Son of Heaven

by David Wingrove

  He moved slowly, trying to see into the shadows, his gun out and ready, the safety off. If he was going to be attacked anywhere, it was here. It was a perfect spot for an ambush. Only who the fuck would be walking out this late? Who would be so crazy as to use this route?

  Only a desperate man.

  The road dipped, then began to climb again.

  He could hear the slow crunch, crunch, crunch of his own footsteps. Hear his own shallow breathing.

  Something scuttled away, up a bit and to his right. He knew it was only a rat, or some woodland animal, but it made his nerves twitch.

  He stopped, straining to hear.

  Nothing.

  And went on, climbing the slope, the darkness becoming less intense with every step, his heartbeat slowing as the tension eased.

  He had been lucky so far. Or perhaps all the rioters had worn themselves out and had gone back home – were now safely tucked up in their beds, like good little savages.

  Jake sighed. He’d have to stop soon. Had to get some rest. Travelling at night made sense, only he was exhausted. He had seen too much. Done too much…

  At the top of the slope he halted. He could see the faint outlines of houses up ahead. Maybe one of them was deserted. Perhaps he could kip there for the remainder of the night, then set off early.

  The implant beneath his right ear had been weeping again. It felt sore and swollen, possibly even infected. He’d have to see to that sometime. Maybe at Newbury when he got there.

  If he got there.

  As he came up alongside the first of the houses, he stopped, looking across.

  How did you tell which houses were occupied and which not? Did you just break in and take a chance?

  A barn, then, maybe. Somewhere that wouldn’t be checked before the morning.

  Only he needed a bed. Needed to lay down and sleep, and he wasn’t sure a barn would be any good for that.

  Jake let his head fall. Until that moment he had been all right. Until he’d thought of it, and seen himself in memory, there beside her in her bed in her parents’ house, her beautiful green eyes looking up at him.

  ‘Oh, fuck…’

  He had been walking like a dead man. Numb. Emotionally drained. Pretending it hadn’t happened. Only now it came flooding back and he saw in his mind how she lay there on the floor beside the bed, her flesh sickly pale, a line of crusted blood about the plastic cord those cunts had used on her.

  He groaned and fell to his knees.

  Make it not so…

  Only nothing could call it back.

  Jake shivered, then remembered. The permit. He still had the permit in his pocket. He took it out, staring at it a moment, trying to make sense of it, then tore it into shreds and scattered it.

  His life. His future. Gone. The whole fucking lot of it, gone!

  Then why not end it now? Why not put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger?

  Jake got to his feet. Wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. He had to get to Hugo and Chris, that’s why. Had to tell them what had happened.

  He walked on, his legs heavy now.

  This one? No. The curtains are drawn. There’s someone in that one. Then this one, maybe? Yes… why not.

  At worst he’d wake someone. At worst…

  Only he had to sleep. If he didn’t he’d fall over.

  He walked across and looked inside. The curtains were open, the front room dark. He went round the side of the building and tried the back door. It opened. Inside, in the dark silence of the kitchen, he stopped, straining to listen.

  Nothing. The place was empty.

  Even so, he checked it out. Checked every room. Then settled in the back bedroom, hauling a small chest of drawers in front of the door before he drew the curtains.

  He didn’t risk putting on the light, but there was a television – an old wall-mounted plasma screen. He plugged it in, not expecting it to work, only it did.

  The electricity’s still on!

  That surprised him.

  The screen lit. Images of burning buildings and riot troops in action. London, he guessed, or one of the other big cities. He turned the sound up slightly.

  Two planes exploded in the air, one after another. Bits of one came raining down on an airport lounge as screaming passengers fled the burning building.

  The picture cut out, then came back. The sound wavered momentarily.

  An elderly man – the US Vice-President, Jake realized – was being sworn in, his generals standing close by, looking on, their faces anxious.

