The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  Crouching, Lana raced to the kitchen and pulled the sharpest knife from the drawer. Meanwhile Jack rose to his feet and calmly approached the doorbell. He was just a resident, drinking with his flatmate. His name was James Land, as his ID confirmed. He enjoyed cider and beans on toast. He hated visitors.

  Jack took the latch off the door and allowed it to slowly slide open. He expected uniforms; he found blood. Blood dripping from a folded arm. Sweat matted her hair; her eyes swam with a primeval fear of death.

  “Please,” she breathed sharply, “Please help me.”

  Emma stumbled in through the doorway, Jack caught her before she hit the floor.

  “Are you okay? What’s happened?” he clutched her shoulders, blood seeping onto his own clothes.

  “Please, get me… inside,” she stammered.

  Jack dragged her limp body through the threshold, kicking the door shut.

  “Lana!” he shouted, heaving Emma further inside.

  She appeared above them, dropping the knife as she digested the scene before her.

  “What’s happened?” she crouched beside them, pawing at Emma’s arm.

  “I don’t know, but she’s losing a lot of blood,” Jack said, pulling himself to his feet and dragging Emma through to the living room. He placed her on the sofa. Her face was grey.

  Leaning over her, he stroked her face, “You’re going to be okay.”

  Lana ripped off Emma’s jacket.

  “Not too much blood,” she said to herself, examining the wound.

  A gouge had been taken out of Emma’s arm.

  “Who did this to you?”

  Emma was barely conscious. Her head was lolling around and her breathing was erratic.

  “Looks like she’s been shot,” Lana said, diving over to grab the knife she’d dropped. “Keep something wrapped around her arm.”

  “What are you going to do?” Jack was panicking. He didn’t know how to help.

  “I’m going to boil this and dig the debris out of her arm,” she said, flicking on the kettle. “Quickly, get that wound wrapped!”

  Jack tore off his jumper and wound it around Emma’s arm tightly.

  “You’re going to be fine,” he whispered, “Lana’s going to fix you. You’re going to be fine.”

  Emma’s eyes opened but a slit, “Don’t go out… whatever you do… don’t go out…”

  “What do you mean? What’s out there?” Jack clutched at her but she lost consciousness.

  Behind him the kettle boiled. Lana raced back over, pushing Jack out of the way and unwrapping his jumper from her wound.

  “She’s unconscious,” he said.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Lana said, “It’s not life threatening.”

  “But she’s …”

  “She’s exhausted, look at her,” Lana said, “Now keep back.”

  Jack watched in horror as Lana dug the tip of the knife into Emma’s arm. Moments later she was shovelling out fragments of bullet; which rained on to the carpet beneath.

  “That’s it,” she said, wrapping the jumper furious round her arm again, “She’s going to be fine, Jack. It was just a bullet.”

  Jack staggered backwards, “Just a bullet? She was shot!”

  “In the arm, no big deal,” she said, washing her crimson soaked hands in the sink, “Give her a few minutes - she’ll wake soon. Right now that’s the least of our problems.”

  He looked sharply away from Emma’s still body, “What do you mean?”

  “Well first of all, who the fuck is she?” she counted each one on her fingers, “Second of all, how did she know we were here? Thirdly, who shot her? Fourthly - and this is my personal favourite - did they follow her?”

  “Her name is Emma. I know her. She’s one of us.”

  “Then how did she know we were here? Did you contact her?”

  “No, I don’t even know her number. I …”

  “She knew you were here! Are you being careless or what? You know how fucking important it is that we aren’t tailed!”

  “I know! I know!” he shouted, “I fucking know that - but no one followed me. No one. Besides, since we got here we’ve done fuck all - what’s to link us to anything?”

  “Oh fucksake, do you really think we live in a society that needs hard fucking evidence? Just the neighbours suspicion would do!”

  “Well then keep your voice down!” Jack hissed.

  “Do you think she was followed?” Lana held her arms on her hips, commandingly, “I mean is she good?”

  “She’s not stupid!” Jack snapped.

  “Stupid enough to get shot,” Lana said.

  “Emma said… Emma told us not to go out,” Jack repeated her last words.

  “Why?” Lana cocked her head with curiosity, “It’s hours until curfew yet?”

  Their answer came from outside. Bursts of machine gun fire rattled through the streets below. Lana and Jack ran to the window.

  The hen party they’d seen earlier were screaming as they bolted down the street. Others were joining them. Flashes of gunfire crackled furiously in pursuit. Two bodies fell pathetically to the asphalt; one with long, shiny hair and sash round her torso.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Lana put her hand to her mouth in shock.

  Instinctively, Jack took her hand. They watched the armed figures move onwards. They weren’t even disguised. CRU officers dressed in full regalia.

  “What is happening?” Lana whispered in muted shock.

  “It’s like they don’t even care who sees,” Jack said.

  From the window they could see dark scarlet pools forming around the butchered bride. The officers didn’t even stop to acknowledge their victim. They simply swept on down the street; as the sound of more screaming circulated back.

  “It’s not just here,” a pained voice from behind broke the seal of silence. “It’s the whole city.”

