National Emergency

by Jobling, James

  “There has to be an effective alternative,” Victor Edmunds said flatly. “And thankfully there is.”

  “So how exactly does this TK-214 fit into it?”

  “We cannot - nor do we - condone mass genocide. Not statistically speaking anyhow. So, we are left with no other option than to create scenarios where mass depopulation is the only operational outcome.”

  “But how does it work?”

  “To—”

  “How come I was not told about any of this?”

  “It was deemed classified.”

  “Deemed classified by who?”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, take a second to absorb—”

  “Deemed classified by who?”

  “I’m afraid I am not at liberty to say.”

  The Prime Minister shook his pounding head slowly.

  “I understand this may come as a shock to you, Mr. Prime Minister, but please try and—”

  “How does it work?”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, please try to understand that I am not permitted to answer—”

  “I want to know what that drug does! And I want to know now! If you people truly are orchestrating the demise of innocent people and depopulating the planet, then I want to know how you are doing it! I want to know what TK-214 does!”

  Silence.

  “Okay, it looks like I’ll have to guess. Does it make the public ill? Give them some kind of super flu?”

  “No, Mr. Prime Minister. It does not.”

  “Then how does it depopulate Earth?”

  “It creates an infection, Rob,” Sean Page answered.

  “An infection?”

  “That’s all I can tell you.”

  The Prime Minister jumped up and grabbed his leather chair by the armrest, spinning it, hauling it off the floor, roaring with betrayal, launching the swivel chair against the wall. A monsoon of faux leather, plastic, metal, and castors poured onto the floor. Rain pelted a rhythmical soundtrack from outside. It sounded like somebody was rattling a giant maraca.

  “I want answers!” he bellowed breathlessly. “And I want them right now!”

  “I’m afraid I am in no position to give them to you!”

  “Then who is?”

  “That would be me.”

  The fifth voice – one Robert Harris immediately recognised but did not quite believe – boldly echoed throughout the briefing room. The newcomer strode purposefully from the congealing shadows at the bottom of the room. There was an access point down there, but Robert had not heard the door open at any point during the COBRA meeting.

  Which means he was already in the room before the briefing began or he had stealthily crept in at some point during, slipping unnoticed into the inky blackness of night.

  Both possibilities sent a volley of shivers down the Prime Minister’s spine.

  The newcomer stepped in front of the table, arms at his sides. He was wearing a naval ceremonial uniform complete with sapphire gloves. A compilation of glossy medals decorated the first-rate tunic. The Prime Minister – slightly embarrassed for displaying his frayed temper under such noble scrutiny – stumbled awkwardly over the remains of the chair. The three other men quickly rose to their feet and saluted.

  “Your Highness,” Robert Harris wheezed.

  The son and heir to the King of England stepped from the shadows and respectfully saluted each man individually, turning his direct attention to Robert. He nodded curtly.

  “Rob, allow me to apologise wholeheartedly for keeping you in the dark on this one.”

  “Your Highness, please help me to understand how something like this could be allowed to happen.”

  The Prince nodded again. “I believe we need to have a talk.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “So what the hell do we do now?”

  Bryan Sweeney stopped in the centre of the smoky kitchen and threw his phone onto the draining board, where it landed with a resonating clang. He had just tried ringing his mother, but all he had got was static and a busy signal. Anxious, he scrolled through his phonebook - starting with his ex-wife and finishing with his lawyer - but each time, the line had been unaccountably jammed.

  When he received no answer, Bryan repeated himself, directing the question at the people seated around the table. His face was flushed and streaked with greasy soot and, having been punched in the nose during the skirmish, blood had dried between his nostrils and upper lip, looking like spilled petrol on the Atacama floor.

  “Call the police,” Belinda said. Nervously, she continued to tear a paper tissue apart. “We need to get them up here right now.”

  “I know, Mum, but that’s not going to happen,” Ethan said for what must have been the hundredth time. “Lines are down. I’ve already told you this.”

  “Who were they? That’s what I want to know,” Lee snarled, slapping the piece of wood across the palm of his free hand.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But they must have chosen this place for some reason.”

  “Like what, Lee?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’m hardly cooking meth in the garage.”

  “Don’t be stupid. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “Something must have made them choose this place; something must have made them choose tonight.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan growled, blood pressure rising, “the fact the little bastards knew they’d get away with it.”

  “Who they are isn’t important. The whereabouts of them now is,” Bryan said. He glanced out through the window, stinking like a fireman who had just extinguished a blaze in a smokehouse. “They could be watching the house right now.”

  “Don’t say that.” Karris said. She had managed to rock Lincoln into a relatively peaceful sleep and he was now sprawled on the sofa in the lounge, door open so they could keep a concerned eye on him.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Karris.”

  “Too late for that.”

  “I doubt they’ll come back, sweetheart,” Ethan said. He crossed to the sink and turned the tap on, ducking his head under the flow of cold water, wincing as it quenched his blistered throat.

  “How do you know that for sure?” Lee asked.

  “I don’t,” Ethan admitted, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, “but they were kids, that’s all.”

