No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series

by Roo I MacLeod

  Harry’s chatter continued as he bounced around the room shooting the bad guys. I switched the phone to my left and stuck my finger in my right ear to cut out Harry’s noise.

  ‘Now, I took the bag from her house because I didn’t want the police having it, eh? These are hard times in the forces, with the Man pissing about with cops wages and cuts and shit, so I thought it better I have the bag. I had to be sure that if you weren’t going to get it, then it had to be because I hadn’t given it to you.’

  Silence greeted my speech so I took the opportunity to chill, to breathe and gather myself for the big sell. ‘Now I need to give the money, sorry, I mean the bag back to you, don’t I?’

  A gruff response bordering on contempt spat into the phone. ‘Young man, you just don’t know how much trouble you’re in. But yes, you need to give the bag back. Why are we discussing this?’

  ‘Because you think it’s about me, but I was never the problem. For some stupid reason, Marvin landed in my patch, died in my patch and a retarded idiot accused me of murdering him. You, in your wisdom, figured that meant I had the bag. Wrong, because I didn’t kill Marvin. Why would I kill Marvin? And what really pisses me off is my old mate died a couple of nights ago. He was murdered and no one cares about his death or who the real murderer might be. I think that’s a tad bizarre, don’t you?’

  A long breathy pause greeted my speech. He coughed a phlegm heavy retort. ‘Fuck Marvin, when do I get my bag?’

  ‘You don’t comprehend my dilemma,’ I continued. ‘You’re not giving thought to my situation and you don’t understand that I’m an innocent by-product of your grief. I want my life back because I’m tired of sharing it with you pricks.’

  ‘You talk a load of shit. What deal do you want?’

  What did I want? I wanted Tilly safe and the Black Hats out of my life. Knowing Tilly sat in her house with Cooper and his nonsense Black Hatted twats needed to be my advantage. Harry jumped from the window, performed a forward roll and shot me dead.

  ‘I need you guys out of my life,’ I said. ‘And I need an assurance you won’t come back and give us grief. I want to hear you say this was nowt to do with me, that you’re dysfunctional family of Coopers mucked this up and maybe an apology could be offered.’

  ‘I’d sooner put a bullet through my head than apologize to a piece of street shit. No offense right, but if you give me the bag, I promise you’ll never hear from me again?’

  ‘None taken and you can have the damn bag so long as it means you are gone from my life, eh?’

  ‘So get your arse over here. I’ve had enough of talking.’

  I pressed the phone to my chest and turned to Harry. ‘He wants to meet at your mum’s.’

  Harry looked up and smiled. ‘Good. We can attack from the rear and the front. We’ll smash ‘em.’

  ‘It’d be a blood bath.’ Harry shrugged. I took my hand off the phone. ‘Where’s here?’

  ‘You’re goby girl’s house.’

  ‘Listen, I’m not happy with Tilly’s place. I’ll call you back.’

  ‘Wait.’ His voice sounded panic-stricken.

  ‘What? Wait for what?’

  ‘We have your precious Tilly.’

  I hadn’t expected him to give up his advantage. ‘Right. I know.’ I looked at Harry and did the ‘wanker’ hand motion and Harry giggled. ‘So I bring the bag to you and you hand me back the house and Tilly?’

  ‘That’s how it’s going to work.’ His voice sounded flat and bored.

  ‘What are my guarantees? You could have already shot her. You could shoot me. Once you’ve got your bag, what do you care about her or me?’

  ‘Welcome to the world of grown-ups. You take your chances.’

  I hung up the phone. ‘We can’t be meeting up next door, Harry. I don’t trust him. But the school is neutral, eh? We set up an ambush and take them down easy. He won’t expect me to attack. You guys hide in the woods by the playing fields. And it’s close to the Camps. How quick can you get a gang together and get hidden in the woods?’

  ‘Half hour easy.’

  ‘Go. I’ll organize the meet for an hour from now. Let’s kick some arse. If it all goes well, you and your mum get your house back and I get to walk the streets without flinching every time a man wearing a black hat crosses my path.

  ‘And we get to keep the bag, eh?’

  I tried to high-five the little tyke, but he wanted to shake, so we shook hands like proper grown-ups.

