Son of Heaven

by David Wingrove

Here, in Marlow, they were at the north-western edge of one of the larger suburban enclaves. Within its walls, everything was fine. To the south, however, lay Maidenhead, an unprotected zone.

  Not now, surely? he thought. But why should the mob keep civilized hours?

  He stood there a moment longer, craning his neck, trying to hear. And once again, as the wind gusted, so he heard it: closer now, louder.

  There was no mistaking it. A mob of people were heading their way.

  He went inside and, dressing quickly, took the gun from his bag. Outside Margaret and Charles’s room he hesitated, wondering whether he should wake Charles, then hurried on.

  There was a key to the back door, hanging on a hook in the kitchen. He took it, slipped it into his pocket, then went out, running silently across the garden and out through the lattice gate that led onto the lane, heading for the gate.

  Others joined him as he ran, having pulled their clothes on hastily. Some had guns, others makeshift weapons, but all of them had a look of grim determination.

  At the gate more than a hundred of the local residents had gathered, along with a handful of security guards. The older men, Jake noticed. No doubt the younger ones had fled already.

  One of the residents – a big, middle-aged man – had climbed up onto the back of a truck and was busy organizing things, shouting and pointing, clearly in his element.

  Jake looked about him. The fencing was solid steel, twenty feet tall, topped with razor-wire. There were men up on the walls, their guns pointed down the approach road. As for the mob, you could hear them clearly now, a great roar of sound coming closer by the moment.

  He went across, nodding to people as he went. Some looked excited, others scared, but no one was going anywhere. They were going to turn the mob back here, at the gate. No one was going to get past.

  ‘You!’ the man on the truck yelled, pointing to Jake. ‘You got a weapon?’

  Jake showed him the handgun.

  ‘Good. Then go to the gate. We want as much firepower as we can there. You need more ammunition?’

  Jake nodded.

  ‘Okay… then see Will… over there…’ And he pointed just beyond the truck.

  Jake went across. To his surprise, Will seemed to have half a gun shop in the back of his vehicle.

  ‘What d’you need?’ the slightly-balding man asked him. ‘Here, give it to me… I’ll find you something suitable…’

  Moments later Jake came away with a whole pocketful of flat, thin cardboard packs of bullets.

  Enough to start a war…

  Looking through the wrought-iron bars of the gate, you could see the mob now, surging towards them, their torches flickering in the dark; a great mass of bodies impelled by hatred.

  The sight terrified him.

  This was the world they’d made. This awful world of have and have-not.

  Nearby, one of the men was doubled over, heaving his guts up. Looking along the line of men, Jake could see that all of them were frightened now. They may have imagined doing this, may even have talked about it these past few days, but this was for real now. It was kill or be killed, and for many, it was the first time in their lives that they’d had to make such a choice. They had always been the lucky ones. But tonight their luck had run out.

  With the mob still some way off, the first few shots rang out.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ the guy on the truck yelled. ‘Wait till you can see their faces clearly!’

  ‘Fuck off, Napoleon!’ one of the men to Jake’s right murmured, and there was laughter. Relieving, strengthening laughter. All of them tensed now, waiting for the order.

  ‘Okay… let ’em have it!’

  A great volley of shots rang out, and as they did, the whole of the front row of rioters fell.

  Just like in the movies…

  The mob surged on, breaking into a run now, meaning to take the gate by storm, but the gunfire was creating havoc and they were still a good fifty yards off.

  It was then that the hopper flew over them, sweeping in from their left.

  Jake turned, following its flight, watching where it went and wondering if it were for him. It was certainly setting down somewhere near the house.

  For a moment he hesitated. It would look bad to leave the line, but he had to know. If it was Hinton, he’d have to go.

  He backed away a pace or two, then turned and began to move quickly through the press of men.

  ‘Hey… what the…?’

  The man on the truck began to yell at him, then crumpled, clutching his gut.

