National Emergency

by Jobling, James

  “What’s the point? They are going to find us,” Belinda croaked. “They are going to find us then kill us.”

  “No, that’s not going to happen.”

  “They have a gun.”

  “Belinda, I won’t let them hurt you. I promised Lee.”

  “Lee’s dead!”

  The TV in the corner of the room was still on, broadcasting the news to the empty sofa. Low voices, barely audible, drifted across, threatening to expose them. Bryan crept across the room and bent to unplug it. Eyes settled on the headline rushing across a frozen picture of the second heir to the throne, Prince Jasper, and his beautiful fiancée, Adela. The headline on the TV read BREAKING NEWS: PRINCE JASPER COMFIRMED DEAD AS LOOTERS STORM BUCKINGHAM PALACE.

  “Bryan?” Belinda whispered from her crouching position. “Bryan, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” the lawyer lied. He quickly turned the TV off and tiptoed over to the front door. Hiding behind it, he felt very much like a five-year-old boy playing hide-and-seek with his sister. His grip around the handle of the knife had grown slippery, and he could feel bile sloshing around in his gut. He’d been scared before, but never on this level. He closed his eyes and saw his mother.

  “Are they in the house?”

  “Shush.”

  “I’m scared, Bryan.”

  “Me too.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  Footfalls barged into the living room and Bryan held his breath, certain that his clonking heart was going to betray him. He could hear raspy breathing, but the door concealed the hooded menace from view. He glanced across to Belinda, but thankfully, she had the sense to keep down.

  “Where are they?” somebody shouted from the kitchen.

  Bryan gripped the edge of the door and raised the bread knife.

  God, please forgive me.

  “Are they in there?” the voice bellowed again.

  Wind blustered over the roof, jigging slates, sounding like an angry Chupacabra. Rain lashed against the windows. He heard movement directly in front of him, and his lungs threatened to rupture.

  “There’s no one in here!”

  The words were like a red flag to an irate bull.

  As soon as Belinda heard that malicious madam’s voice, she rose, slowly, deliberately, stepping from the display cabinet like the clichéd serial killer in a bad horror movie; silent, motionless, intimidating. The young girl turned around… and wished she hadn’t.

  Belinda rushed forward with a speed that belied her years and with the grace of a ninja, grabbing the lapels of Leanne’s jacket, pulling her forward, pushing her on the sofa and landing on top of her. The young girl tried to scream, desperate to alert her companions, but Belinda slapped her once across the face. The strike was astonishingly loud in the quiet lounge and Bryan moved from behind the door just as a boy - no older than ten - stepped through the doorway.

  The boy paused when he saw Bryan. The little villain smiling… until he saw the knife. The blade glinted and the boy turned on his heels, but Bryan was too fast. He grabbed the boy by his hood and hauled him back, revealing his infantile face. He threw him through the doorway, where he cartwheeled over the puffet and slammed down on his back.

  Belinda looked over to Bryan. Her eyes were red-rimmed and apologetic. It was a huge mistake, as the girl beneath her acted. Elbow crunched jaw. The older woman was tossed aside, weight advantage losing out to youth. Leanne jumped off the sofa, releasing the scream which had been buzzing around her lungs. Bryan turned around just as she charged into him.

  A flurry of fists bombarded his face. He tried to defend himself, but the little fucker on the floor was up and jumping on his back, strangling, choking, biting. Bryan was kicked between the legs with the same force that Lee had been, and his knees buckled. He collapsed into a crumpled heap on the floor, feet and fists escorting his descent. From far away, but also no more than a few inches, he heard the girl screaming, “They’re in here!”

  Then Belinda roared feverishly.

  After that, the girl spoke no more.

  Through a barrier of his own arms and hands, Bryan looked into darkness, managing to make out Leanne as she stumbled drunkenly towards him. Her face was pale – deathly pale - and when her lips opened, a dribble of black blood trickled down her chin. Scraped back hair had become untangled during the scuffle, revealing the full length and aura of her mane; baring hidden innocence. When she opened her arms, reaching for him, he saw the handle of the bread knife protruding from between two undeveloped breasts. A geyser of blood spewed from around the hilt.

