The Cult of The Enemy: The Dark Places Trilogy

by S. G Mark

  “Fine,” Jack said. “There’s… there’s an abandoned car by the roadside near the gate. It’s probably best no one finds it in the morning.”

  “We’ll take care of that,” another soldier said, stepping forward with another.

  “Right,” Jack said, unused to people taking orders from him, “Now, if you don’t mind… I’m going to go to bed now…”

  Ten minutes later and he was sitting on the edge of his old bed. He’d shed his clothes and was in nothing but his underwear; mud and bloodied clothes at his feet. Several other sleeping bodies shared the same space, all blissfully ignorant that their leader nearly died not twenty feet above their slumbering heads.

  Jack sighed again and wiped his forearms on a damp towel. From the candlelight he could see it was now smeared in blood and for a while Jack’s thoughts returned to the man he’d killed. Blood, wiped away as easily as dirt.

  Morning broke. Jack woke from disturbing sleep by voices around him. For a few brief seconds he was still present in his dream world; a mess of friendly faces and unreasonable situations. It was strangely comforting.

  But as the seconds slithered into the past, the dawning realisation that he was not amongst friends slowly came to him. With Alex’s health at the forefront of his thoughts, he tore the covers off and headed straight upstairs to the farmhouse.

  However, the table was empty and there were no signs of the bloodied rags that were strewn around all over the place beforehand.

  “He’s upstairs in Joseph’s room,” a guard approached him.

  Jack nodded appreciatively and headed straight upstairs. This part of the farmhouse was usually strictly for Joseph and his son. He must have made an exception for Alex.

  Another guard was sitting on an old dining chair outside one of the doors. Jack knocked before directly entering.

  Alex was lying in bed, warm blankets comfortingly placed over him. Though his head was propped up, he was sound asleep. Jack wondered if he’d woken at any point since his arrival. Seeing his regular breathing immediately rested his worry.

  Approaching the bedside, Jack knelt down and stared at Alex’s expressionless face. Being shot was probably the most relaxing time he had had in years.

  “I’m so fucking glad you’re alive,” Jack sighed. “I’m going to kill the person who set us up.”

  An hour later and he was standing alone in Alex’s office. For a long while he had been pacing back and forth, racking his brains for the reason behind last night’s failed mission. Quentin was supposed to be in London, that was what the intelligence said. There were two options, someone within The Resistance ratted them out or… the intelligence was false in the first place.

  Julian. He didn’t want it to be true, but everything rapidly slipped into place when Jack factored in Julian’s involvement. The man had cracked. Jack’s yearlong blackmail had finally broken him and he’d handed over a completely made up schedule to spite him. But then how was he to ever know that Jack would be there? Alex had invited him the night before.

  Torn, he began pacing. The Mole. Kyle and Alex knew of its existence, but no firm identity had ever been assigned to them. There was no corresponding evidence linking leaked secrets to anyone specific in the organisation. Whilst keeping an eye on the situation, Jack had allowed it to slip into obscurity. Perhaps that had been his mistake. Could the mole have seen the schedule in advance of the mission? Was he even a part of the mission? Speculation turned to Mike and Phil and then quickly dissipated in a fog of guilt. He’d left them for dead, blaming them for it all was not a route he wanted to take.

  His thoughts returned to Julian. And then to the emails he’d read on Quentin’s computer. They referred to a friend coming through for them. Surely that pointed directly towards Julian? Enraged, Jack immediately stopped pacing and had the urge to punch something. He couldn’t believe he had trusted the man. Ignorance and foolishness had brought him to this point. Alex was upstairs lying with a bullet hole in his side. At least one other was dead. Two were more than likely dead or being tortured for information.

  A knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he said, steely.

  Kathleen came in, “He’ll make a full recovery. But he’s going to be out of action for a while.”

  “Right,” Jack said, distracted.

  “In the meantime, what would you like us to do?”

  Kathleen was staring at him expectantly. Jack returned her gaze uncomfortably. He was not a leader. As clearly and as firmly as he had shouted it the night before, the cold light of day cast only a shadow of doubt on his own capabilities. His inadequacy brought him to this situation in the first place. It needed rectified.

  “I need to return to London,” he said, “There’s urgent business I need to take care of.”

  “Okay, shall I look into transport for you?” she asked.

  “Aren’t you a doctor?” Jack queried.

  “Yes,” she replied, “But that’s not my only job around here.”

  “Okay,” he said, “Then get me some transport. For later today.”

  He was keen to get going as soon as possible.

  When he returned to London, he was going to hunt down Julian Young and he was going to… he couldn’t contemplate what would happen next. It frightened him too much.

  “I’ll leave you in peace for now,” she said, making her exit.

  “Wait,” Jack said, unsure of exactly what he wanted from her, “No, go ahead. It doesn’t matter.”

  The door shut behind her. Once again, Jack was alone.

  A shudder passed through him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to leave the comfort of the bunker. It provided more than just security; it was a shelter. A shelter from the inevitable fallout. He collapsed into Alex’s chair and instantly felt sick. Had Quentin’s body been found? Had the news been broken to his wife, his children? And the media? The storm was brewing, and there was no doubt that it would soon pour.