  So the rioters had guns too…

  But Jake was running now, back through the streets, heading for the house.

  He was coming round the corner, into the lane, when he heard footsteps crunching on the gravel up ahead.

  Maybe it was Charles, coming for him. But instinct made him stop, made him step to the side and hide behind the hedge.

  And not a moment too soon, for down the path came two heavily-armoured men, both of them carrying semi-automatics. Han… they were Chinese.

  Jake swallowed. He watched them out of sight, then hurried on, along the path and through the back gate.

  And stopped dead, gasping, staring with disbelief at the back of the house.

  The house was on fire. The whole of the kitchen was blazing away. Even as he took a step towards it, the windows blew out, scattering glass across the patio.

  Jake looked about him. Where was the craft? Had it set down? Or had it just dropped the men and gone?

  He ran across the lawn. The key was no use now, but there was a flight of wooden steps going up the side of the house. He went up them quickly and, at the top, used the gun to smash the glass pane, then pushed through into the box room.

  The smoke was getting thicker. He could taste it now in his mouth.

  Only hours ago he had sat here at the computer console…

  Jake ran through, not daring to call out in case one of them was still there, waiting for him to return. Pushing the door to her parents’ room open, he saw at once just what he’d feared. They lay there, side by side, sightlessly staring at the ceiling.

  Jake took a step closer.

  Christ… they had been garrotted.

  He felt sick just looking at them. His legs felt weak.

  Jake staggered through, knowing now. She was dead. His darling girl was dead. And all because he’d been curious. Had needed to know if his hunch was correct.

  There was no other explanation. No other way they could have found him so quickly.

  Kate had put up a fight. She had been woken by them – no doubt to ask her where he was – and she had fought them. Even so, the sight of her, doubled up on the floor, the thin flex round her throat, pulled so tight that it had drawn blood, made him whimper.

  ‘Oh, Christ…’

  He would kill them. He would find the cunts and kill them.

  Downstairs the fire was spreading. Smoke was pouring up the stairs now. He ought to be getting out of there, before the ceiling downstairs gave way. But he couldn’t go. Not yet. Kneeling beside her, he gently touched her cheek, then bent forward and kissed her farewell.

  ‘Goodbye, my darling girl…’

  For a moment he couldn’t move. Couldn’t leave her. Then, tearing himself away, he stood and, drawing his gun, stepped out into the hallway.

  And almost walked straight into him.

  The man was wearing a mask. Even so, Jake could see his eyes. See what he was.

  He shot him. Once in the chest and once in the head.

  Jake stepped over him, where he lay, and reached down to pull off the mask. The Han was still alive, gasping for breath but still living.

  Jake put the barrel in the man’s mouth and pulled the trigger.

  He straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It didn’t matter now whether he lived or died. Nothing mattered now.

  As he went slowly down the steps, the kitchen ceiling came crashing down.

  The hea
t was fierce now. As Jake crossed the garden he could feel it at his back.

  The first of them came running through the gate at speed. Jake shot him, watched him fall.

  The noise from the fire must have masked the sound of the shot, for the other came through the gate a moment later, unaware that he was there.

  Jake fired at him and missed.

  The assassin swung his gun up.

  Jake’s second shot hit his shoulder and span him round, sending his gun flying away from him.

  Jake walked towards him. Raised his gun again and pulled the trigger.

  There was nothing. Just the click of an empty chamber.

  He saw the Han’s face. Saw that the man thought he had a chance now.

  Jake threw himself at him, using the handgun as a club now, hitting out blindly, forcing him down onto his knees, then hitting him again and again and again until his face was a pulp and Jake’s hand was sticky with blood.

  As the Han gurgled away his last breath, Jake straightened up. He was straddling the man, sitting on his chest.

  Jake stood, then looked across at the other one. He lay there, kicking, holding his throat. A moment later he grew still.

  Jake walked across and picked up the assassin’s gun.

  Was that all of them? Or were there more?

