by Jo Zebedee
“All right. Calm down, eh? You take the girl and leave the kids to me. No problem.”
Josey moved in front of the other children. Deal with them? She shook her head. “No, please, they’re only kids…”
Gary grabbed her. “Let’s go,” he said.
She fought him, scratching at his jacket. Sophie yelled for her; Stuart was crying.
“Stop that, you little bitch.” Gary tightened his grip, digging his nails into her skin.
“You’re hurting me!” she yelled.
“I’ll hurt you some more if I have to.” He pushed her into the hall. “Downstairs. Go.”
Stuart screamed for her. She tried to turn back but was pushed down the stairs and through the splintered door into the street. Taz’s mum approached, leaning on her stick, escorted by a bloke so fat that rolls of stomach hung over his belt. Liz’s eyes were red, and there was a bruise starting along her cheekbone.
A hard shove sent Josey towards a car. “No!” she shouted, but if there was anyone in the street, they weren’t going to interfere. Liz was pushed into the car. Gary kicked Josey’s legs from under her and shoved her in, too.
“You can’t hurt the kids,” she said. “They know nothing.”
He got in beside her and slammed the door. “Last warning. If you don’t shut up, I’ll beat you black and blue.”
She closed her mouth. He would, and then she'd be no use to anyone. He nodded his satisfaction.
“Good.” He leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Drive.”
CHAPTER SIX
Carter closed the door and found Sanderson waiting in the corridor.
“Any luck, sir?”
“He’s given an address. He won’t give me a name, though.”
“We think it was McDowell's lot.” Sanderson gave a balancing gesture with his two hands. “Dray was a runner for them."
"Makes sense. Get someone to follow it up. Also, I need a car."
"What are you planning?"
They started to walk towards the reception area. “I'm going to head down the Oldpark and check the house.”
Sanderson stopped and stared at him. “You missed the last bit.”
Carter shook his head, puzzled. “I did?”
“Go down the Oldpark, check the house and get lynched.”
Carter paused. Sanderson was right, the Oldpark wasn’t somewhere just to walk into. Not in this city of hidden dens and closed-off, half-feral streets. “I’ll liaise with the army, get some back up.” He smiled. “We may as well go out with a bang.”
Later, as they drove up the rubble-strewn streets of north Belfast, he wasn’t smiling. The city felt as if it was in stasis: the explosion of fear, held in abeyance for months, close and dangerous. The soldiers sat in silence, their faces closed and grim. Peters, leading the squad, had seemed resigned to the request from Carter for support. They passed no other vehicles, saw no one out on the streets. Below them, deceptively calm, was the lough. One of the old passenger ferries from before the attack was moored at its neck. No smoke rose from the sewage farms, but their smell permeated the van, an accusing reminder of the Zelotyr.
They pulled up outside the house. Carter got out of the vehicle, glancing down the small cul-de-sac. There was no one in sight. He could see the Oldpark Road, just visible through a gap beside number ten, its tarmac filled with weeds. A sparrow chirruped nearby, making Carter jump. He looked at the surrounding houses. Their windows – the ones with glass – were dark and empty. Was anyone there? Peters came alongside, his firearm ready, and Carter pulled his pistol from its holster. Both men walked forward, crunching over broken glass in the small front garden. The rest of the soldiers got out of the vehicle, dispersing into the house and round the back. Carter waited, tight against the wall, his heart hammering.
“Clear!”
He stepped through the splintered gash, Peters close behind. Carter pushed a door to his right and stepped into a small living room. He opened the curtains, ignoring the skittering spiders. Peters sniffed; the room was dank, unused. They moved to the back, into a small kitchen, Peters leading this time. Dishes stood in the sink, mould-covered. There was a stench of decay – not just mould, but foul air merging with it – and when Carter touched the kitchen boards a film of dirt clung to his fingers. Peters pointed to the back door. It was ajar, swinging on its hinges. Peters approached it, Carter covering him, and pushed it open. The only people in the yard were three of the squad, carrying out a search. The back gate to the alley beyond was open, and one of the soldiers had taken up position beside it.
