrobe. 

Even more tragic was the fate of those at Mr Burkett’s place of work. He’d shown up that morning, unusually exhausted—what the hell was wrong with him? He took vitamins supplements, he ate fresh fruit and veg, looked after himself; the only problem he had was a touch of bad breath, and he’d been told by the nice lady doctor that might actually be caused by the combination of certain vitamin supplements and such great proportions of vegetables and fruit. Was there such a thing as being too healthy? Was this tiredness his body’s way of saying enough was enough? 

He should have really taken the day off, because in spite of getting his regular eight hours—he was rubbish if he didn’t get that amount—he still felt like he’d gone ten rounds with a professional boxer... then ten more with a professional wrestler. As for that damned itch, he could have scratched his arms until they bled. He’d almost dropped off at the wheel, actually, only narrowly avoiding a collision with a BMW (an insurance nightmare), though it had to be said the driver of that seemed to be behaving just as erratically; perhaps even more so. 

He didn’t want to let anyone down, though—and his job was a very important one, ferrying people from A to B via the brand spanking new underground system that Middletown had invested so much money in. Sadly, by five that afternoon, and regardless of the fact he’d had a two-hour break, Mr Burkett could fight the tiredness no more and fell asleep at the controls of the train... doing about 50 miles an hour (he should only have been doing 20). Mr Burkett was still holding the dead man’s handle; in fact he was slumped across it. 

The lead cabin smashed through the barriers, derailing, before plunging headlong into a concrete wall. Most of the people travelling on the rush-hour train were killed instantly, the others suffered horrendous injuries which only came to light when they were dug out—by the skeleton crews of the emergency services still on duty. None of the fatalities or injured had realised what was happening, though, because one by one they too had fallen asleep along the length of the entire tube train.

The patients were ferried to Central Hospital, where they already had their hands full with cases of what was being reported as severe narcolepsy. It was too early to call what they were seeing an epidemic, and everyone knew narcolepsy didn’t work that way, but Accident and Emergency physician Dr Ravi Kapur was ready to do so. ‘Forty cases in the space of the last hour,’ he said to his staff. ‘I’d say that’s more than a coincidence. There must be a common source, something they all drank, or touched perhaps? Something to cause this... this sleeping sickness.’

Dr Kapur’s superior, Sir John Jenkinson, standing over the sleeping bodies of Central Hospital porter Norman Eley and his wife, Corrine—the quietest anyone had ever known the woman—speculated that the sickness in question had traits in common with Kleine-Levin Syndrome: ‘More commonly known as Rip van Winkle disease, or even Sleeping Beauty Syndrome...’ But, again, this was a neurological disorder and not prone to being passed on in such a devastating way. By the time it had been noted that the disease was airborne, after many of the hospital staff who hadn’t come into contact physically with patients began suffering from the same symptoms, the writing was on the wall. 

The authorities outside of Middletown were alerted, the police inside having been effectively shut down by the malady, and within the hour the small city (only recently upgraded to a city, in fact), including all its surrounding areas, had been quarantined. This included cutting off all communication from and with the place, jamming mobile phones, terminating internet usage and landlines. The army were drafted in to maintain this “cordon” around the area—joint UK and US, from a nearby American base—with orders to use deadly force where necessary to prevent any spread of what was now openly being called a virus. Soldiers wearing gasmasks, gloves taped at the wrists and combats taped at the ankles, patrolled the barriers with rifles—though thankfully there were only a couple of incidents where they came close to using the deadly force option: 

One at two in the morning, where a mother was carrying her five-year-old son away from the city, crying and screaming, but only made it within about half a mile of the erected fences before dropping, presumably asleep—though nobody was going anywhere near her to check for a pulse. 

The other incident came at about three in the morning, when a Land Rover was driven over the horizon carrying three passengers, two already slumped over in the backseat, and a third struggling to stay awake in the front. 

‘Turn your vehicle around!’ an authoritative voice quaked through a megaphone. The “advice” was ignored. ‘I said turn your vehicle around and return to Middletown. There is no way out here. You must remain in your homes until help arrives.’

‘Help?’ came a bellowing, if obviously exhausted cry from the driver—leaning foolishly out of his window and making himself even more of a target. ‘Have you seen it back there? There is no help, mate.’

‘Turn your vehicle around,’ the voice repeated, this time without the hope and pleasantries; this time only with a generous amount of threat. This was backed up by weapons fire in the air, sprayed across the Land Rover’s bow as a warning shot. The vehicle swung sideways and at first the soldiers on hand thought it might have been because of the bullets: an avoidance tactic. But whoever was driving the vehicle had, quite clearly, lost control of it for other reasons. Succumbing to the sleeping sickness just like everyone else. 

The vehicle’s tyres locked, it spun, and rolled over three times before landing upside down. Seconds later, it was alight—and moments after that, it was a fireball, everyone inside it roasted.

There were no more incidents, no more sightings. No more anything. It was the city that had gone to sleep now (in some cases, permanently). No-one knew the cause, nobody could figure out why. 

But by the following morning, it was silent, and remained that way. 

Its entire population, dreaming.