  Right then he felt like killing dozens of the bastards. Hundreds. Just bring them on. He’d kill them all. He’d fill the world with dead Chinese for what they’d done.

  Jake turned, looking back at the house. It was totally ablaze now. Great sheets of flame leaping up twenty, thirty feet into the air. The heat from it was almost too much to bear. Slowly he stepped back, away from it.

  As he did the roof fell in, sending up tall showers of sparks.

  Everything gone, he thought, the first tear rolling down his cheek.

  Chapter 7

  WEST

  There’d been no time for tears. He’d had to get out of there as quickly as he could, before they came for him again. That was, if they could find him.

  He’d plundered the two he’d killed in the garden, taking one of their guns and all of their ammunition, along with the body armour and helmet of the bigger one.

  He had been tempted to make his way to Heathrow, to get a plane out of there and ride things out on the Greek isles, but three things were wrong with that.

  First, it would entail travelling back towards London, through the wild lands of Maidenhead and Slough, back towards the chaos of the city.

  Second, he had no money. Not that money – either as notes or as a credit balance on an account – was worth anything now. The Chinese had effectively done away with money when they’d destroyed the datscape.

  And third, he wasn’t sure that he still existed. Officially, that was. Lamp-ton had talked of glitches in the system, but what if those hadn’t been dealt with? What if they’d left him off the record?

  There was only one answer, to head west and try to get to Hugo and Chris’s cottage down in Coombe Bissett, just outside of Salisbury. He wasn’t sure how far it was – eighty miles, maybe a hundred – but it was better than heading back in. It would mean travelling across lawless countryside, but there would be plenty of places to hide, plenty of places to bed down for the night. Besides, he was armed now.

  What he didn’t have, and what he needed badly, was a map. An Ordnance Survey would have been nice, but any map would do.

  There would be filling stations on the way – places where they sold the compressed air cylinders that most cars ran on these days. They’d have maps there, surely?

  That gave him an idea. He’d never owned a car. Never needed to. But they couldn’t be that hard to operate. What if he took one and used one of the toll roads?

  First, however, he would get to Henley, maybe use the gate at Sonning Common.

  He set out, walking through the dark, half-lit streets, expecting at any moment to be stopped and challenged. But, apart from a twitching curtain here, a face at a window there, there was no sign of anyone.

  Until he came to the gate.

  There, in the streets surrounding it, they had built barricades, using whatever they could find – motor mowers, garden tables and chairs, shed doors and bicycles, bags of compost and old bits of wood. Nearby they had lit bonfires. In their light, Jake could make out sixty men or more, most of them armed.

  Jake stopped, trying to make out if there was any other way round. But he had already been seen. Three men came towards him, guns raised.

  ‘Hey… Who are you?’

  Jake knew he must have looked quite threatening, what with the body armour and the helmet and the gun hanging from his shoulder, but he tried not to panic them. He raised his hands.

  ‘It’s okay… I’m coming from Marlow… my girlfriend’s parents live there… Charles and Margaret Williams…’

  They spread out, encircling him, their eyes narrowed, watching for any move of his, itching, it seemed, to use their weapons.

  ‘So what’s with all this?’ their spokesman said, gesturing towards the uniform, the weapons. He had a nasty, hostile expression on his face, like he wasn’t going to believe a thing Jake said.

  He had to be careful.

  ‘There were assassins… Chinese…’

  ‘What the…?’ The man seemed to lose his patience. ‘Show me your ID!’ he barked. ‘And don’t think of trying to use one of those!’

  Jake shrugged. ‘Okay… calm down… I’ll move slowly, okay? It’s in my jacket pocket, so…

  He had almost forgotten. He still had the handgun. It was there, next to his ID card. Not that he’d have a chance to use it. No. He’d be dead before he could get a single shot off.

  Jake took out the card and threw it across. The man stooped down and picked it up, glancing at it casually before looking back at Jake.

  ‘This genuine?’

