UniteDead Kingdom

Stuart Irving

Description

Can you be a selfish misanthrope and still a survivor in a brutally violent new world?

It is Britain in the year 2030. Zan is an unstable, arrogant and successful trader in the City of London, fighting to suppress painful memories. Tragedy strikes when not only his success comes to an end but his very life is threatened by a darkness let loose on the world, a darkness caused by those who abandoned him. Now he must rediscover himself and prove to others just what he's capable of in order to get revenge ... or redemption.

Journey with him as he meets fellow survivors and formulates a plan to save both himself and his country. Along the way he discovers what happens to love, trust and the truth when you've lost everything. And when the end is nigh, can he confront his damaging past and still overcome the odds to save his and everyone's future ... ?

Sujets

• Science-Fiction
• Toute la Science-Fiction
• Post-Apocalyptic
• Apocalyptic
• Science Fiction
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 27 avril 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456626624
• Langue: English

Extrait

UNITE DEAD
KINGDOM
 
 
By
Stuart Irving

Copyright 2016 Stuart Irving,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2662-4
 
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Chapter 1: Market Volatility
Just like a low priority romantic date, the end of the world took place on a Tuesday night.
Earlier, at a little after one thirty in the afternoon London time, New York’s financial markets had just opened for business. Zan sat in silence in his office in central London near Mansion House Underground Station. His lips were slightly parted and his eyes darted between each of his six massive semi-transparent screens. Shouting drifted through the slightly open doorway from the main trading floor but sounded muted and oddly melancholic to him; like a distant train heard late at night. He looked down at his hands as if they might hold an answer to his predicament. In fact, his left hand betrayed the extent of his anxiety; he had peeled off the skin around his thumb with his jittering index finger. The rest of his body felt semi-paralysed by the shock of what had happened and ultimately, what he’d done. The most unsettling thought of all struck him again; what happens now?
As far as he could recall, Zan had been in control his whole life. He aced his way through school and then university. Then he joined a reasonably prestigious consultancy firm, then later, a very prestigious investment bank. A wide, if mostly bland, set of friends had almost always been there for him. Not that Zan had actually needed them for support; he’d suffered none of the usual dramas
[not true why did he leave]
faced by most of his peers. There had been no unrequited love for a girl who ultimately broke his heart. No substance abuse which tested his family’s love. No hidden gambling problem which surfaced in a maelstrom of anguish and lies. None of that. It was plain sailing
[it wasn’t don't lie]
all the way.
Zan’s parents had believed that hard work and careful planning ensured success. Zan’s father, Brian, had taught him ‘luck was just preparedness in a statistical universe’. Closely followed by ‘Eighty per cent of success comes from showing up’. And Zan always did. In his first decade he always came to school with a quality pen, ready to take careful notes. In his second; a reliable smart phone. In his third; his iShirt. The technology changed but his methodical nature didn’t. And with that persistent long-term effort, life eventually got easier and easier for him. He became quietly angry when people assumed success dropped into his lap as a result of a comfortable upbringing. ‘Any success I’ve had was hard-earned’ he told himself and others. But right now he sat in shock, as he faced the prospect of losing everything.
 
He looked up from his hands at his multiple screens, staring at and through them, blinking excessively.
W hat happens now? he thought for the fifth time. I have a lifestyle to maintain. I have two hefty mortgages and massive credit card bills looming on the horizon like black clouds. Well, technically speaking, red clouds. Not that I know how massive the debt has grown lately, that’s someone else’s problem. That’s the thing about always being in control; once you’re not, it unravels quickly. And of course, drum roll please, let's not forget Miss Ground Zero of it all. The one who inspired the bets which brought me to this financial precipice in the first place; Angela. Dazzling, blonde, lithe, mercurial, achingly beautiful and unashamedly scheming Angela.
Zan met her five months before in a city wine bar. His life changed immediately and dramatically. After one night with her his head spun for days afterwards. He started to behave less like a professional grown man and more like a sappy teenager. She seemed to say and do exactly the right thing every time to weaken his self-control. He became a walking cliché. Colours and smells were at their maximum intensity. She evoked emotions within him that he barely knew what to do with. If love was a drug, she had Zan’s only supply in existence.
He was acutely aware how annoying his transformation was to everyone. It was the sort of sentimental nonsense that really wound his friends up. Arguably a major benefit, he thought. And if somewhere deep down he knew he was taking a big risk with her, he quashed that doubt with aplomb. Zan preferred to take the chance that she was The One. He consoled himself thus: w hat was my whole life’s work and devotion for, if not the dizzying joy of the love and attention from a deliciously bad woman? He shook his head at the naïve simplicity of it. There seemed no downside to devoting himself to Angela … until there was. That was when—
 
