Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  A soft noise made her start, and she strained, listening, but there was nothing except the kids’ soft snores, and a whistle of wind.

  Another noise came, louder this time, from downstairs. She went to the top of the stairs and looked down into the darkness. It had been ages since she and John had barricaded the door and told the kids it was going to be a grand adventure camping on the landing. Neither of the little ones had been fooled, not really. They knew aliens weren’t the only danger in Belfast, that hunger made people desperate.

  There was a crash, making her jump. A splinter of light appeared where the front door was. She wanted to scream, to run, but stayed still, not daring to give away they were in the house. A second thud and the damage widened to a crack.

  That got her moving. This was no looter, trying for an easy break-in. She ran to Sophie’s bedroom and kicked the door open. “Wake up! Hide in the wardrobe and don’t come out unless me or John tells you to.”

  Sophie came awake immediately—she might be only eight, but she’d lived through the invasion, too—and darted into the wardrobe. Josey ran into the boys’ room. She picked Stuart up, struggling a little, her hands slippery from fear. She managed to pull him onto her hip and ran into the biggest bedroom, the one that had no roof at all left, not daring to look downstairs. As she shut the door, there was a splintering noise, followed by the sound of men’s voices.

  “Wha…?” asked Stuart, still sleepy.

  “Shhhh,” she said. “It’s hide and seek, okay, Stuart? You have to be quiet.”

  He, too, was a veteran, and crawled under the big bed. She joined him, pulling boxes around them, ignoring their musty smell. Her ma had used the same sort of boxes to store shoes she’d never wear again. Josey choked back something—not quite a sob, more a strangling fear. There was no time to mourn Ma, not when she was busy trying to be her. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, more than one pair. Josey closed her eyes and prayed: be John. It wasn’t, of course it wasn’t. A plastic bottle was knocked over, dully bouncing on the landing floor, and she had to bite back a yelp. She wished she hadn’t separated Sophie, but the wardrobe was too small for all of them.

  Wardrobe—who was she kidding? Whoever this was, they were going to find them. She groped around, trying to find anything to use as a weapon, but there was nothing. She kept her other hand on Stuart’s back. He squirmed and she didn’t blame him—the stench of mould from the carpet was thick, clogging her throat.

  The door was kicked open and hard footsteps crossed to the wardrobe. The door opened, followed by a loud tut. Josey fought the urge to wriggle away, and pulled the terrified Stuart close. He was too warm, his skin sweaty. The footsteps came over to the bed and stopped. She could see boots, leather and shining. Top of the range. No one she knew had new clothes.

  “Josey Dray, is that little Stuart you have there?” The voice was broad Belfast, harsh, not at all safe. “Come out before I drag you.”

  She didn’t move. Another tut, and he got down on his knees. His face appeared at the edge of the bed, looking at her from a sideways position, and her breath caught: Gary McDowell. He was a good four years above her at school, but she knew about him. He’d taken one of the boys from her class, who'd called him Graham instead of Gary, and flushed his head down the toilet. He’d left the boy in the cubicle for an hour, telling him if he called for help he’d spend every day facing more of the same.

  “There you are,” he said, and gave a mock wave. His mouth tightened, and his eyes flashed anger. “If you don’t come out, I’ll kick your arse from here to Derry.”

  She had no option; he was between her and the exit.

  “I don’t want to,” whispered Stuart.

  “It’s all right,” she said. She backed out, pulling him with her, and stood. Her heart was hammering in her chest, making her a little dizzy, but she lifted Stuart onto her hip and faced Gary. She daren’t show fear; his sort loved people to be scared.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  He came to the end of the bed, blocking her way past. “Where’s the wee girl?”

  He was close enough to smell beer on his breath, and her fear deepened; drunk and looking for kicks was never a good combination. She stopped meeting his eyes—she couldn’t afford to anger him. She tightened her hold on Stuart, trying not to frighten him. “She’s in the next room. I’ll get her.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Let's do that.” He pushed her towards the door.

  She stumbled, barely keeping her grip on Stuart, and hurried next door. To hell with pretending not to be scared. She opened the wardrobe where Sophie huddled, her eyes huge and staring.

  “You need to come out,” said Josey.

  Sophie hesitated, but at Josey’s nod came out, and they turned to face Gary. Another lad joined him, wiry and full of nervous fidgeting.

  “Is that all of them?” he asked.

  “Aye.” Gary smirked. “The Dray family, just where they should be.”

  Josey shivered. She had nothing to offer to make him go away. He was watching her, his eyes sharp, and her legs started to shake. She’d heard what some of the lads on the streets were up to since the invasion, how girls had been brought into the gangs and made to do what the blokes wanted. It was why John didn’t like her going out to scavenge, even in the daytime. She backed away. “John will be back in a minute.”

  “I don’t think so. John’s been detained.”

  Detained? Who by? Sophie pulled against her leg. Stuart froze, numb with terror, clinging to her top. She tried to stop her legs shaking—she couldn’t fall apart in front of the kids—and lifted her chin. “What do you want?”

  “Put the kid down.” She tried, but had to uncurl Stuart’s hands first. Gary indicated the stairs with a jerk of his head. “You’re coming with me.” He nodded at the other man. “Deal with the kids.”

  “That wasn’t what your da told us. He said to get the older girl.”

  “Are you arguing with me?” Gary’s voice was low, threatening. He grabbed the other lad’s collar. “Because if you are, we can take it to the Big Man and see who he backs.”

  “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?”

  “Yes, he’s given us 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 th
em."

  "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 the 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 Galact
ic 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.