  Three men – Chinese by the look of them, bound hand and foot – were led into a courtyard by masked special services men. They were forced down onto their knees then executed, one by one, with a single shot to the back of the head.

  The screen went black, then slowly brightened.

  There was something about Martial Law being declared, over pictures of streets packed solid with fleeing people. It cut to the announcer again.

  The screen went black. This time it stayed black.

  Wearily, Jake went across; turned it off then turned it on again.

  It wasn’t the power. It was the signal.

  He stretched then yawned; the kind of yawn that almost disconnects your jaw. What he’d seen on the screen, that was just part of it. All over the world fucked-up things were happening. Good people were dying. People who deserved a lot better.

  It made him feel sick just thinking about it.

  They should have killed Tsao Ch’un. Strangled the little bastard at birth. Like Hitler and all the other sociopathic egomaniacs. Drowned them in a vat of acid, just to make sure.

  But he was tired now. Bone tired. He could barely feel his hatred through the thick layers of tiredness.

  He lay down, knowing he shouldn’t sleep, that he didn’t deserve to sleep, not when his darling Kate was dead. But sleep came nonetheless, like a vast wave washing over him, dragging him deep into its sunless depths. Down, down into the dreamless abyss of exhaustion.

  Like the dead. Like the living dead.

  He woke early, startled back into consciousness, grabbing at his gun in a panic, the feeling that there was someone in the room with him strong. Only there was no one. He was alone.

  Jake sat there for a time on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, his head in his hands. He had been too tired yesterday, too concerned with making his escape, for it to have struck home. But now it did, just like last night. Kate was dead. So too the life he’d known, his future.

  Maybe, only he was still alive.

  In the half light he could see now what kind of room it was. It had the look of a spare room, with cheap, make-do furniture and a threadbare carpet that smelled old and musty. He had barely noticed it when he let himself in, but now he did. This was the kind of room he’d have to put up with from now on.

  Jake pulled the chest of drawers away from the door, then gathered up his things. Downstairs he searched through drawers and cupboards, looking for anything that might prove useful, putting it all into an old green knapsack he had found hanging on a hook next to the back door.

  Knives, a torch, two packets of working batteries, a first aid kit, a pair of size nine hiking boots, and other things.

  And then, because – who knew? – things might yet turn out right, he left a note, addressed to the householder, itemizing what he’d taken, and giving his old address back in the city.

  He went out, pausing in that scruffy, untended yard, to listen.

  Nothing. Only the call of birds in the copse beyond the houses.

  He had a long walk before him, and it would be best if he got a fair distance behind him before people began to get up.

  It was a bright, clear morning. Fresh, with not a trace of cloud.

  He had no plan except to walk, and keep out of trouble. If he could.

  Theale was silent. It seemed deserted. There was not a trace of anyone about. Maybe it was too early. But Jake had the sense of being watched.

  No one
was taking any chances. Maybe they were all staying indoors and minding their own business until things blew over. It was what he would have done if he were them. Only he wasn’t, and his only chance was to get to Hugo and Chris’s. Apart from them, he didn’t have a friend in the world.

  He saw his first sign of the troubles as he came into what the road sign said was Sulhamstead. There, by the crossroads, an inn had been burned out. It must have been done recently, for it was still smouldering. In the car park nearby a number of cars had also been set alight.

  Jake took the gun from his shoulder, then walked on.

  At Woolhampton a number of windows had been smashed and several of the shops had been boarded up. Someone had spray-canned slogans on the boards and on the walls, together with the age-old anarchist symbol, the A in a circle, which always reminded Jake of an eye.

  He walked on. Ahead was Thatcham, and beyond it Newbury. At this rate he would be there within the hour.

  As he came to the outskirts of Thatcham, Jake slowed. Up ahead he could see a group of people, a dozen or so of them, gathered on the right-hand side of the road.

  After seeing no one at all so far that morning, this little gathering seemed ominous. Should he get off the road and try and make his way round them, or should he press on, directly?