  What a fucking stupid question to ask. But Jake didn’t say that. He simply nodded. ‘I’m Jake Reed. Twenty-six years old. My birthday’s the eighteenth of August, and I’m a login.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘He’s what they call a web-dancer,’ one of the others said. ‘Ain’t that right?’

  Jake nodded. ‘I work for Hinton Industrial. Or did. I used to buy and sell stocks and shares on the datscape.’

  He saw how the man pondered that, turning the card over and over in his hand. Then he seemed to make a decision. He lowered his gun, then stepped across, handing Jake back his card.

  ‘I’m sorry… it’s just… we can’t take any chances…’

  Jake nodded, pocketing the card. ‘No need to apologize. But look… I need to get outside… I’m trying to join up with some friends, down in Salisbury.’

  ‘Salisbury? You won’t make it, friend. There’s wild mobs out there. Real fucking savages. You’d be better off staying here till things calm down.’

  Maybe, Jake thought. Only he needed to be with friends, not strangers. If the world was coming to an end, then he wanted to be with those he loved, not those who’d shoot him if he got his story wrong.

  ‘Thanks for the offer but… my fiancée’s there. She’s expecting me.’

  It hurt him even to say it. Only it made his anxiousness to be away from there believable.

  ‘There’s a lot of that shit,’ one of them said. ‘There’s gonna be a lot of people cut off from each other. I’m just glad all mine are home. Fuck knows how worried I’d be if they were the other side of the country. Like Mike says…’

  ‘Look, Mike,’ he said, latching on to the name. ‘I need a map. A good one, if possible. I’m kind of vague on the route, and…’

  ‘I’ve got one indoors you can have,’ Mike answered, amenable now that he knew Jake wasn’t a threat. ‘Just wait there. I’ll go get it.’

  While he was gone, Jake talked to the other two. They were nervous about how things were, sure, but things would right themselves. Just give it a day or two and it would all be up and running again, just see if it wasn’t.

&
nbsp; If only that were true, Jake thought. If only our leaders had the sense and the courage to sort things out.

  Only they didn’t. Jake knew only too well who really controlled the Market. It was the international speculators. The big fish. And it was their greed, their inability to think of anything but their own fat wallets, that had allowed Tsao Ch’un to get away with this.

  Not that it mattered now.

  Mike returned, smiling now as he handed Jake the book of maps. It was a big, expensive-looking thing, leather-bound, 1 to 50,000 scale, or just over an inch to a mile.

  ‘I can’t…’ Jake said, old habits of politeness kicking in. ‘This is just…’

  ‘No, take it… it’s fine. You’re going to need it out there. And… my wife did this for you…’

  Jake took the bag from him and looked inside. There were bottles and a number of small packages wrapped in foil – a regular little picnic.

  Jake looked back at him, touched by this unexpected gesture.

  ‘Thanks… Look, I… I really hope it all goes well for you. I hope…’

  That you all survive, he wanted to say. Only he couldn’t. It was too depressing. But it was the truth. The darkest days lay ahead, when people realized exactly what had happened. That nothing had any value any more.

  He embraced them. Then, as a number of them kept him covered, they opened the gate and let him pass, out into the wilds. Out into the unprotected dark, gun in hand, hoping he’d made the right decision.

  He went south and west, following the old minor roads, through Kidmore End, then across country, arriving at the sleeping village of Whitchurch as the clock struck three.

  There was an old toll booth there on the south road. It had fallen into disuse years ago, but the road was still there, boarded off to cars. Jake climbed over the barrier and set off towards the motorway.

  There were barriers – fifty feet tall – along the whole length of the motorway, with razor-wire on top to keep out the UPs, but just ahead of him the toll road dipped beneath the highway, emerging on the far side. The town of Theale was a mile or two further on.

  As Jake went into the tunnel, he could hear cars on the motorway. There wasn’t much traffic, just the whine of an engine now and then as one went past, all of it heading west.