“We’ll check the bedrooms,” said Carter. He climbed the stairs. A breath of air touched him and he looked up at the ceiling. Peters was right, the boy had lied – no one could live here. He paused at the top of the stairs, listening, and shivered in the cold landing.
“Over there.”
Carter jumped at the voice. Peters pointed at a small pile of blankets in the corner. Carter nodded and walked forwards, into a small bathroom. It wasn’t clean, exactly, but it was dust free. Four toothbrushes sat on the sink. His breath hitched: the boy had tried to keep going as if it was normal, had brushed the kids’ teeth and made them wash their hands. He rubbed his mouth, feeling sick, and turned on the tap. The water came out, rust brown. If they’d been using this for washing, it was amazing they’d survived. He stepped into the hall and saw the empty water bottle.
“They've been here,” he said to Peters, who nodded, his eyes troubled.
Carter pushed open the next door, to a small bedroom dominated by two beds. Light flooded through several holes in the ceiling, and a breeze lifted dust motes, making them dance in the air. He touched one of the duvets, and it was sodden. The other bed had a plain blue cover, and draped over the end was a football shirt, worn through and at least three seasons out of date. They obviously hadn’t had much even before the war, if the boy hadn’t updated it. He took a deep breath and turned round, imprinting the room on his memory. He’d seen many horrors since the war began, but this room, the desolation masking as normality, hit him hard. How had they survived here? They must have been like rats, curled together in a nest. A small noise, like a rustling, made him turn round.
“Peters?”
“Down here! Looks like the parents’ room.”
Carter crept forward and checked the landing, but it was clear. He’d been spooked, that was all. He spun at another noise and scanned the bedroom again. He walked to a small wardrobe and opened it. From the back of the wardrobe, two pairs of eyes, grey like John's, watched him.
“Peters! Come here.”
Carter reached into the wardrobe. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”
The children shrank back from him, and he reached in a little more. His hand touched one of them –
“Shit!” he yelled, pulling his hand back, seeing the line of teeth marks. “You little sh–”
The children darted past. He made a grab for the smallest and caught him, but the child wriggled and pulled away, leaving Carter holding only the coat. He lunged forward, into the hall, and found himself looking at Peters, a child held firmly in each hand.
Carter knelt in front of them. The boy was evidently Stuart, and the girl was young; Sophie, he presumed.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m Carter – John sent me. Where’s Josey?”
“Gone,” said the girl. Her voice was a whisper but her eyes met his, brighter since he’d mentioned her brother. “The man with us left when he saw your van.”
Carter got to his feet. “Take them out to the APC. We’ll get them into one of the hostels and cleaned up. I’ll arrange someone to keep them safe. I assume whoever was left with them wasn’t a babysitter.”
“I’d guess not,” said Peters. “And then?”
Carter shrugged, helplessly. He walked down the stairs, taking in the house one more time. How many more were like this? He had no idea. The small figures walked past him, each hand held firmly by Peters. He rubbed his fingers along th
e hood of the boy’s coat, seeing where a piece had been torn off. They were too young for all this. He stopped and scanned the sky, taking in that thought. They were too young. All of them. Slowly, he smiled.
***
The outside door of the station slammed, announcing a pissed-off Superintendent O’Brien. Carter set his cup down, checked his uniform, and rubbed at a smear of dirt on the pocket. The more he rubbed, the more it spread, and he cursed under his breath. Still, he’d been on duty for the best part of a day and a half; that might give him some leeway.
“Carter!”
Carter hurried to the reception area, where his chief was standing at the desk, her foot tapping with impatience.
“Ma’am,” said Carter.
O’Brien looked him up and down, lingering on the stain. Evidently, the dress inspection had been failed. She handed Carter some papers and he scanned them.