  ‘Can I have the Glock?’

  I shook my head. ‘Listen, it isn’t my job to be the parent, but you can’t be a part of this, eh?’ My foot stood on the gun he wanted.

  ‘But I’m a Punkster.’

  ‘Yeah, but…’

  I didn’t know what to say. He wanted to save his mum and Tilly wanted me to be an adult. ‘Here’s the deal. You be the General. You’re in-charge. So you get it organized, work out a plan. And we need a sign, eh? Something natural, so when I’m at the school with Cooper you’ll know when to attack.’

  ‘You could lift a gun and fire it.’

  ‘Or put the gun to my head and pull the trigger.’

  He nodded and we both gave the predicament some thought. I tried to envisage the meeting, me and Cooper and the bag.

  ‘The bag,’ I said. ‘I’ll drop it at Cooper’s feet and you give the order to attack. So you need to get the troops in place so we hit him hard, but—and it’s a big fucking BUT—you can’t be involved when the bullets start flying about. You give the order, eh?

  ‘So get them sorted and hidden and meet me back at the Camps.’

  He nodded. ‘What about the bag? Can we open it before I go? Be good, like, to see what’s in it and all that.’

  ‘It’s padlocked.’

  Harry ran off to the kitchen and returned with a knife. ‘We can cut it open.’

  ‘That knife’s for slicing butter. Leave it, eh? Wait until we can get a set of bolt cutters onto it. You need to go.’

  ‘I’ll take Alex’s bike. It’s pretty cool. It’s an old Dragster.’

  He ran, thundering across the bare boards and slammed the door shut behind him. As I picked up the phone, I noticed the Glock no longer sat beneath my foot. I pushed the green phone symbol and when Cooper answered, I said, in a loud urgent voice.

  ‘Ostere Primary School. An hour from now. You, Tilly, me and the damn bag. No one else.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Children plus guns equals Trouble

  My path to the Camps met little traffic as the quiet streets of Ostere resembled normal for a Sunday night. The streetlights stood dead and the army caused terror elsewhere. I dodged and weaved with the trolley rattling and my Browning slapping against my chest. A new serrated knife, rust honed, sat in my trousers, courtesy of the house next door to Tilly’s.

  When I hit the square the town hall clock struck the hour. I ignored the chimes, concentrating on keeping to the dark perimeter. Lads in Day-Glo orange, shackled to their wheelie bins, picked at the litter and rubble carpeting the square. Three private security lads acted as guards, but concentrated on their card game. A soldier sat in a jeep outside Ahmed’s Emporium listening to a country tune and blowing elaborate smoke shapes into the chill night air. Two chaps perched on ladders worked on the big screen while stall holders repaired shop fronts damaged in the bombings. A croaky weak voice sang a century’s old Christmas carol in the Drunken Duck with a smattering of T-Birds in black supping in silence before the chip board windows.

  In the corner by the Mayor’s blackened house a large group of folk, holding flickering candles and pictures of their children, sang hymns and prayed. The vicar stood on a seat with a small choir beside him, his deep voice leading the singing.

  I arrived at the Camps, standing back with my trolley, fearful of the living dead within the tatty tents, keeping a copse of scraggy bushes as cover. Dogs lay curled around dying embers. A single light shone in the toilet blocks. The goat nibbled at pieces of plastic littering t
he compound and a rooster pestered the chickens by Weismann’s shack. Alien noises bubbled in obscure plots. Procreation sounded, but the snores of the undead dominated.

  The clouds parted and the moon offered a path through the maze of tents and guy ropes. A gaggle of dogs raised their heads and chains rattled, but they soon snuggled back to the never-ending rabbit chase. I parked the trolley behind a crumpled growth sucking at the barren earth and sat on the bench closest to the mess tent.

  From the back of the camp, a howl broke the quiet and inspired a chorus of low growls. A shadow flicked between the tents. I turned, not wanting to be caught unawares by the walking dead. More shadows flitted off stage.

  ‘Jesus, Harry,’ I muttered. ‘This wasn’t a good plan A.’ I stood and walked away from the mess hut, choosing to skulk against the shadow of the toilet block.

