National Emergency

by Jobling, James

  “I take full responsibility for my affair with Theresa Derwin.”

  “That’s not important. We have much bigger fish to fry.”

  “As Prime Minister, I had a right to know.”

  “For Christ’s sake, we’re getting nowhere fast!” The Prince slapped his palm against the table. “We’re in the shit, Rob. I mean up to our necks in it.” He took a deep breath and regained his composure. “Now, I believe the Deputy Prime Minister has already given you a detailed account of the whys, whats, whos, and hows.”

  Robert Harris nodded his pounding head.

  “Then do yourself a favour and drop it.”

  The Prime Minister had a hundred more questions – vital questions – balancing precariously on the tip of his tongue, but the bass in the Prince’s voice suggested he follow orders and allow curiosity to fester. He gulped noisily from a bottle of water and waited compliantly for his superior to speak.

  The King’s son brushed a speck of dust from the sleeve of his pristine tunic. When he next spoke, he refused to make eye contact with the Prime Minister.

  “What I’m about to tell you does not leave this room. Not a single monosyllable.”

  Robert Harris wanted to tell the Prince that he had nothing to worry about; that he had sworn faithful allegiance to his father’s every command. However, his tongue was weighted to the bottom of his mouth, refusing to budge, paralysed with fear. Instead, he just went on looking at the carpet.

  “We designed TK-214 back in ’92. It was developed the next year with the intention of being an authentic weapon in reducing the planet’s overcrowded population. The drug comes in a liquid form, totally odourless, tasteless, and is usually inoculated into babies at birth.” The Prince paused for a moment, allowing that last part to fully absorb. “We choose newborn babies because it’s much easier to administer without questions from overprotective parents.”

  The Prime Minister felt physically sick, but remained silent. He was determined to learn as much as possible about this drug. The Prince seemed taken aback, but continued nonetheless. “The plan was fairly basic: we instruct a trusted source to inject selected babies straight after birth and allow the drug to remain dormant until puberty is reached. Then, somewhere between the ages of twelve to sixteen, a cataclysmic trigger goes off inside of the candidate and the inoculant wakes, resulting in what you’ve seen happening across Britain tonight.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” the Prime Minister finally asked.

  The Prince smiled charmingly. “A solidified group of young people – black, white, Asian – coming together to launch a coordinated attack against society. Take away their job opportunities, their benefits, their prospects, their children, and they will retaliate by attacking our way of life.”

  “But what does all of this achieve?”

  “You disappoint me, Rob, you really do,” the Prince sighed. He stepped back from the table, pacing the room with his head down and his hands in his pockets. “Do you remember that civil unrest in London a few years back? Do you remember the riots? Do you remember those youths switching from looting to arson to murder in a window of only a few days? Do you remember the public crying out for the police to have more power? Do you remember them calling for Armed Forces to intervene? If memory serves correct, you even chaired a discussion in Parliament about arming police officers. Do you remember? Now let me tell you what I remember. I remember people dying. I remember trouble knocking at people’s front door and those terrified civilians begging the government to resort to whatever measures they needed to stop the disorder. They wanted the rioters’ dead, they didn’t care how it happened. They just wanted the violence to stop. They sanctioned - permitted - us to open fire on the hordes back then. But we didn’t. We held off. And the population has swelled in the meantime.”

  “Your Highness, are you saying that those rioters were contaminated with TK-214?”

  The Prince swatted the question aside. “This time it was different from the very beginning. The main objective was to inflate the number of candidates involved and allow the destruction to peak.”

  “Let me get this straight,” the Prime Minster said. “You are certifying newborn babies to be injected with a drug that will eventually turn them into feral teenagers so you can gain public permission to execute them later in life. And all of this is so you can reduce Earth’s crammed population? Is that right?”

  “That pretty much describes the situation, yes.”

  “Forgive me, your Highness, but I am failing to see how the authorised disposal of these people can bring the population down to a habitable extent. Surely we’re only scratching the surface.”

  “Statistically speaking, yes, you’re right,” the Prince answered. “But you’re not considering the other prearranged occurrences mushrooming the planet on a yearly basis.”

  “Prearranged occurrences?”

  “Cancer’s the main one. But everything from epidemics in poverty-stricken countries to the endless war in the Middle East are regularly decreasing the population. Add a splash of austerity, financial aiding to terrorism, drone strikes, recessions—even bush fires in Australia. They all play a vital part in the cataloguing of the planet. We even get lucky occasionally, and Mother Nature vents her fury.”

  “Are you saying that cancer is man-made?”

  The Prince looked uncomfortably down at his highly polished shoes. “There are more imperative matters to discuss right now.”

  “More imperative matters? My mother—”

  “Rob,” the Prince cut in, “I know. I am sorry. There is a cure. And it will be released to the public.” He licked his thin lips anxiously. “But only when the time is right.”