“Your office, Carter.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Carter led the way, swallowing his nervousness. He opened the door to his office with its usual jumble of papers and bin overflowing onto the floor. The superintendent swept past and sat in Carter’s seat. Carter closed the door and didn’t need to be told to stay standing.
“Enlighten me. Why have I just been given jurisdiction over the biggest pain-in-the-ass problem on Earth?” O’Brien’s voice cut through the air like a whip, and Carter fought not to wince.
“Ma’am, the boys didn’t know what they were doing.”
“That’s irrelevant; the Zelotyr have demanded the right to try the boys, and I think Earth has managed to piss them off enough for now. Thirteen thousand dead and all the hatchlings.” O’Brien looked tired, her hair lank and needing washed, her face drawn and strained. “I want an explanation. That –” She nodded to the paper still clutched in Carter’s hand. “– went above your remit. Juveniles, indeed. The Galactic Council judges puberty to be the age of adult responsibility. I'm assuming your boys aren't falsettos?"
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why the request?”
“Ma’am, I understand there has to be a biological standard when governing more than one species. But Earth hasn’t ratified the Galactic convention; here, they’re considered juveniles.” O’Brien’s eyes hardened, and Carter took a deep breath before he went on, “I thought it would give you time to assess the situation.”
There was silence, and he glanced down at the paper, before looking back at his boss and admitting, “I didn’t think they’d agree. Not so quickly.”
His words petered out under his boss’s glare, but he kept his head up. O’Brien hated people who tried to hide from her flak.
“That’s all very noble, Carter. They agreed because no one wants jurisdiction over this nightmare.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Carter steeled himself –
“But your thinking was excellent.” Carter raised his eyebrows as the chief went on, “I don’t want to hand the boys over. This is an Earth issue, not the GC’s; they’re just another set of bloody aliens.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Carter hoped he’d kept the surprise out of his voice.
She nodded. “You still overstepped your rank. For that, you can do the shit work on this. Arrange some sort of counsel for the boys and liaise with the GC. Find out what they’ll accept.” She paused. “It’s likely they’ll seek a life term.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A life term, at fifteen. His dismay must have shown because O’Brien’s eyes softened.
“We have to abide with the GC’s ruling on this one.” She looked down at the desk and scowled. “You can get in here tidied up, too, Carter; if you have meetings with the GC it can’t be a pigsty.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do it in your own time, Carter.” She frowned. “You do know the scale of what these boys have done? You know the Deklon system can’t sustain the continuation of the Zelotyr?”
Carter nodded. It was the reason the Zelo had come here: their planet had overheated to the extent where their hatchlings couldn’t spawn.
“There must be other planets, ma’am.” He looked up at the ceiling, and the bomb-damage crack running across reminded him of the little house earlier. “It’s a big galaxy, and they have faster-than-light ships.”
“The chance of the Zelotyr finding another planet within this generation’s lifespan is tiny. Unless they can find a way to overcome the virus – and to do that, they need access to some quantity of the source material – their species is doomed. They will demand full accountability.”
“I understand, ma’am.”
O’Brien gestured at the seat opposite. “Sit down. You know how the GC is set up? That it’s split between the Zelo and Barath’na?”
Carter brushed some crumbs off the seat and sat. “Yes."
“The Zelo believe the Barath’na are behind the virus; the Barath’na claim it came from Earth. To say relationships are tense makes the worst days of Stormont look good-natured.”
Carter took a moment, thinking about that. He’d never met a Barath’na, but knew their reputation: altruistic, cooperative in their dealings with other races, they were nothing like the warrior Zelotyr. He picked up a pen, pressing its nib in and out, the dull clicks filling the room, and asked, “Who do we believe?”
“Hard to say. The means of distributing the virus was low-tech, which makes me think it’s from Earth. But I don’t believe it came from central government.” The chief reached out, took the pen out of Carter’s hand, and went on, “You know the sort of military capacity Earth has?”