  Jack wheeled round. Emma was struggling to sit herself up. He knelt by her side.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, gently.

  “What do you mean it’s the whole city?” Lana’s face was a statue of horror.

  “They just opened fire… suddenly. I don’t even know why, it wasn’t me - it wasn’t anyone. It was like they were on a rampage…” she said through stifled breaths, “I was lucky to even survive.”

  “They just started killing, just like that?” Lana said. Jack could hear the cynicism in her voice.

  “They weren’t provoked. They weren’t even firing at anyone in particular. When I fled, I saw the same thing happening a few streets later. Some prick got me as I dashed round a corner.”

  “And he didn’t pursue?”

  “No,” Emma said, “They weren’t interested in catching anyone - not tonight.”

  “And how did you know to come here?”

  Emma looked furtively at Jack. A flash of betrayal crept across her blue eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said, “Alex told me to keep an eye on you. I’ve been watching you for a couple of days now.”

  Jack sank into the floor. Anger filled him - inappropriately so. This wasn’t the time to be frustrated with his friends; there were corpses on the street. And yet he couldn’t help but hate Alex for his remote micromanagement. He hadn’t seen him in months, let alone spoken to him and still the man knew his movements as his deputies reported dutifully back to him.

  “We’ve been out of the loop for fucking weeks,” he snapped.

  “What is going on?” Lana’s focus flitted between the two of them. “Is this the Alex?”

  Jack nodded exasperatedly.

  “Why is he keeping tabs on you?”

  He could practically see the conclusions she was drawing in her mind.

  “We’re friends,” he admitted, “Very old friends.”

  “What the fuck, why didn’t you,” she cut herself off, “No, I don’t want to know anymore. I ain’t having that responsibility.”

  “What?”

  “No,” she reit
erated, “The more I know, the more danger I am in - he is our top guy. I don’t want to know anything about him that could get anyone killed. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t fucking know anything.”

  Jack was confused. He looked to Emma for explanation.

  “She’s right,” Emma croaked, “Just knowing him personally puts you at risk. And knowing who knows him… doesn’t put you in any better a position.”

  “Lana,” Jack addressed her without looking at her, “Can you leave us alone for a minute?”

  Without questioning, Lana disappeared into the bedroom.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Emma smiled weakly, “I’m sorry for… spying on you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jack lied, “It’s more his fault than yours. The main thing is that you’re okay?”

  “Other than being in pain,” she gestured towards her arm, “I’ll live.”

  “And Alex?” Jack asked, wanting similar confirmation.

  “I haven’t seen him since Christmas,” she said, “But he called. Just to ask me to keep an eye on you.”

  “Did he say where he was, what he was doing?”

  Emma shook her head, “I’m sorry. We didn’t talk for long. Just a few seconds. He knew you were in London though. I can’t say, but I got the impression he’d seen you.”

  “What?” Jack said, sharply.

  “I can’t say for certain - just the way he described where you’d been recently. It was like he’d seen it first hand than through someone else.”

  Jack was both shocked and saddened. Alex hadn’t even the nerve to approach him, yet he would happily keep tabs on him through other people. Was his love for Eliza really that unforgivable? Was that even what Alex could not forgive?

  “Don’t take it personally,” Emma read his mind, “No one has seen him for weeks either. I think he’s in hiding or deep undercover.”

  It was hard to take her words as consolation, but without definite proof of anything Alex thought, he had no choice but to accept it.

  “Then what about tonight?” he asked, “This isn’t like anything I’ve ever heard of before.”

  “Me neither,” she said, “But I’ll bet by morning The Resistance will be scrawled all over the newspapers. It’ll be our fault, mark my words. We’ve pissed them off - I can’t say how, it’s too dangerous - but it’s so bad it hasn’t even reached the media.”

  “What was it? Tell me,” he demanded.

  “I can’t, I really can’t,” she said, “Trust me, it’s better for you that you don’t.”

  “Has it to do with Kyle?”

  “No,” she said, “No one you know. In time, you may come to hear of it. Until then, I can’t say anything.”

  “So what do we do now?” Lana opened the door and slouched against the frame.

  Emma turned round and urged her to join them. Lana slinked over and sat on the arm of the sofa, feet tucked in and her head resting on her knees.

  “Whatever we knew of our enemy has just been completely rewritten,” Emma said, her tone coated in severity, “The next time we walk out that door its face will have changed. We won’t even remotely recognise it. The best thing we can do is ensure that they are sitting down having exactly the same conversation about us.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The black door closed behind him. A ravenous silence ensued. He averted his eyes from his team of advisors. They were bursting with information they needed to convey; but he stilled their excitement with one faint swipe of his hand. He wanted nothing more than to be alone.

  Following the long red carpet until his weary feet found comfort as he sat in the overwrought leather chair by his desk; alone was too alone. Scratching his neck, he reached absent mindedly to the decanter at the end of his desk. He poured himself a glass and stared at it; his speech swimming amongst the peaty alcohol. Deep breaths; he recounted the flash of paparazzi fire; the clamouring of photographers to get the best shot. It was business as usual; and yet, it was no one’s business but his.