  One of the nimble shadows morphed into a bike and a childish scream broke the night, swooping and slapping at the back of my head. Two, three, then a half dozen joined the fray, circling and hooting and striking with precision. I retreated to the stained cloth of the mess hut, the bench seat to my fore and thumped Weismann’s gun on the table. The cyclists backed off, resting on their saddles, pointing at me and snarling each time I moved.

  ‘You need to get Weismann.’ I kept my tone calm. ‘A deal is going down, eh? But I can’t be hanging about here, not if Weismann isn’t interested.’

  They edged forward, their faces blacked, their hoods low and scarves wrapped across their mouths. The seats sat low to the ground with arms relaxed across the handlebars. Training wheels helped one young rider to stay balanced. His short, chubby, raw legs bore scratches and cuts, his feet brown with dirt. He rubbed mucous from his nose and sneered.

  ‘Empty pockets,’ the infant ordered.

  ‘No.’ That got them jabbering. They didn’t like ‘no.’ ‘Where’s Harry?’

  The infant dropped his bike and approached, his small chubby arms held out from his body, ready to draw his six shooters and shoot me dead. He snarled and reached for my pocket. I slapped at his hand, but his other hand dived for the opposite pocket. As I defended the second attack I grabbed the gun from the table and pressed it hard against his cheek.

  ‘Piss off, you little shit.’

  Another child dropped his bike and pushed the infant out of my face. I’d met this boy before in the square with Harry the night the bombs took out our town hall.

  ‘Tyson, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I need to talk to Weismann and Harry?’

  ‘Harry’s on a mission.’

  ‘I know, but not on his own, I hope?’

  ‘Nah, he’s got about twenty of us with him. He talked to Weismann.’

  ‘So get me Weismann.’

  A snicker of snarls greeted my order. Tyson and his small gang stood with their arms crossed. ‘He’ll be back soon,’ he said.

  ‘So we wait.’

  I sat at the table and took a good slug from my flask. My cigarette had burnt to the stub when Weismann materialized from the front of the Camps. He wore a shimmering white robe, his hair tied back and his tall black stick tapped loud on the dirt as he approached.

  ‘Where’s Harry?’

  He shrugged and suggested the tykes on bikes stand back.

  I flicked my cigarette into the night and heaved the bag onto the table. ‘May I present the bag?’

  The children abandoned their bikes and jumped on the bag, scratching and pulling at the chains and handles with elbows jabbing for space. ‘Ease up guys,’ I said. ‘It’s locked tight.’

  More children appeared and adults poked their heads from tent flaps. Weismann instructed a child to fetch a set of bolt cutters from the storeroom. He came back with a tool as tall as his wiry frame and set about the bag, with a hundred fingers getting in the way. I stepped forward, pulled the bag free and swatted at faces standing too close

  ‘Bag’s mine.’

  ‘No, bag’s ours,’ Tyson said. ‘The deal is the bag.’

  ‘But the deal hasn’t been completed. I still need the bag and in one piece.’

  ‘Take your stinking bag, but we’re having the money now.’

  ‘No.’

  I needed to take charge. As Tyson went for the bag again I smacked him hard, a straight sharp strike to the nose. Blood exploded and he fell back into the bike riders. A child stepped forward to back Tyson and I twisted his arm up his back and the gun was at his head with a snarl exhaled in his ear. I threw the child across the dirt and watched him bounce off Tyson.

  ‘I need the bag,’ I said. ‘Without the bag, I don’t get Tilly back. Without the bag, I can’t draw these men out. Without the bag, my life is shit. But trust me, if my life has to be shit, then yours will be smellier.’ My words lacked the cutting edge, but the little shits had backed off and were listening.

  Weismann took the bolt cutters from the child. ‘The bag belongs to Ben. We can discuss its contents when you all return.’ Well said, Weismann. ‘Go. Tyson and the lads will ride with you.’

  I looked at the child with the training wheels. ‘Just a quick word,’ I said.

  Weismann stared at the bag, rubbed his hands together the glint in his eyes stronger than ever.

  ‘I’m worried about Harry being a part of this. His mother will have my balls if he’s anywhere near the action.’ They all nodded, but no one offered to vocalize a thought. ‘What I was thinking?’ and I looked at the wee lad with the training wheels. ‘Maybe he could come back with this little fellow. You know, because he’s way too young, so maybe you, Tyson, might suggest Harry bring him back. Give Harry a job.’