“I know about Belfast,” – not enough – “and that our situation is replicated across Ireland,” said Carter. “Farther than that I only know rumours, ma’am, and those rumours aren’t good.”
“They aren’t wrong; if there is substantive resistance, Earth can’t hold the peace. We don’t have the personnel, the hospitals or the people to run them. The army advises they do not have enough troops should civil unrest take hold.” She waited until Carter gave a curt nod. “Earth may have to ask the GC to send a peacekeeping force. No one wants that. Especially not if the GC believe the virus came from us. But we might not have any choice.”
Carter drew in a whistle of breath. "I see."
O’Brien started clicking the pen. “Any force will be predominantly Barath’naian, which is something. But if it turns out Earth's governing bodies had any connection to the virus, the Zelo will attack. They have nothing to lose, after all.” She pointed upwards. “The Barath’na have the weaponry to face the Zelotyr. Earth doesn’t. If we get it wrong…”
John’s face flashed in front of Carter, followed by the memory of the half-lived-in house. How many other Johns were out there? Many – most, if he was honest – wouldn’t survive another war. Carter nodded.
“So, you’ll understand why I say I’m glad you kept your boys on Earth, but they must be dealt with accordingly. Whatever the GC want, we must consider it. It won’t be capital, I hope, but it won’t be youth custody for a couple of years, either. You understand?” Carter nodded. “The lads still haven’t said who gave them the virus?”
“Not yet. Dray has said he’ll cooperate once we let him see his family, which obviously we can’t do.”
“The other boy?”
“Recovering.” A little, anyway – the last report had declared him conscious, but weak.
His boss leaned forward. “Whoever’s behind it in Belfast had to have someone behind them. This was a global attack. Your boys are the first – the only – step on that chain. We need them to talk.”
Carter rubbed his forehead. “I’m doing my best, ma’am.”
O’Brien tapped the table with the pen. “Keep at it. And make sure the boys are secure; to lose them might be seen as careless. Convenient, even.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Carter.
“Good. You can go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
John sat on the narrow cot, chewing his nails. He’d seen no one for hours, not since the cop had said he�
�d make sure Josey and the kids were safe. It was getting dark now. Helicopters droned nearby. He got up and went to the small window, and watched for a while. There was a lot of activity, police vans coming and going all the time, but nothing he could look at and figure out what it meant.
The lack of information was driving him mad. He didn’t know where Taz was, or if he was okay. He had to find out. He went to the door and started to bang his fists on it, but the metal was so thick he only made dull thuds. He stopped banging. The noise continued. What the – ?
Yells, and a muffled bang. John stumbled back from the door. McDowell had found out where he was. It was like in Terminator, when the girl hid while everyone who was supposed to protect her got blown away. He glanced around. There was only the bed, and anyone who came in would look there straight away. He backed into the furthest corner, his heart hammering. Another bang sounded – a shot, he was sure of it – followed by a yell. The handle of his door started to turn, the metal bar-lock moving from horizontal to vertical. He looked around for something, anything, he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing.
Fuck it. He stepped into the centre of the room, hands spread in front of him, poised and ready. If they were here for him, he’d go down fighting, not cowering like a dog. The door opened.
“Come on!” Carter looked nothing like he had earlier. His baton was grasped in one hand, and his eyes stared out from a filthy face. Behind him a cop raced past, someone supported across his shoulders. Taz. That got John moving, across the cell and out. Carter pointed down the corridor. “Follow Sanderson – there’s a patrol car waiting.”
Yells sounded through the station and running footsteps came closer. Carter backed away, keeping John behind him.
“Get him!” a voice yelled, close and angry. More joined it, echoing through the tiled corridors.
Jesus, it was a riot. Like in the old days, when trouble sprang out of nowhere. But there hadn’t been any since the Zelo invaded – everyone was too busy either fighting them or finding a way to survive. His mouth twisted in sour realisation; now the Zelo were gone, Belfast was back to what it did best.