  “When the time is…” Robert cackled humourlessly. “I don’t believe this. I don’t believe it.” He felt like he was a priest, hunched over, sitting in his confessional booth, face pressed against the screen, listening to the vile sins of Adolf Hitler. He felt faint and became certain that he was about to pass out. He closed his eyes to regain composure. When he did, the image of his mother’s wicker coffin tormented his brain.

  “Rob, does the name Audra Alexi mean anything to you?”

  “No,” the Prime Minister snapped. “Should it?”

  “Not necessarily. Audra is a highly classified case.”

  Robert Harris raised his eyebrows.

  The Prince overlooked his sarcasm. “Audra was a fifteen-year-old Lithuanian girl living in the East End of London.”

  “Was?”

  “That’s correct. Two weeks ago, she died at the hands of her father. He strangled her to death.”

  “Jesus Christ,” the Prime Minister whispered, his eyes widening. His aching brain was no longer capable of soaking up any more distressful news.

  “It sickens me to have to tell you this, but Audra murdered her three-day-old brother while her mother was asleep on the sofa. Her father had been at work at the time. When he returned home, he discovered his daughter had cooked his son for five minutes in the microwave.”

  That’s it! You can’t take anymore! Your brain is going into fucking meltdown!

  The Prince allowed the horrific information to sink in. He watched the colour drain from the Prime Minister’s face. “The father – inconsolable, distraught, panicking – strangled Audra in a fit of rage. Personally, I don’t think he intended to kill her, but the stench alone would have driven him into a frenzy. Crushed her larynx. She died right then and there. The son was dead, of course, burnt to a crisp. His poor mother received third degree burns to her hands trying to retrieve him. My wife cried for two whole hours once I told her what had required four straight brandies. I hadn’t drunk in years.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You said you wanted to know everything.”

  “Not this!” the Prime Minister roared. “I don’t want to know this!”

  “Well, I’m afraid you have to. You see, Audra’s corpse underwent an autopsy to see if drugs or alcohol play
ed any part in her psychotic eruption. They hadn’t. When the coroner tested for traces of TK-214, he found no traces in her bloodstream. However, when her brother’s body - what was left of it – was examined, miniscule remnants of the drug were detected. The brother was a positive candidate.”

  “Audra’s brother had been injected with TK-214?”

  “That is what we believe, yes. Further inspection of Audra’s major organs – the heart, lungs, liver, kidneys – then began to reveal microscopic residue of TK-214 after death. Tiny at first, it began to increase steadily by the hour, growing like moss on a rock despite the cadaver being deceased. We strongly believe this display of psychosis by Audra was the direct result of her baby brother being administered TK-214 after birth. Which would also lead us to believe that our financially backed pharmaceutical trial – a trial created to manipulate the population of Earth – was, to some degree, a success.”

  “You consider that a success?”

  “Of course. The drug was designed specifically to fulfil our needs. And it did exactly that. America is undergoing a similar project over the coming weeks with a highly contagious super virus called Exuvium7 being released in Nebraska. Life is a lottery, Rob; sometimes your number just comes up. To keep the planet sufficiently populated, this is something all continents must take part in. Like it or not.”

  “I don’t like it, your Highness.”

  “Well neither do I. And neither did I foresee the evolution of TK-214.”

  “Evolution? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that we – man – are no longer the sole contributor of this drug. Perhaps the Alexi children – one positive, one negative – acted as some kind of patient zero. We simply don’t know. But another way has been found for TK-214 to spread… and spreading it is. We are considering the possibility of it being airborne, but right now, we know very little other than it is spiralling out of control, existing in previously unselected candidates. It’s responsible for the anarchy we have seen throughout the night. The death of my brother is all the proof I need.”

  The Prime Minister tried to swallow, but his tongue was as dry as the Aral Seabed.

  “We currently have over three thousand youths in police custody up and down the country. London is obviously worst hit. We are conducting blood tests on every prisoner and looking for any indication of administered or flourishing TK-214 residue. So far, all have proved positive. The clean-up stage of this operation has begun. I have soldiers in position. They will be going into action in the next ten minutes.”

  “What? I’ve already told Sean that I don’t want boots on the ground until there’s no other choice.”

  “I know. But there is no other choice. I had to overrule your command. Sorry Rob.”

  “So what now?” the Prime Minister asked. “I mean, what’s the worst-case scenario here?”

  The Prince was reluctant to answer.

  Thunder bellowed prehistorically.

  “Worst-case scenario?” the Prince sighed. “Do you really want to know?”

  Robert Harris nodded his head… but didn’t think he did want to know.

  “Worst case scenario is that we could be looking at every child in Britain between the ages of birth and twenty becoming maniacal, murdering monsters.”

  CHAPTER 19

  They left Dave’s flat together and descended the dark stairwell, the shriek of the air raid siren still punishing their eardrums. Ethan carried a hammer, which he had discovered beneath the kitchen sink - refusing to defend himself with the sharp offerings of the knife drawer – and Dave had removed the head of a broom, sharpening its handle to create an improvised spear. The point wasn’t exactly sharp, but it was better than nothing. They paid no attention to the blood-smeared fountain or its new gory attraction and stepped outside, where their ears and noses were assaulted once more. Ethan pulled Dave aside.