  “Help… me… please… hel… help...”

  Bryan jumped to his feet and reached for the young girl.

  “Leave her!” Belinda commanded from behind him. “Leave her to die!”

  “Belinda, what the hell have you done?”

  Leanne staggered like a baby giraffe before collapsing backwards, arms outstretched, groping at thin air, legs spiralling and the back of her skull cracking the corner of the coffee table. The boy attempted to dash through the open doorway, but Bryan grabbed a handful of his coat and pretended not to notice the stench of hot urine billowing from the crotch of the boy’s trousers.

  “Same thing those little sods did to my Harold. Same thing they did to my son!”

  “You killed her.”

  “Good. I’m glad she’s dead.”

  “Belinda, for Christ sake… I can’t condone… this.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “You fucking killed her!”

  “There was no other choice.”

  “No, no, you’re wrong. There are always choices.”

  Belinda stepped forward. Her eyes showed no remorse. “There was no other choice.”

  A barrage of stampeding youths raced down the hall leading to the front room, shouting, cursing, threatening. Bryan slammed the door closed on them, heaving the sideboard behind it just as shoulders began batter-ramming from the opposite side. The boy screamed for help, but Belinda socked his mouth closed with an open-palmed slap.

  Bryan stepped over the dead girl on the floor and pulled the curtains aside, revealing the back door which led into the yet-to-be-constructed conservatory - which would lead into the garden. Sweaty fingers grasped the door handle and pressed it down, almost yanking it from its hinges. He stumbled out into the rain and pulled Belinda behind him, closing the door on the boy, leaving him sobbing in the bungalow.

  I know it’s a long-shot, but if we make it over the fence and onto the moors before they break the door down, maybe, just maybe-

  The helicopter fell from the black heavens like a stone being dropped from the Eifel Tower; roaring above the bungalow, circling, dropping low. A huge spotlight mounted to the underbelly illuminated Bryan and his best friend’s mother. Bryan raced into the middle of the lawn and raised his arms, pleading for help, even though the enormous propellers chopping the wind made it impossible for anybody to hear anything. He glanced back towards the house, but no longer felt the same cocktail of fear and dread pumping through his body. Ethan had either contacted the police or they’d shown up on their own accord.

  The little bastard in the front room had dislocated the sideboard far enough for his three hooded comrades to barge their way into the living room. Bryan, drenched with rain, watched as the self-proclaimed leader of these deadbeats - the one with the Beretta, the one who had shot Lee - crouched beside Leanne’s dead body, cradling her head in his lap and stroking her hair. The blubbering boy pointed furiously towards the garden.

  The helicopter hovered directly above the bungalow. Bryan and Belinda were cascaded in a circle of bright light. It was then that Bryan realised it was not a police helicopter, as first thought, but a military ‘copter of some description. An armed soldier pulled open the side door and looked down at them.

  Christ, it’s the army! How bad have things become?

  “We’re saved!” Belinda screamed. A flicker of a smile flashed across her face. “They’re here to save u
s!”

  Bryan looked at the chopper once more, studying the soldier strapped in the doorway. Even though the visor of his tactical helmet concealed his eyes, Bryan couldn’t shake the feeling that they were trained on him! Despite the ear-splitting holler of the ‘copter’s rotating propellers, Bryan could clearly hear the back door of the bungalow being flung open; could hear the sound of the safety being removed from the Beretta. He turned and saw the youth stagger out into the storm, repeatedly rubbing tears from his face with the back of his gloved hand.

  “You killed her!” the youth bawled. “You fucking killed her!” His finger flirted outrageously with the trigger.

  Bryan held his hands above his head; he looked like a hostage in a bank siege. Belinda did the same.

  Overhead, the helicopter circled the bungalow once more.

  “Nobody else has to die tonight!” Bryan roared. “Too many people have lost their lives already!”

  “She was my sister!” the youth screamed. His voice cracked with a sob and tears rolled down his flushed cheeks. The remaining mob pushed through the doorway, creating a defensive line.