  We turned to the bike and child in question. He too turned, looking for my point of concern. Once he realized I wanted him out of the action his snarl returned.

  ‘That’s Spike,’ Tyson said. The bloodied cloth held to his nose gave his voice a nasal quality. ‘He rides with us. As does Harry.’

  ‘He’s got training wheels.’

  Spike gave the right hand wheel a spin and looked at me, daring me to challenge him further.

  ‘You don’t want to take the piss out of Spike.’ Tyson pointed at me, his finger jabbing me in the chest. ‘He don’t take it so well.’

  ‘What’s he going to do? Cry?’

  ‘The last bloke,’ Tyson said. ‘Who took the piss, ended up wearing his nappy.’

  ‘He’s still in nappies?’

  ‘Yeah and you don’t want to be wearing it coz his mum’s not keen on changing shitty nappies.’

  ‘Sorry Spike. Best you lead the way.’

  The children sat back on their bikes, riding in small circles, war cries being barked to the Camps before Spike sped off toward the school, his short legs pumping hard and fast.

  Tommy appeared from the dark, dodging the bikes as they raced into the night. His battered hat sat on his head backwards. White dust covered his coat and mud caked his boots.

  ‘Hi-ya, Tommy,’ I said. ‘Where the fuck you been? You look like poo.’

  ‘How you doing? Sorry about yesterday, but I got spooked, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘Don’t like to be driving like that. Me mum’d have a litter of kittens if she saw me driving the wrong way on the highway. Jesus, how’d we not hit another car?’

  I shrugged and clapped him on the back.

  ‘Ben, Pete’s back at Blacky’s.’

  ‘How’s the fat shit doing?’

  ‘He’s got a new badge.’

  Weismann turned to listen to our conversation. ‘Anything we should be proud of?’ I asked.

  Tommy shrugged and smiled. ‘Knots.’

  ‘And the child?’

  ‘Not happy about losing his badge.’

  ‘I can’t be dealing with Pete just now.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do with him and his bloody badge?’

  ‘Go back to Blacky’s and keep him there. Once we’ve got Tilly back, we can deal with Pete.’

  Weismann stepped up, his stick tapping the bare earth as he approached. ‘You guys should do somethi
ng about that damn boy. He’s drawing attention to all of us. He comes round here showing off his damn badges and wanting to make fire and heal all kinds of damn shit.

  ‘No one here likes him. There’s something wrong with that boy. Someone needs to talk to the vicar and get the boy off the street.’

  ‘Yeah, okay, Pete’s our problem. We’ll deal with it, but first up is Tilly.’ I grabbed Tommy and led him back toward Weismann’s hut. ‘Get back to Blacky’s and keep him there. Get him to show you how to tie a knot, make a fire, anything. But keep him at Blacky’s.’

  Tommy saluted and exited through the hut. I returned to Weismann. ‘I’m off. Don’t worry about Pete.’

  He looked back at the bag. His long, thin, wrinkled hand reached out and stroked the rough black canvas. ‘It smells bad. Damn bag smells evil.’

  ‘It shared a week with something dead in Blacky’s loft and a night sleeping rough with me in the Pittsville ghetto.

  ‘I need to be out of here, Weismann. I want to be in place before Cooper arrives.’

  ‘Look after that bag, young man.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll concentrate on looking after me. The bag seems capable of looking after itself.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Kapow Bam and Wallop

  With the bag strapped to my back and a flaming torch guiding me through the claustrophobic black, I set off at an even paced jog. My hood sat low, my coat buttoned high against the icy night. ‘Cometh the hour,’ I chanted to the rhythm of my feet on cobbles, the light covering of snow dulling my progress.

  The girl and her wolf waited by the lamp post I’d met Tommy the previous evening. I slowed my pace to a walk and felt the weight of the bag settle with discomfort on my back. A black beret covered her hair. She’d added more black to her face and wore a large dark puffer jacket complemented by black combat trousers and trainers. Her arms crossed her chest, her feet spread wide and her wolf stood by her hip on her right side.

  ‘Sort of busy, eh?’ I said. My breath and words exited in gasps.