Abruptly, he stopped daydreaming about her and his paralysing fear returned with a jolt. A fear that was his nemesis as a trader and also a familiar feeling in his relationship with her. He closed his eyes and imagined staring down the barrel of a gun. The cold steel would be so calming, he thought . An actual gun, like everyone used to have in America …
He slowly opened his eyes and shook his head. Nope, no good. A gun was surprisingly hard to imagine clearly in close up. It would help if I’d actually held a gun in real life. Perhaps I’m resigned to staring down the gun of my impending financial ruin. Oh there’s an interesting concept: poverty. And easy to guess its effect on my attractiveness to a ruthless hottie like Angela. He sighed. The same as if I decided that genitals were overrated and lopped mine off for good measure. My new-found un-wealth won’t even get a sympathy vote. Or maybe she’ll be the first beautiful, cunning woman in history to stay with her man when he failed as a provider. Zan suddenly became aware he was muttering out-loud to himself. He squeezed his temples to calm the torrent of thoughts and stared at the numbers and charts on his screens. He winced in pain and his mind wandered back to Angela.
I guess this is finally game-over. It just has to be when she finds out. No, stop it! I have to shake off cynicism like that. What about our last conversation?
‘… I love you …’ she had mouthed, pirouetting into the back of a taxi.
Zan choked back sudden unexpected tears. Where the hell did that come from, pull yourself together man! OK, fuck this, I can trade my way out, I’ve done it before
[nowhere near as bad then you tit]
and I can do it again. If not, I’ll just do everything I can to make her happy. Without the bank balance to hide what a loser I am I’ll need to step up and be the ultimate man to her. Zan had a moment of panic when he realised that in the depths of his despair he was still thinking of how to please her.
Why can't I be stronger than this? His eyes rested on one particular red number on the screen and he cringed with self-disgust. His situation hit him hard once more. A slab of reality that crushed his remaining idiotic hopes. He cursed under his breath at his stupidity. He'd heard there were five stages of grief but so far he just felt acute depression.
 
I need to get my shit together, C’MON ! He slapped the side of his face.
This was all so stupid; I’m a victim! The sudden, drastic losses; the damage to my reputation; the undoing of years of grinding effort. This had to be deliberate. Who would know my trading positions AND want to punish me this way AND be able to? He sighed. In the calm, logical part of his mind he knew it was pointless weaving some sort of conspiracy out of this appalling meltdown. He imagined the public hatred and some pompous high court judge saying, ‘Young man, your part to play in all this is undeniable.’ His heart felt heavy and he fought back tears. He tried to refocus on his screens but everything on them was in ancient Egyptian.
I spent the reward when it went well; why shouldn't I take the blame when it didn’t? No sympathy that four different markets simultaneous and inexplicably dumped or soared in the wrong directions. He was long Euribor which plummeted fifty-five ticks, short the US ten-Year which shot up a point and a half, long Eurostoxx which dumped two hundred and forty points and long the dollar-yen which crashed over three percent.
Fucking bullshit markets! But Zan was well aware that ultimately, predictably, it all boiled down to one number. The number that made all comments, all opinions and all analysis irrelevant in comparison. That number was flashing red. Zan looked at it again. A strange noise escaped him: it sounded like a yelp and an insane laugh rolled into one. Things now felt like they were properly … unravelling.
Is this how madness begins?
 
He looked at the number again, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. His cheeks were still damp with tears from earlier. Earlier? When, earlier? How long have I been losing my shit here? He tried to remember what had happened in the last hour, but it was like grabbing smoke. He refocused instead on his PnL. He let the number swim in front of his eyes and then it gradually came into focus. He swiped the air to move the left hand window out the way and bring the number into view. Muscle memory from the movement needed to reveal part of the number told him the loss was at least ten figures.
FUCK ME! Have I really lost multiple billions all on my own? How is a multi-billion pound loss in one nightmare lunchtime by four different positions even possible?! The whole prop trading desk was never down more than three billion for the entire YEAR. S hitshitSHIT! He refocused. The full PnL figure was set up on his screen to be deliberately hidden by another window (‘ never trade the PnL!’ he’d tell his minions cheerfully). He swallowed painfully and m