  “Kids?” Lee screamed through a whisper. “They stomp Harold to death! They torch two cars! They kick our fucking arse! And you say they were just kids?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Ethan warned. He stood up, peeped through the window - fearing what he’d see - before turning around. Their features were distorted due to the cloud of smoke hanging above the table. It looked as though somebody had judged a bonfire competition in his garden… but had forgotten to ask his permission first! “Okay, what we have here is Hobson’s Choice. The police aren’t going to show up and there are morons rioting in the city. However, my Pickup is parked just outside and it’s still drivable. I say we get in it and get the hell away from here.”

  “And go where, Ethan?” Lee asked.

  “Manchester.”

  “Are you mad? You want to go into the city? Where they are rioting?”

  “Have you got a better idea?”

  “Yeah. I say we stay here and hunt the little bastards down, dish out a little revenge.”

  “That’s fantastic, Lee. Now tell me, have you got anything that doesn’t involve my five-year-old son remaking Death Wish? Have you got anything like that?”

  “Okay, so let’s go with your plan. Say we make it to the city. What then?”

  “We go to Dave’s flat. Maybe we’ll have better luck of reaching the cops there.”

  “Maybe?” grunted Lee.

  “Like I say, have you got a better idea?”

  “But we can’t all fit in your truck, honey,” Karris pointed out, seizing an interlude between the quarrelling brothers to try and reclaim peace. The last thing they needed right
now was to turn on each other.

  “No, no, of course not. You’re right. But we could empty the lumber out the back. Everybody could fit in there then. Look, I know it’s not ideal, but we could make—”

  “What about Harold?” Belinda politely interrupted.

  Ethan paused underneath the archway, fingers already clutching the keys to his Pickup. He looked down at the floor, wishing it would just gobble him up. “What about him?”

  “Do we take him with us?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t think it matters where we leave him.”

  “So we just leave him here?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “But it’s what you’re saying.”

  What? Wait a minute, when did I become the bad guy?

  He could sense an argument brewing now, not only with his older brother, but also with his mother, too. And he was desperate to dodge both bullets. He wasn’t the wrongdoer. And there wasn’t enough juice left in his reserves to face another confrontation. Tell-tale signs bubbled in front of his eyes, though - brooding shoulders, wide eyes, flustered cheeks.

  “Look, just listen to me for a—”

  “You never did like Harold, did you?”

  “What?”

  “Never gave him a fair chance.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I barely knew him, Mum.”

  “Didn’t stop you from looking down your nose at him, though, did it?”

  “Are you serious?” Ethan chuckled humourlessly. He couldn’t believe they were dragging him unwillingly into an argument.

  This is insane! There are yobs attacking the house and all she wants to do is probe me about my relationship with Harry! Fucking madness!

  “Belinda, love, I don’t think now is the right time to be discussing this,” Karris said, defending Ethan’s honour, but also remaining calm. “We’re all a little scared right now. Everybody just needs to take a deep breath and relax.”

  “No offence, love,” Belinda batted back, “but this hasn’t got anything to do with you!” She scraped her chair back and stood up. Flickering flames from outside painted her in lucid shades of red and orange and yellow.

  “What’s wrong with you, Mum?” Ethan challenged. “Why would you say such a thing? I know you’re upset. I am too. But—”

  “You? Upset? Don’t make me laugh!” Belinda pointed her finger at her youngest son, mock laughter emanating from her. Her head cocked back to sell the artificialness to the highest bidder. Ethan was transported thirty years into the past; being scolded for spilling a drink on the new sofa. “You could never tolerate Harold!”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Always thought he was going to replace that pitiable excuse of a father of yours, didn’t you?”

  “What? No. Mum… please—”

  “I bet you’re even glad he’s dead!”

  “That’s enough!” Karris shouted.

  “Shut your mouth!” Belinda screamed back with so much vehemence that it must have left tiny scars on her soul. “I’ve told you once! This hasn’t got anything to do with you! I won’t tell you again!”

  Little stars of light danced in front of Ethan’s eyes and a sharp, stinging sensation burned his already swollen left cheek. It took a few seconds… then it dawned on him. His mother – his sixty-eight-year-old mother – had just slapped him! She hadn’t struck him since childhood. Before he could recover, his mother unleashed a downpour of violence on him, open-palmed slaps reddening his cheeks, fists pounding the sides of his skull, fingernails scratching his throat, his neck, his eyes.

  “This is all your fault!” his mother screamed. “It shouldn’t be Harold lying dead out there! It should be you! You should have died!”

  Her assault was beginning to lose some of its pugnacity and, even though her frail fists were still bouncing off his chest, Ethan managed to envelope her in his thick arms. Despite her timorous resistance, he pulled her towards him, embracing her. She was sobbing now - heartbreakingly sobbing. He held her this way for a long time.

  Ten minutes later, it was decided who would be staying and who would be going.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ethan, Karris, and Lincoln were driving towards a combustible city.