  There was no way they had been seen. There was nothing linking Jack to the scene. But how good were Mike and Phil? How tight were their lips? How easily could they be broken, if they hadn’t already?

  Jack’s life was fragile. Everything he had thought he had known about himself cracked and splintered in sand and dust. Murder was one line he thought he’d never thought would be on his radar, let alone one that he’d cross.

  It wasn’t hard to pull the trigger. It wasn’t even challenging to pull Alex out of the debris and get him to safety. He hadn’t stopped once to truly reflect on the anguish. There hadn’t been a moment where he had broken down with guilt. He had carried on. He had driven for miles to reach this place. He had stayed by Alex’s side until he was sure he was alright. And that was what worried him. It wasn’t guilt or remorse, it was that he didn’t feel either.

  “Is this what it feels likes?” Jack asked a motionless Alex a few hours later.

  Daylight spilled in through the curtains. Outside he heard the chopping of wood, the chatter of cattle being herded into a new field. Underground he could forget that this was still supposed to be a working farm.

  Standing up, he headed to the window and pulled the fabric aside. The moss infected tiles traversed most of his view, but he could still see a good portion of the yard and the fields beyond. Chickens were dancing across the dirt, unperturbed by the men carrying sacks and pitchforks nearby. Far out in the fields tiny figures drove forks into mud.

  It was easy not to appreciate the struggles of the countryside when trapped in the urban warfare of hunger and refuge. The last time he had spoken with Joseph, the farmer feared losing his land in the enforced Collection. Looking outside, Jack saw that he was still fighting for his livelihood.

  “At first,” a voice behind him croaked.

  Jack whipped around. Alex’s eyelids were flickering open.

  “But then,” Alex’s breathe was winded with pain, “It just becomes normal…”

  “And what if it already is?”

  Alex turned his head feebly t
owards Jack, smiled but said nothing.

  Meandering around the bed, Jack retook the little stool he’d been sitting on for the past half hour. His transport would be arriving soon, and shortly after he would be leaving the farm for the second time.

  “How are you feeling?” Jack asked.

  Alex patted his side gently with his hand, “It’s agony, but it’ll heal.”

  “You had me worried for a moment,” Jack admitted.

  “I know,” he said, the corners of his mouth flinching.

  Silence descended momentarily. Jack’s mind was brimming full of possible questions. He both wanted advice and wished for none of it. It seemed Alex was already a step ahead of him.

  “You want to know who told them we were there?” he asked.

  Jack nodded, “My source… I have this dreadful feeling that…” he broke off.

  “We have a Mole,” Alex hinted.

  “That could have been killed months ago,” Jack said, “We’ve never had any concrete evidence, just the last words from a dying man. And how many people in this place talk when they’re captured? How many people are disillusioned by our constant defeats? How many people might be persuaded by promises of waived convictions?”

  “It sounds like you’re one of them,” Alex said.

  “No,” Jack shook his head softly, “I just mean, we have no idea what we’re dealing with.”

  “I asked you to look into it…”

  “What was there to go on?” Jack asked, almost accusingly, “Sure some of our missions have been failures, but how can we tell that that was down to a mole, or even several of them?”

  “Who knew about the missions that failed? Look at that, and not even the obvious candidates. Not just the people who were present,” Alex said, “That’s how we’ve caught moles in the past.”

  “I just don’t think it’s the mole,” Jack said, staring flatly at the floor, “Someone wanted us all dead last night. They knew specifically who was going to be there. I can’t help but think… this is personal.”

  “And why would be personal?” Alex asked curiously, lifting his head from the pillow.

  Jack struggled to breathe himself; his gaze penetrated the short pile as he burned its image into his mind; far better to have that ingrained in his retinas than the memories of how he’d destroyed a man from the inside.

  “My source…”

  Alex gave an inquisitory look, concern flashed across his features. Harder and harder Jack stared at the floor, wishing the moment would never come where the words would alight from his lips.

  “Jack, what aren’t you telling me?”

  Physically shaking, Jack forced himself to meet Alex’s powerful gaze.

  “Don’t… don’t think any less of me…”

  “Please, tell me what’s happened?”

  Inhaling deeply, Jack closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he’d already begun to speak.

  “His daughter...I slept with her… just so I could threaten him into giving me information on Quentin…” He dared not repeated that he’d been thinking of Eliza during it.

  Tears forming a film on his irises, Jack’s intense stare clashed with Alex’s. Neither man said anything for a while, but Jack was relieved when eventually Alex did break the fragile silence.

  “You did what you needed to do,” he said, his tone unburdened with emotion.

  “Is… is that it?”

  Alex seemed hooked on curiosity.

  “In a few hours’ time, news is going to break of Quentin Robson’s death. The Resistance will either claim the credit or already be blamed for it. I’d say that’s one heck of a victory.”

  “So…” Jack stammered, “So what are you trying to say?”

