Wreckoning

by Lee Harding

  JUSTICE HAS BEEN SERVED.

  The sender’s name displayed Wreckoning. A web address followed the message. Michael clicked on the link which opened the web browser.

  “How the hell did they get my number?” Martin called.

  “I believe they’ve texted everyone, Prime Minister.”

  The group exchanged glances to confirm they had received the same message. On the television the reporter had his finger to his ear.

  “I am being informed that a text message has been sent to hundreds if not thousands of people. It is reportedly from the hacking terrorist group known as Wreckoning with the message Justice has been served. Social media is abuzz with the news of the messages. We are trying to confirm exactly how many people have received it but it seems possible that every person in the United Kingdom with a mobile phone may have done so.”

  He nodded to the camera man who turned to a shot of other media behind him all with their phones in their hands. The reporter himself had reached into his pocket.

  “I am checking my phone as I speak and, yes, I too have received the text. Wreckoning has somehow compromised the cellular network of the British mobile operators and used them to spread their propaganda.”

  Inside Downing Street the television swapped its picture to that of an Internet browser. Even with a hyper speed connection the video took thirty seconds to buffer before playing. Unsurprising considering the entire country is watching it, Michael thought as the familiar skull silhouette appeared and the female voice spoke.

  “Wreckoning always delivers what we promise. We gave due warning that the British press would be annihilated unless major reforms occurred and we delivered on that promise. At 12.30pm today we said that the corrupt judicial system would itself be judged unless they reformed. For their sins the four pillars of British law have been found guilty.

  “Firstly, the Courts. They have committed the sin of partiality, feeding the identity of innocent until-proven-guilty suspects to their rabid dogs, the press. Your sentence will be equal to your crime. Every judge, from a magistrate to the highest court of appeal, will share their private lives with the world. Perhaps in the future they will show mercy and discretion to replace vindictiveness and vengeance.

  “Secondly, the Police. Theirs is the sin of silence. By only pursuing lines of enquiry that would reap a successful prosecution they have cut off the voice of the accused. Your sentence will fit accordingly. As of now your communications systems have been disabled. All police band radios will cease to broadcast and silence will destroy you.

  “Thirdly, the fat Lawyers. Their greed and lust for power have stripped away the essence of true justice. They throw dice in their courts, betting on the lives of men and women where the prizes are glory and a bulging wallet. Your sentence has been paid in full. All assets of law firms, barristers, and solicitors have been frozen. Your tears will replace the millions of pounds provided by Legal Aid.

  “And fourthly, the Prisons. Their sin is one of failure. Their task was to protect those in their care, to help them to desist from the mistakes that put them there and provide support through hell. They have failed. Your sentence will remove your position of trust. All criminal records are now null and void, forever destroyed. Release dates of prisoners are set to today, the first day of the rest of their lives.

  “Justice has been served.”

  The video ended abruptly with the hooded person still remaining in the shadows. Michael could almost hear him laughing in his skeleton mask.

  “It’s a bluff, Prime Minister. It has to be. All of our security systems are in place,” Olsen blurted before anyone had a chance to speak.

  “I need information now,” Martin roared and six aides rushed away with their phones mashed against their ears. Michael’s phone vibrated indicating another text message. It was from Charlie.

  Radios down. Computers frozen. Urgent.

  He nodded to Olsen to try and get his attention but he was jabbering on his own mobile while rubbing the crease lines on his forehead.

  “Prime Minister.” Michael put caution and protocol to the wind. “Scotland Yard’s communications are down.”

  Martin was about to respond when a man in a suit spoke out. “Sir, it’s Lord Eldridge. He says the Old Bailey judges’ addresses have been published online and demands someone remove them at once.”

  The Minister for Justice lowered his phone. “Prime Minister, it’s been confirmed that the country’s databases of criminal records have been corrupted.”

  Martin cursed as loudly as he could which silenced everyone. He was wild-eyed and lashed a finger at Olsen.

  “You said we were protected, that we had nothing to worry about, and I sat here like an idiot believing you. Get out.”

  “But Prime Minister...”

  “Get him out of my sight.”

  Shaking and flustered, the senior advisor rose from his chair and left with his head hung low.

  “Now I have to go out there and reassure the public that the country isn’t about to collapse.”

  Martin stood and lifted his jacket. As he turned to leave the television screen spluttered into life.

  “It’s playing the video again. Switch if off.”

  “No, wait,” Michael said. “I think it’s a hidden ending.”

  The room hushed and listened as the static disappeared to reveal a silhouetted figure.

  “As you are by now aware we have kept our promises. However, one more guilty party remains. The British public.

  “Self-absorption, selfishness, and self-righteousness have infiltrated the heart of Britain’s society. The word society is a misnomer as self has replaced the bonds of decency, humanity, and love that should unite us all. The citizens of the United Kingdom have fuelled the establishments which we have judged already.

  “By demanding the right to pry into others’ affairs you helped to fatten the media beast. Your lust for sensationalism made the press push the barriers of propriety. You have created your own fiends who prowl around in search of tomorrow’s scoop.