  If he was to get to Andover by this evening, which was his plan, then he couldn’t afford too many delays. Only he didn’t want trouble.

  But then, why should they be trouble? What if they were just normal citizens? Maybe they’d simply gathered to discuss things. Wouldn’t he have done the same? Only he had in mind what had happened at the gate last night; that hostility bred of fear and uncertainty. These were not normal times. You couldn’t expect people to behave as they would normally.

  But to try and make his way around them made little sense. At least on the road he could see them clearly. Knew where they were. Off it, they had the advantage. After all, they knew this locality, he didn’t.

  He walked on, taking the safety off. He didn’t mean to use the gun, but if he had to he would. He would keep to the other side of the road. Would greet them politely if they called out to him. Otherwise…

  He swallowed.

  This is how it’s going to be from here on in. A slow march through hostile territory, and not a single friend between here and Salisbury.

  As the distance narrowed, he saw how they turned to face him, then stepped out onto the road, spreading out, blocking his way.

  Twenty yards from them he stopped.

  ‘I’m going to Newbury,’ he called. ‘I just want to pass. I won’t do any harm.’

  ‘Where d’you come from?’ one of them asked in a broad Swindon accent.

  Jake looked to him, read him at once. A troublemaker. A fucking troublemaker. Just his luck…

  The man had the look of a pub drunk. Belligerent. Aggressive. The rest were taking their lead from him. He could see that at once.

  ‘I’ve come from London,’ Jake said, letting nothing show in his face. ‘I’m heading west.’

  That was as specific as he was going to get.

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ the man answered him, smiling unpleasantly. ‘I think you’re going east. Back where you came from.’

  Jake had been looking along the line. Trying to assess where the danger was. Two of them had guns, which was probably why the man felt confident in threatening him. Only the two gunmen looked anything but confident. They could see he had better weaponry than them, and from the look of him, the body armour and all, he probably knew how to use it.

  Jake sighed. ‘Look… just let me pass. I don’t want trouble. I don’t want to harm anyone, got me?’

  He looked to one of the gunmen, then the other, then back at the mouthy bastard who was their leader.

  ‘If I have to, I’ll blow your fucking head off, understand? But I’d prefer not to. I’ve had a hard two days…’

  ‘Mike…’ one of them began, but the man cut him off with a savage hand gesture.

  ‘Listen, Mister… this is our village and we say who can come through, okay? So just turn around and…’

  Jake fired the gun into the air. Saw how they all jumped at that, surprised, most of them taking a step or two back, away from him. The two gunmen were shaking now.

  No doubt it’s easier under cover of darkness.

  ‘Leave ’im, Mike,’ one of them said. ‘’E ain’t worth it.’

  ‘That’s right, Mike,’ Jake said, smiling now, a cold steel at the heart of him now that he’d been pushed. ‘I ain’t worth it.’

  They were moving to the side now. Clearing a path for him. All except Mike.

  ‘Listen,’ Jake said, meeting the man’s eyes coldly. ‘I’ll say it once and once only. Get out of my fucking way!’

  Mike hesitated, then, his head dropping, he stepped back.

  Good, Jake thought, only he moved slowly, carefully, keeping an eye on them all. Particularly the two with guns, just in case they found a bit of courage at the last. Then he was walking slowly backwards, away from them.

  ‘Arseholes…’ he said quietly, beneath his breath. But it had taught him an important lesson. He could not relax. Not for a second. For what had happened had exposed a rawness, a savagery in people, a compound of pettiness and bitterness and spite, that needed to be vented. And who better to vent it on than outsiders? Passing strangers like himself.

  No. There would be no kindnesses from this point on. Only hostility. And next time he might not be so lucky. Next time they might shoot first and talk later.

  Jake stopped just south of Newbury at a place called Enborne Row, where the A34 crossed the A343.

  There, in the cover of the trees, his back to an old stone wall, he ate the last of the picnic he’d been given back at the Henley gate.