  “I’m saying it was worth it, Jack,” he said, “I’m saying if it weren’t for you, then we would still be struggling to make the bastards in Whitehall fear walking down the street. Now they’ll be scared to go fucking home.”

  A twinkle in his eye, the madman grinned within. Jack looked onward, cocktail of disgust and excitement brewing inside.

  Downstairs, Jack shuffled several pieces of paper in his hand before laying them in front of him on the desk. As he scanned over each of the reports, he inhaled calmly before raising his gaze to the five others in the room.

  “School curriculums,” he said, “Give it to me.”

  The woman whose eye contact he’d just made with confidently began to speak.

  “The government’s school programme has had significant changes over the last few years, as we all know. Compulsory education until eighteen, longer term times… it seems that their agenda has been to keep our children in school,” Carolyn said, “But their education syllabus has undergone some major changes as well. Art was dropped. English lessons were more tightly controlled - certain books were dropped suspiciously. Maths and Science subjects are now mainly about plugging in formula instead of evaluating concepts…”

  “So they’re teaching them not to think?” Jack interrupted, having learnt nothing new yet.

  “It’s more than that now… there’s evidence that the government will be rolling out a new curriculum this coming summer that introduces a whole new style of teaching. They’re calling it Determined to Learn, or so we believe from leaked documents.”

  “Determined to Learn… And what are they actually doing under this new programme?”

  “We’ve only had a few phrases fired at us - our sources were all aligned on this one. They’ve not fixed the details yet, but everything that will be taught will be tailored to living in a threatened society. There’ll be new classes - and for the first time every subject in school will be compulsory.”

  “What are the new classes?”

  “Again, it’s not finalised,” the woman said, apologetically, “But we have the name of two so far. Auto-socialism and Neo-Dynamics.”

  “What the fuck are they?”

  “We haven’t got any more details than that, sorry.”

  “Find out what you can,” Jack said, “It may be something in nothing - but they sound too misleading and confusion for it to be accidental.”

  “Right, I’ll update you when I have more information.” she said.

  Jack nodded and brought the next piece of paper forward to him with the tip of his index finger. On the other side of the desk a middle aged man stared at him, almost defiantly. For the entire conversation with Carolyn he had not taken his eye from Jack.

  Luke was investigating Domestic Security, handling the channels of information being leaked from the CRU and police.

  “And you?”

  Luke burst open with his opinion - and a volcanic explosion of words poured from his mouth like magma, “I’m not fucking explaining my actions to you.”

  “Why not?” Jack asked, remembering his position of authority only after speaking.

  “This is a joke,” he said, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “The person in charge,” Jack said, though his tone was not as strong as he’d like it to be.

  “I report into Alex, not some kid,” Luke folded his arms.

  Jack smiled insipidly, “Well actually Alex and I are the same age…”

  Scowling, Luke scraped his chair back and stood up, “No one in this room knew who you were five hours ago, and now you’re expecting us all to obey your command?”

  “Alex has left me in charge,” Jack said, “Now sit down.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t recognise the authority of a pretender,” he spat.

  At this point Jack slowly became aware that the others in the room were rallying their heads between the two. He wasn’t prepared for this kind of dissent. Alex had ordered him to hold a briefing that he’d had scheduled for today. There was nothing in Kyle’s training book for this and in all the time he’d spent on the road, he’d never imagined he’d hold this kind of responsibility.

  Something inside Jack stirred, though, and it was not paled by weakness. Rather than relenting to the man’s ove
rpowering presence, Jack focussed on the task at hand. This wasn’t about personalities or politics. It was about a report of the latest information from The Enemy.

  “Sit down,” Jack said through gritted teeth, “Or leave.”

  Luke automatically went to the door.

  However, as his hand gripped the handle, Jack continued, “But if you leave. Don’t expect to be invited back. I’ll have Alex post you out to some shitty place in the Outer Hebrides.”

  Luke turned around and seemed to be weighing his options up.

  “I think I’ll take my chances,” he said, throwing open the door and storming out.

  With the door slamming shut behind Luke, Jack was left in a storm of silence. The draught blew the sheets of paper he had for reference across the desk. His audience sweeped glances between the door and Jack.

  “What a twat, eh?” he sighed, though in reality a heavy weight dragged on his chest. His tenure of interim Leader was not going well thus far.

  Audience laughing nervously, Jack refreshed his resolve.

  “Samantha,” he said, “What have you got for me?”

  The woman, in her mid thirties, shuffled in her chair before reciting her update on the transport networks. She explained that restrictions were set to be tighter in May, but her sources hadn’t been able to confirm the reason for this. The next update came from Richard, who warned of a sharp rise in the mortality rate in the past two years. Jack questioned the accuracy and a discussion arose regarding the possible contributing factors; poor diets from Rationing seemed to be the most obvious reason. Nevertheless, Jack ordered Richard to do some more figure digging.

  The final update left was from a man named Joel. Wild haired and aged by cigarettes and alcohol instead of time, Joel was the oddest looking of the attendees. Jack knew him to be in charge of the keeping an eye on the Community programme the government were conscripting everyone into being a part of.

  “How did it feel?” Joel said, grinning excitedly.