  “Your merciless chants of vengeance against sinner and saint paraded through the farcical halls of justice have not fallen on deaf ears. The courts listened and executed your commands to destroy countless lives all at the will of the mob.

  “Modern convenience has not brought humanity together in a spirit of enlightenment as was promised. Instead it has gathered demons hell-bent on destruction and violence.”

  The skeleton mask in the Union Jack pushed close to the camera’s lens one final time.

  “And thus it must be destroyed. No more demands. No more reforms. Britain, you have been judged and have been found guilty. Your sentence is the Black Death.

  “In seven days’ time the United Kingdom will be plunged into everlasting darkness. You will return to the Dark Ages.

  “Next week justice will finally be served.”

  Chapter 16

  21st November 14:09

  Locked safely inside her flat, Alana peeked out through the curtains to the empty streets below. Reports of rioting throughout London were splashed across the television. Looting and arson had shut down Oxford Street as the fire and rescue services battled against a raging inferno that threatened to engulf the entire shopping district.

  The Mayor had issued a city-wide curfew ordering all residents to remain indoors from 19:00. Schools and public services had been cancelled yet the Tube still remained in operation. The London Underground wasn’t noted for its reliability but even in the face of a national crisis it continued to trundle along.

  Wreckoning’s vow to send Britain back to the Dark Ages had flipped normality on its head. The fulfilment of their latest attack was proof enough that they were firmly in control. The private details of judges had been published for all to see. Accounts of magistrates’ homes being attacked were headline news for five minutes before the next atrocity struck.

  The power of the police became diminished when their communication devices went off
line. The Minister for Justice had taken steps to issue officers with mobile phones even though critics warned Wreckoning had control of the cellular networks too.

  The prisons were in full lock-down. The inmates’ sheets had been wiped clean meaning legally the prisons had to release them. Parliament stepped in at the eleventh hour to create an emergency bill ensuring no prisoner would be set free unless their release date could be verified.

  Not that the courts were in session to hear legal arguments. Lawyer firms checking their balances saw them frozen and unavailable. The banks were unable to give an explanation and were frantically trying to re-activate the accounts. The solicitors’ cries for help were ignored as the emergency services had the general public to impede them.

  With all their talk not wanting a state of anarchy, Wreckoning had done a poor job in defending their position. Their desire not to instil terror fell on the deaf ears of Britain. The luxurious lifestyle that the ‘developed’ part of the world was accustomed draped off like the emperor’s new clothes. Naked, they were faced with the most basic instinct of all creatures confronted by fear; fight or flight. Many had chosen the latter and queues to Heathrow and Gatwick clogged up the motorways as the rats tried to flee the sinking ship. Ferry sailings to France were oversubscribed and the Channel Tunnel had to shut its gates as thousands descended.

  Alana’s parents boarded their home shut and travelled north to be with Deborah’s mother. Paula said there was no trouble where she lived and she and Stephen were fine. Craig, Alana assumed, was safe too but she forgot to enquire about him. When asked to join them Alana declined. She had paid that month’s rent and wouldn’t let anyone bully her out of her home. Plus her desktop computer was there and she hadn’t had time (really the inclination) to back-up her files. She cursed the day she had decided not to purchase a laptop.

  The streets were deserted and so Alana drew the curtains closed and went to check her email. A new message from Professor Phillip was waiting.

  Hi Alana

  I hope you have more sense than me and have fled the country. Anyway, I inspected your anonymous email and traced it to an address in New York. I’ve included the companies listed there below. Unfortunately it doesn’t give me the precise information, only the shared Internet hub those businesses use.

  I then researched the email al@n.a. It was registered to a company in Los Angeles called DOE Inc. I tried to contact them but cannot get through. An Internet search revealed no such business and the registrant name, John Doe is, surprise, surprise, a fake.

  I’m sorry I can’t do more. Please take care of yourself.

  Yours, Phillip.

  Alana read through the listed names and recognized a few brands. It was like a needle in a haystack but at least the barn had shrunk to a quarter square-mile in the state of New York. She clicked on the last email and hit reply. The question sparked her fury: Who was Cameron Faith?

  Cameron Faith was an evil man who hurt my family. He went to prison leaving me and my sister and mother to fend for ourselves.

  She clicked the mouse hard to send it. A second later the automated message arrived. This time, however, the content simply said:

  Why?

  Her mother mentioned it had something to do with her two aunts but wouldn’t discuss it. But she had given the name of her father’s solicitor at the time of the trial.

  Deciding there was nothing to lose, Alana opened her web browser and typed in ‘Gavin Hull Solicitors, London’. A map appeared with a phone number. The law office did not have a web site.

  She dialled the number on the screen. An engaged tone made her disconnect. Twenty minutes later with no success made her make up her mind. London might be burning but she needed to know.

  As she stepped outside she was met with a chilly gust of wind with a hint of ash in the air. The nearest tube station was five minutes away by bus and twenty on foot. She pulled the collar of her coat up and wrapped her tartan scarf to loop around her neck.