  From the soaring helicopter, the robotic voice of the pilot spewed into a megaphone, “PUT THE GUN DOWN!”

  The youth ignored the order and kept the muzzle aimed directly at Bryan’s head. “You killed my sister!”

  Belinda stepped forward. “You killed my boyfriend! You killed my son!”

  The Beretta alternated between lawyer and mother, mother and lawyer.

  “Look,” Bryan said, “nobody else needs to die tonight. No more blood needs to be spilled.”

  One of the hooded youths stomped across the patio and trod the lawn, stopping beside the armed teenager. The helicopter repeated its instruction again to deaf ears.

  “Bro, what the hell’re you waitin’ for?” the youth sneered. “Pop ‘em both and let’s get the fuck outta’ here!”

  “No!” shouted Bryan. “It doesn’t have to end that way!”

  “What’re you waitin’ for, Kieran? They murdered Leanne, yeah? Are you just gonna’ allow ‘em to get away with it? Are you seriously gonna’ look a pussy in front of your crew?”

  “Shut up, Calum! Everybody just shut the fuck up!”

  “PUT THE GUN DOWN! THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING! PUT THE GUN DOWN NOW OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE!”

  Kieran pushed his hood free, revealing his features for the first time. Cleanly-shaved, cropped hair, skin pockmarked from a lengthy battle with acne. But he looked no different to Bryan’s nephew, lecturing computer-programming at Harvard. He didn’t look like a monster. He looked like a grieving brother who’d just discovered the blood-splattered corpse of his treasured sister.

  In a heartbeat, Bryan predicted what was about to happen, and he launched himself at Belinda, rugby tackling her, propelling them both into the shrubbery at the bottom of the garden as the M60 machinegun mounted to the helicopter opened fire. At precisely the same time, Kieran fired, too. The machinegun fired twenty-three hollow-point cartridges in a matter of seconds, each round remarkably precise, pumping into the seventeen-year-old body of Calum Korini and pulping his heart into Mache, tearing lungs to ribbons, flinging him onto the patio.

  Kieran managed to fire two bullets before sprinting for cover back inside the house. The first bullet went wide, not even coming close to the ‘copter, but the second bullet – the luckier one – crashed through the windshield, obliterating it and slamming straight into the shoulder of the pilot, who spasmodically spun the controls. The helicopter dipped forward to an incredible angle, spinning propellers chopping nearby trees like spinach in a blender. Then it turned sideward, defying all navigational logic and roaring high above the roof of the bungalow, spinning with epileptic speed. The pilot somehow managed to force a little control into the chopper and steered with his good hand, swinging the ‘copter away from the house, soaring over the stretching moors as a plume of black smoke spewed from the herniated underbelly.

  Bryan and Belinda watched helplessly as the helicopter roared away from the house - taking with it their hopes of salvation - and leaving their fates up to the youths.

  CHAPTER 16

  Ethan Hardcastle slammed his fist against the front door and stepped back onto the veranda, peering over the wrought iron railings into the black bowels of the three-storey apartment complex. Karris was standing beside him, cloaked in shadows, Lincoln in her arms, stretching muscles that she didn’t even know existed. He was awake now, witnessing everything. But at least he’d stopped crying. In fact, after leaving Deep Pan Express and taking the backstreets to Dave’s flat, Karris had managed to convince her son that what was happening was one big game - like in the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers when Rita tries to invade Earth only to be beaten by the good guys. As she had said this, a body doused in flames ran screaming across the alleyway, arms flailing, lungs seared. Ethan had stopped and hushed them both quiet by placing a finger to his lips, pulling them down behind an overflowing wheelie-bin. A second later, a group of youths followed the flaming trail, splitting their sides laughing, recording it on their phones.

  “Mummy,” Lincoln had innocently whispered, “are they the bad guys?” Thankfully, the wheelie-bin had blocked his eyes and nose. Karris had nodded slowly and tried to control the quiver in her voice. “Yes, baby. They are very bad men.”