  Cameron Snowden’s head was threaded with silver. In six month’s he’d noticed the wrinkles curling round his lips; the double chin he’d so ferociously fought off all his life was drooping by his Adam’s apple like a hung corpse drying in the scorching sun. Time had not been kind. The decision’s he had made had not always been either. Necessary, but not kind. People were statistics; money was a figure and opinions were transient. Decisions had to be made regardless of poverty, pain and personal interest. Inaction out of decency was the excuse of the weak. Cameron did not regard himself as weak.

  Several sheets of paperwork were piled atop his desk. He flicked through them casually, barely acknowledging their contents. It was always the way; too little time to read or absorb any information. His job was to talk and he was beginning to feel that his mind ceased all operations several months back. He jabbed his finger onto a page. A name cropped up he hadn’t read or thought of in a long time. David White.

  His predecessor had signed a document. The ink might have just dried. Cameron stroked the signature affectionately, recalling the last time he had seen its owner. Crying and insane; he had been tortured but for whatever reason at the time, Cameron had not dwelled too deeply on that. Had he, then maybe he would not have been so quick to jump into the man’s shoes. But then maybe he had and he pretended not to, if only to preserve some small fragment of his mind from the chaos.

  That was his job. To separate; compartmentalise. He couldn’t let sympathy colour his courage.

  Allowing the pages to fall over each other, he straightened them up again and stared at the painting directly ahead of him and sighed. A chill passed through him; he shivered. His dry throat tickled; he coughed. Outside he could hear the commotion of journalists and news crews. Faintly he could hear them chattering away as they retold his speech to millions of viewers. Excerpts trickled through their distant words and Cameron wished he could mute them all. He didn’t want to have to listen to that speech again. It was difficult enough to recite. From this day forward his name would be etched into history; and he had no hopes for fond words to be said of his legacy.

  Necessity. Demand. Justice. The words leapt out of his pool of thoughts like salmon splashing upstream. Like a bear he clawed at them, but they were as tenable as smoke. Even to Cameron they had lost meaning. Necessity was debateable. Demand was marginalised. Justice had... lost meaning. Regardless, Cameron inhaled deeply; recharging his resoluteness and believing that history could remember him as it pleased.

  The door creaked open. Cameron had only one expectation as to who it could be. He was not disappointed. The Man casually strode in, closing the door neatly behind him, and fell into one of the chairs by fireplace. He was more at home in this room than Cameron was.

  “You did well,” he said.

  “I suppose I did,” Cameron said, lowering his eyes to the glass.

  The man looked up sharply, “Is that doubt I hear?”

  Cameron failed to answer. He wasn’t sure what it was.

  The man rose from his chair and traversed the historic carpet, stopping just before the magnificent oak desk.

  “Drinking already?” he tutted, “Even David didn’t start this early...”

  “David didn’t have to -” Cameron cut himself off before he could finish. But the Man’s ears prickled with interest.

  “David didn’t have to what, Cameron?” his tone took no prisoners, “Didn’t have fantastic opinion polls? Didn’t have a successful term? Didn’t have respect from his electorate? Tell me why you are suffering so badly that you need to turn to this at four in the afternoon?”

  Cameron glared at The Man, “I’m pragmatic - fuck I’m a bloody politician - lying is part of the game. But that? That was… that was deception. And everyone down there fucking knows it,” the anger crept along his tongue; he struggled to reign it back in. His resoluteness had already lost its charge.

  “You did what needed to be done,” the Man said, “You should be proud. You
should be celebrating.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t feel like I’ve won any victory,” Cameron said, clutching the glass so tightly it might break.

  “Prime Ministers need to make tough decisions,” the Man said.

  “I made no such decision,” Cameron glared at him.

  The Man grabbed a photo frame on the desk, “Such a pretty wife. Shame that she’s barren.”

  Rage rattled through him, but he kept his tongue. Cameron knew better than to exchange harsh words with The Man.

  “What do we do then?” he asked, “Do we just continue with our plans?”

  The Man nodded, “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Because they know… them lot down there, they know I was lying through my teeth,” Cameron knew his tone was desperate, pleading. He disgusted himself, but this man was the only person he could trust. To the rest of the country he was a strong leader; only in front of this man could he reveal his vulnerability.

  “Do you not agree with the plan?” The Man queried, tilting his head curiously. “Did we not spend weeks preparing for this? Do you no longer support it?”

  “It’s not that,” Cameron sighed.

  “Oh I see,” the Man’s cruel sarcasm slipping through the veil, “It’s your friends downstairs… Well clearly we’ve got to put the good of the country on hold to please your pals. After all, what’s more important - good chat round the morning coffee or controlling the chaos in this godforsaken land? The last time I checked none of them were Prime Minister.”

  “And neither are you,” Cameron mumbled under his breath.

  A twinkle in the Man’s eyes revealed that it had not gone unheard.

  “The plan continues,” he said.

  Cameron nodded, wordlessly.

  “You are doing the right thing,” the Man reassured, his tone changing significantly, “Good men make tough decisions, but great men? Great men do the right thing. It’s what this country needs. You are the only one to ever have acknowledged that and history will remember you for it.”