  A car sped past as she strode along the pavement and for the next few minutes was the only sign of life she saw. Residential housing faded to shops and eateries. A gang of teenagers stood outside a fish and chip shop blocking her way. Keeping her eyes focussed firmly ahead, Alana sidestepped them. She ignored the wolf-whistles and hurried on. Thankfully they remained where they were, spitting off the curb and hurling abuse at a man on the other side of the road.

  The red, white, and blue sign of the London Underground rose ahead like a lighthouse to a ship in distress. Alana pumped her petite legs until she reached the staircase. Descending, she rounded the bend at the bottom and was confronted with Alfie’s, a miniature confectioners squeezed into the corner of the intersection. Alfie’s was usually overflowing with chocolate bars and packets of crisps all within its four square foot frame. Today, the metal shutters were locked which only happened on Christmas Day.

  Fiddling in her bag, Alana found her Oyster Card and approached the barrier. She swiped it over the sensor and the gate opened to let her pass. She stepped onto the elevator and took a deep breath. Heavily made-up faces in ostentatious dress gleamed down at her from the tiled walls. She had been meaning to see a West End show for months but never got the chance. Now, she doubted if London would ever sing again. With the nation’s way of life in jeopardy, she knew much of modern living was basically meaningless. It was at times like these that she wanted to hold on to what was most important.

  Why am I risking my safety on a man who abandoned me?

  Instinctively she knew the answer. It was the same reason she had decided to become a journalist. The search for truth.

  A middle-aged couple kept to the far side of the platform while one brave man stood by its edge. Alana hung back. She didn’t dare to sit on the bench, wanting to make as fast a boarding as possible when the train arrived. It was already eight minutes late. The curved ceiling held a giant poster of the Mayor of London welcoming visitors to the city. Someone had thrown a strawberry milkshake at his crown of golden hair giving him a punk make-over. Much more British, Alana reasoned.

  The rumble of the approaching rail carriages made the concrete floor vibrate. She sensed everyone preparing themselves like sprinters kneeling down for the race. The rattle and quake of the train as it emerged from its black hole echoed to deafen along with the hiss and squeal of its brakes. It shuddered to a stop and five sets of sliding doors opened. Alana bolted for the nearest one, eyeing a carriage with as few occupants as possible. She took a seat next to an emergency help button. A minute later and they were off.

  The offices of Gavin Hull Solicitors were forty minutes away. Every stop was nerve racking. Alana half expected the train to be hijacked or worse but the rioters had apparently stayed above ground. She disembarked and fled into the catacombs of the Underground until emerging back to the surface. Her phone said she was three minutes away. She had been travelling east and peering through the gaps between the buildings could see the River Thames flowing by. All the recent rain had made its water level rise and the authorities were worried it might burst its banks. She wondered if it would extinguish the fires.

  She was expecting a law firm of moderate size and so it took her a while to realize that the tiny office was actually her destination. The sign on the door read Closed but there were lights on inside. She raised her fists and pounded the grill, making the noise of a mighty earthquake.

  The blinds shifted and a dark-rimmed eye squinted out.

  “We’re closed. Come back another time.”

  “I’m here to see Gavin Hull. My name is Alana White. It’s really important.”

  “I’m sorry but we’re closed. Read the sign.”

  The blinds swivelled shut.

  “Please. I’ve travelled over an hour to get here. I just want ten minutes of your time. I can pay you.”

  No response.

  “I’m the eldest daughter of Cameron Faith. I’m here to learn the truth.”

  After a few seconds Alana heard a lock being
turned and then the sound of a motor whirring as the shutters lifted to stop by her waist. The door opened inwards and a deep voice said:

  “Hurry up and come in. Don’t bang your head. I don’t feel like being sued this week.”

  Alana dipped down and arched under the barrier to go inside. The toasty warmth welcomed her and the chill vanished as the man closed and locked the door then lowered the shutters. As he turned to face her she was surprised to see they were the same height. She guessed he was in his late fifties. He still had a full head of hair which had been dyed brown and done so poorly. His nose was wide with purple veins trickling from his temple to its tip. Heavy bags weighed down his eyes.

  “I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing. I would have gone to the funeral but I found out afterwards. Cameron was a good man and I respected him.”

  Alana wasn’t expecting that. “Thanks for letting me come in. I know things are a little chaotic.”

  Gavin Hull led her into his office. By the state of the place Alana wondered if he had started his own riot. Files and stacks of papers piled everywhere. She could hardly see the polyester carpet under the volumes of client records and legal correspondence. She was about to comment when she realized her own study was just as messy.

  “Sorry about all this. I told the girls not to come in today until things calm down out there. As a result the filing is a little underdone.”

  Alana stepped over the solicitor’s clutter and squeezed herself between a stack of envelopes and a fake potted plant.

  “I would offer you a hot drink but I forgot to bring milk. There’s tap water if you’d prefer?”

  “No thanks.”

  Gavin sat and folded his arms. Two buttons of his shirt were undone revealing the hairs on his chest.

  “I really expected you to come earlier.”

  “You were expecting me?”

  “Cameron said you would come. It was a matter of time. He knew you were intelligent and always enquired after the stories that mattered. Eventually you’d want to know who your father really was, and,” he took a breath, “what he did.”