  CHAPTER 12

  With the birth of a new day fast approaching, Ethan Hardcastle steered his Pickup along the crowded high street. By the vast number of young people clogging the street, he could have been forgiven for thinking the circus were performing during an eclipse. It was pouring down with rain, but the downpour did very little to encourage the yobs to return to their homes. There were hundreds – thousands – of feral youngsters surrounding the Pickup, some ostensibly no older than ten or eleven years of age.

  Bloody hell, the news got it right! They were telling the truth! They weren’t scaremongering! They’ve taken over!

  Curls of smoke drifted from halfway up a tower block.

  Has someone started a fire in that skyscraper? Surely not!

  Nobody was rushing to evacuate the building and, drawing nearer, he could see a crowd gathered beneath the looming tower, celebrating, cheering, drinking beer. His side window was up but, as he crawled past, he could hear them singing, “We don’t need no water – let the motherfucker burn!”

  Ethan craned his neck to check on Lincoln who was strapped in the back. The poor child was not happy. The bizarre circumstances had left him reeling and totally bewildered. God alone knew what he must be thinking. Ethan traded nervous glances with Karris as they came upon an ambulance which lay on its side. It looked like a discarded toy amongst the bedlam.

  “My God,” Karris mumbled. Her breath misted the windscreen. “We should have stayed at home.”

  “We had no choice.”

  “But look at it!”

  “Karris, they killed Harold!”

  “I know. Do you really think anybody here can help, though?”

  Two police officers - beaten, bloody, one of them carrying a riot shield which had been snapped in half - ran through the dying heart of the once glamourous city, a mob of brick-hurtling youths giving chase. One of the constables paused when he saw the Pickup and waved his gloved hand, pointing in the direction that Ethan had just come from.

  “What does he want?” Karris asked, chewing fingernails.

  Ethan frowned and looked into the rear-view mirror. “He’s telling us to turn around.”

  “We need help.”

  “I think they do, too!”

  “But they’re the police.”

  “Calm down, yeah?”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Just… hold on!”

  Bringing the Pickup to a stop in the middle of the ocean of juvenility, Ethan attempted a three-point-turn, but it was no good. There were too many of them, blocking him in. He parped the horn, but that was pointless, too. For all the good it did him, he might as well have just got out and politely asked them to move. Rain stole his view through the windscreen, but the wipers squeakily restored it.

  Lincoln was screaming hysterically. He was strapped in the backseat, legs barely touching the floor, red-faced, tears gushing down his crinkled features and his voice painfully hoarse. The poor boy must be terrified. After all, the boy’s father was petrified.

  There was a loud clank from the back of the truck as something or somebody slammed hard into the Pickup. Karris gasped loudly and Lincoln stared into the pandemonium with bleary eyes. Revving the engine, Ethan palmed the horn once more. A hooded yob slammed his fist down on the bonnet.

  “Move out of the bloody way!” Ethan roared.

  “What are we going to do?” Karris asked, perhaps aware that her husband had no answers.

  “Just calm down,” Ethan commanded.

  Suddenly, the Pickup was rocking on its suspension as the group of louts tried tipping it over.

  “We need to get out!” Ethan shouted. “They’re tipping the truck over!”

  Karris nodded and
quickly unclipped her seat belt.

  Ethan shed his own harness and reached into the back for his frenetic son. Kicking open the driver’s door, the pungent stench of petrol, smoke, rain, and tear gas immediately assaulted his nostrils. Behind him, the Pickup juddered and rolled on its suspension.

  It won’t take long for this lot to overturn the truck!

  There was a distinct spiciness in the atmosphere, a noticeable reek. Ambling just beneath the Molotov cocktails and burning buildings, but it was there nonetheless; faint, faded. Ethan recognised it for what it was – fever!

  These people were sick, but it was an infection of city-crushing devotion, which convulsed through their bodies and electrified their hearts, leaving them with no other option than to erupt and vent that fury. Born into a broken city, labelled the root cause, left to fester in squalid conditions, forgotten about unless blame needed to be placed, unable to afford food or pay their ever-increasing bills, depending on food banks, hardly any jobs left due to the Prime Minister’s brutal cuts, benefits reduced, council houses handed to foreigners who refused to speak our language, spit at our soldiers, yet were still happy to claim a flood of benefits. If these people had no money in their pocket, how were they supposed to put food in their children’s belly?

  Ethan paused briefly, looking at the small butchers burning to his left. Fire had spread from the hairdressers next-door, and the bay window of the butchers had already shattered from the corroding heat. He looked across the wringing wet bobbing heads of the crowd and, to his right, he could see the Curry Mile – a stretch of pizzerias, curry houses, kebab shops, burger bars, tapas restaurants, and chip shops running parallel with the road for an entire mile. Ethan blinked rapidly, smoke mocking his vision, but it looked like the owners and workers were standing outside their shops, taking it upon themselves to protect their property with knives and cleavers and baseball bats. There must have been around a hundred people - predominantly male - standing there; a confrontation simmering, but not quite cooked yet.

  Ethan had witnessed similar things during the London riots a few years back – factions of young men coming together to form circles of protection around their homes and businesses. And who could blame them? Apart from the two police officers he had seen fleeing the scene, there wasn’t a flutter of authority on the streets. Something exploded fiercely a few blocks away.