  Five minutes later, they came upon a swanky-looking apartment block, where padlocked storage units had replaced congested council bins. Neatly trimmed hedges. Tarmac superseding gravel. Ethan had thumbed the intercom in front of the bright yellow retainer barrier and waited anxiously for his brother to allow him access. There was usually a burly security guard standing in the doorway of a Portakabin, smoking a cigarette or thumbing through a newspaper, but tonight, the door was padlocked from the outside. The retainer barrier automatically raised and, carrying Lincoln in one hand, a steak knife from Hassam in the other, Ethan stepped into the hidden fortress, his boots noisily crunching the loose pebbles stretching from the gateway to the front lobby.

  “Dave!” Ethan fingered the mail-slot open and bellowed into his brother’s apartment. “Dave, it’s me, Ethan, open the door!”

  From far away, somebody screamed. The rattle of gunfire silenced them.

  Ethan offered his son a reassuring smile, the gesture tight, fake. Karris opened her mouth to say… something when the slam of the lobby door made her heart jump into her throat. Fingernails sank into the flesh of his forearm, almost drawing blood. Ethan looked over and saw Karris nodding towards the dimly-lit stairwell. He frowned but, following Karris’s jiggling head, crossed to the railings and glanced over. The two hooded youths conversing in the foyer weakened his knees.

  How could they have gotten in here?

  There had been nobody loitering around the grounds when they raised the retainer gate. So, did that mean that somebody had allowed them access? Maybe one of the tenants on one of the other two levels?

  Surely not! Nobody in their right mind would fraternize with these louts, would they?

  Ethan heard movement on the stairs and gazed over the railings to see the two figures dashing up the stairwell. They had obviously been aroused by his raised voice, so there was no point in trying to keep quiet now; his hollering had been loud enough to wake the dead. Instead, he stepped in front of the door and rattled it another three times.

  Dave Hardcastle opened the partition and pushed the screen door aside. He looked warily around the gloomily lit corridor before joining his brother on the veranda. There were another three or four equally lavish apartments on this level, but they were either up for let or the tenants had decided to seek safety elsewhere. Windows were lifeless, black, no noise coming from any of the apartments.

  That doesn’t mean a thing, though. With everything that’s going on, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were in the living room, huddled together, watching the world slip further into hell’s grip. That’s what I’d be doing if I was at home…

  home…

  �
��and suddenly he was back home; looking at Harold’s dead body, listening to his grieving mother howl and sob. A rush of emotion and he became overwhelmed with relief for being here in the complex with Dave. He was transferred twenty-five years into the past, to the day that he had got into a fight with a fat kid at school called Anthony Render. That morning, at the back of the school’s woodwork classroom, Ben Couch had been beaten senseless by Anthony because Ben had scored a goal past him in P.E. the day before. Anthony had taken this blatant insult personally and had gone to town on the poor lad, beating him bloody and leaving Ethan with no other option but to break up the one-sided fight.

  A hyped-up battle had been booked straight after school at the back of the old social club, and Ethan had broken Anthony’s nose during the skirmish. The chubby kid and his cronies jumped on Ethan like depraved bloodhounds, proceeding to kick seven shades of the brown stuff out of him. At some point during the fight, word made its way across the old railway track to the counter of the supermarket where Dave had worked. The oldest of the three Hardcastle brothers had vaulted the kiosk and barged through the door, sprinting to his brother’s aid, charging into Ethan’s attackers. He threw bricks and threats, and the bullies had never bothered Ethan again. From that day on, Dave had cemented himself as a father figure to the boy; a sentinel of muscle—a tower of protection.

  The tiny island of hair at the back of Dave’s balding head was unkempt, messy, and he hadn’t shaved in a while. There was at least five days’ worth of whiskers protruding from his jaw. He wore burgundy corduroys and a white long-sleeved turtle-neck, the sleeves rolled up to reveal ridiculously hairy forearms. By the look of his unruly beard and the reservoir of follicles on his arms, Ethan wondered how resentful his smooth head must have been. For some reason, this made him want to bellow with laughter.

  Dave saw the concern etched on Karris’s face; saw his brother looking as glum as Bank Holiday weather; saw the black-handled steak knife Ethan was holding.