A grumbling vibration juddered down the quiet street, generating from the top, reverberating straight to the bottom, sounding like a toppling avalanche burying and crushing hundreds of souls. Karl turned from the stalking tiger, glanced over the sun-scorched roof of the Peugeot, his brain more than capable of identifying the clamor before his eyes located the source.
Hundreds of youths were charging down the street, filling it, shouting, threatening, cursing, galloping as one towards the car. A young girl - no older than seven or eight - wearing the tattered remains of a Disney Frozen T-shirt, fell to the ground, the horde continuing regardless; stamping, crushing her infantile body. Some of the hooded youths lobbed bricks, glass bottles, stones. The sound of so many feet pounding the floor at the same time reminded Karl of the football matches that his dad used to take him to on a Saturday afternoon; father and son time spent on the terraces, bonding over sweet tea, undercooked pies, and the booming soundtrack of hundreds of feet stamping in unison.
The tiger nudged its head towards the sound, turned around, sniffed the air, then sprinted down the promenade as though its life depended on it. Karl and Martin - both rigid with fear - watched the animal disappear into a litter-strewn alleyway in-between a burnt-out arcade and a shuttered chip shop.
“Hoods?” Martin whispered.
Karl nodded, his mouth drier than Sahara sand.
A chunk of masonry crunched against the side of the car.
“Shit!” Martin cursed. “Let’s get a move on, yeah?”
Fighting through the paralysis of his fear, Karl forced himself around the side of the Peugeot, pulling the keys from his jeans. Martin opened the back door and hauled the looted bounty onto the backseat, scrambling in after it, not having time to close the door as Karl fired up the engine and fondled the gear stick into fourth. They sped away from the advancing youths. The car screeched around a corner, tyres burning concrete, Karl stomping down on the accelerator, bulleting them down the promenade, weaving in and out of rusty wrecks, leaving the youths behind to bake in the sun’s early morning glare.
TO BE CONTINUED…
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Due to National Emergency: Redux being a rewrite of my first published story, the thank you list is a little longer than the original. In the last two years, I have met so many talented authors, filmmakers, graphic designers, actors, actresses, publishers, and artists through the horror community and the David Moody Wander in the Aftermath Facebook group, that I would have to write another book just to thank you all. You are all wonderful people and great inspirations.
No book was ever completed without at least some help (although one or two names do spring to mind who I know are more than capable of writing, editing, formatting and designing their own novels), and National Emergency is certainly no exception.
Firstly, a massive thank you to Adam Millard from Crowded Quarantine Publications for not only giving me crucial feedback, but for editing my work – twice! He did such a fine job of editing the original, that once I decided to rerelease, he was the first person that I turned to. Thank you for the blurb on the front cover, too, mate. You are a true gent.
Speaking of front covers, thank you to Dave Phee over at SM:ART Design for the bad ass front cover. I am really chuffed with the outcome, and I just hope the story does the artwork justice. Thank you also to David Shires at The Image Designs for a wonderful job on the original cover, too. The beers are on me, lads.
Jeremy Peterson… where do I even start to thank you? Some of you might know that Jeremy and myself oversee a very, very, very small publishing house called Back Road Books. Between the two of us (and Charlie Morgan) we have released six books and short stories… with a whole heap of ideas constantly being discussed. You are a great friend – and mentor. Thank you.
A sincere nod of appreciation to Sean Page – the reason why I decided to try writing in the first place – for not only his blurb, but for always being patient and supportive of my work. Thank you, sir.
Below is a list of amazing people who have either helped, influenced, supported, or just been an ear when I needed one. Some of you might not even know how much of an imprint you made on me. Scott and Amy Carter at Southcart Books, Paul Feeney, Duncan Bradshaw, Theresa Derwin, Calum Chalmers, Justin Parks, Jacob Oldroyd, Matthew Cash, Kit Powers, Adrian Shotbolt, Tony Steele, Mark (where’s my knife?) and Mal Cope, Lilly Connor, Matt Shaw, Jeanine DeBellis (and G-ma D), Rich Hawkins, Kelly Guest, Daryl Duncan, Dave Jeffrey, Andrew Freudenberg, Nat Robinson, Daniel Marc Chant, Roma Gray, Bryan Sweeney (yes, he’s real) and, of course, Ste Pixton (don’t worry, mate, we’ll get the bastards back).
To my beautiful wife, Trish… Don’t Ever Give Up. You WILL get better. You’re my rock; my best friend; the love of my life. Thank you for putting up with me. I love you.
Finally, to my two sleep-avoiding children (who were both crawling around in nappies when I first wrote chapter one and are now about to start big school next week) this is for you two. Life is an adventure; don’t stop having fun. There are no words to describe how much I love you both.
The world is a much better place having every single person that I have just mentioned in it.
So once again: THANK YOU
BIOGRAPHY
James Jobling has been a rabid fan of anything horror for most of his life, blaming his older brother for leaving a copy of James Herbert’s fantastic novel, The Rats, lounging around the living room when he was only a child for starting his obsession. A huge fan of the horror book genre, he regards James Herbert and David Moody as his writing heroes - with the latter being his inspiration for getting into writing. National Emergency is James’s first book.
He lives in Manchester, England, with his world – his beautiful wife, two adorable, sleep-avoiding children, and Nanook, his pet beagle. He can be contacted through Facebook and would be honored to hear from anybody who might wish to get in touch.
National Emergency Page 18