  For that much, anyway, he was grateful. For the woman’s ham and chicken rolls and the bottles of spring water she’d provided. Jake wolfed them down, then, knowing he had a long march ahead of him, took ten minutes’ rest.

  And woke an hour or more later, hearing voices on the road.

  Refugees. He could see them through the trees. Two, maybe three dozen in total, carrying their possessions, one lot of them wheeling their stuff along on a handcart.

  Maybe he should get in with them. Travel south with them to Andover. That was, if they were heading for Andover, and not taking the main road down to Winchester instead.

  Jake gathered up his things, then quickly ran after them.

  ‘Hey!’

  They turned, looking towards him.

  He slowed, seeing their mistrust, their fear.

  ‘It’s okay, I…’

  One of them grabbed a gun, aimed it at him. ‘Don’t come any closer!’

  Jake knew how he must look. The guns. The helmet. Yes, and a two-day beard didn’t help, either.

  ‘Look, I won’t harm you. I just wanted…’

  The one with the gun – mid-forties, he’d guess – didn’t waver. His gun was aimed directly at Jake’s chest, and he looked quite capable of using it. ‘I don’t care what you want,’ he said. ‘On your way. And now.’

  Jake raised his hands. ‘Look, I…’

  ‘On your way.’

  He took a long breath. They were afraid. Maybe afraid that if they took him in he’d prove a viper in their midst. And who could blame them?

  ‘Okay,’ he said, taking a step back. ‘I’m sorry… Hey, and good luck…’

  Jake stood there for a long time afterwards, watching them go, feeling a longing for company that surprised him in its intensity. That was what he found hardest, he realized. Being alone. Having no one he could call on.

  He walked on. Despite the hour he’d lost, it was still early. If he made up time he could be in Andover by late afternoon. And maybe someone would take him in, give him a room for the night.

  Maybe…

  Only he couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t be sure where next he’d find a single act of kindness.

  For a long
stretch of the road south, he saw nothing. Now and then – every ten minutes or so – a car would pass, always travelling south. Hearing them, he’d pull in, concealing himself as best he could, just in case.

  Then, just outside of a place called Hurstbourne Tarrant, he heard a very different sound – the sound of a small convoy.

  Hiding among the bushes at the edge of the road, he watched it pass. There were two armoured cars and five army trucks, the vehicles packed with helmeted soldiers.

  He knew this area had, for a century and more, been a training ground for the army, and they had quite a presence here. Especially further south, round Salisbury Plain. But this was the first time he’d seen them. The first time he’d seen any sign that there was still a government in place.

  There was barely any indication of the disturbances on the way south – no broken windows, no burned-out cars or marauding bands of thugs. But as he came to the outskirts of Andover, first town of any size for some miles, things changed.

  The first thing he saw was the wreck of a car, over on the far side of the road. He went across, seeing where the windscreen was smashed. Someone had fired a shot through it. That, doubtless, had made it swerve off the road and hit the tree. Of the driver, however, there was no sign.

  Jake felt the bonnet of the car. It was cold.

  He was about to walk on, when he noticed something, over to his right. Cautiously, he made his way across, between the trees, then found the driver. He had crawled away from the crash, looking for safety. But he hadn’t found it. He had bled out, there by the wall of some godforsaken outhouse in the middle of nowhere.

  Poor bastard. He didn’t look older than eighteen or nineteen.

  There were further signs only a few hundred yards on. An isolated farmhouse had been targeted, the doors kicked in, the windows smashed. Inside, a brief glance revealed that someone had trashed the place.

  Then, not a stone’s throw further on, a row of houses had been attacked and two of them burned out. Jake walked round them and found the corpse of a young man, lying on his front on the back lawn.

  Jake checked the windows, making sure he wasn’t being watched, then stooped down and lifted the young man’s head.

  He had been beaten badly. Mercilessly, by the look of it.