  “So where’s this taxi?”

  Dave glanced nervously around. The communal gardens circling the complex were deserted. There was a strip of Astroturf beneath a wooden jungle gym to their right, a patchwork of gravelly weeds to the left, and a yolk-yellow Citroen Picasso parked directly in front of them.

  So, where’s Stefan’s taxi?

  The rain was still bouncing down and the wind howled like a fanatically obsessed groupie from the Beatlemania years.

  “It’s parked around back,” Dave shouted over the sizzling rain. “Couple’a kids tried robbing it a few months back. Stefan parks it beneath the bedroom window now so he can keep an eye on it.”

  “Kids, eh?” Ethan smiled. The irony of the situation was not lost on Dave. “Do you want to drive, or should I?”

  “You’ll have to. I’ve left my glasses in the bedroom and the roads will be crammed.”

  “You’ve stopped wearing contacts?” Ethan asked.

  “Stefan prefers me to wear glasses.”

  “Does he prefer you to wear a dress as well?”

  “Ethan!” Karris quickly rebuked. “Now is not the time!”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Ethan said. He accepted the car keys from his older brother and stepped into the downpour. “Stay here. I’ll be back in five seconds.”

  True to his word, five seconds later the distinctive clatter of a black cab chugged around the corner. Ethan pulled over in front of Karris and Lincoln, rolling his window down into the rubber groove. “Aye up pet,” he bellowed in his best cockney impersonation. “Need a Sherbet Dab to get you down the ole Joe Brown?”

  Lincoln giggled as though his ribs were being prickled by the extraordinarily long arms of Mr. Tickle. It felt good to hear his son laugh like that; warmed the cockles. Ethan honked the horn twice, no longer caring about the ravenous hordes.

  “What did Daddy say, Mummy?” Lincoln asked.

  “I really don’t know, honey-bear.”

  They all laughed.

  Ethan grinned from ear-to-ear and tried to look mock-insulted. He opened his mouth to say something when Dave snatched open the back door and clambered inside, ordering Karris and Lincoln to do the same.

  “What’s wrong?” Ethan demanded to know.

  “Need to get moving.”

  “What’s—”

  “Now, Ethan.”

  He could tell that something had spooked Dave, but his older brother did not want to say what in front of Lincoln. Instead of prolonging their escape, Ethan revved the engine, glanced into the rear-view mirror… and what he saw there made his heart scream.

  A dozen silhouettes had materialised from the back of the complex and were charging towards the purring taxi, shouting, pointing, threatening, cursing. Somebody ran in front of the crawling cab and tried to climb on the bonnet. Ethan acted quickly, though, reversing so the lout was thrown painfully to one side. He turned the wheel crazily, as though his windswept eyes had just spotted an approaching iceberg in the North Atlantic Ocean.

  Two more youths bounced a wheelie bin directly in front of his path (more of a blockage than a battering-ram), and Ethan had to slam on the brakes before he had even gained any real momentum. The bin overturned, spilling garbage. Somebody booted the passenger door of the taxi heftily. Through the rain-spattered windscreen, Ethan watched a tidal wave of skin-tight jeans, bomber jackets, Doctor Marten boots, cargo pants, braces, and Ben Sherman shirts wash in front of his headlights.

  You don’t need to be Einstein to work out why they’re so pissed.

  “They’re skinheads!” shouted Dave from the back.

  “I know. That bastard back at your place must have put a call for help through to his cronies.”

  Lincoln was screaming, yelling at the horde to leave his mummy and daddy alone. Ethan leant on the clutch, pressing down the accelerator, feeling the bite, quickly manoeuvring the taxi around the wheelie bin. A chunk of concrete dented the passenger door and something shattered against the roof… again and again and again.

  “Please tell me they’re not petrol bombing us,” Ethan groaned.

  Another youth attempted to
leap onto the bonnet. Ethan abruptly stomped on the brakes and they only succeeded in breaking their jaw against the hard windscreen. One of the headlamps was kicked out. A wing mirror was destroyed.

  “No,” Dave answered. He was kneeling on his seat, looking through the back window. “People in the complex are throwing glass bottles at us, though.”

  “They are? Shit, mate, these people are your neighbours. What the hell is wrong with them?”

  “Don’t know. They’re mostly students who live here. Just get us out of here, Ethan!”

  Chewing anxiously on his bottom lip, Ethan slammed down the accelerator, picking up jolts of speed, roaring away from the chasing crowd. The yellow retainer barrier was approaching at break-neck speed, choking their only escape route, but that was not his biggest problem.

  Someone had forced open the gateway leading to the communal gardens. Automatic locks and spearhead railings were apparently no match for fifty or sixty determined wedging shoulders. Gates had buckled and a now constant stream of hooded degenerates were streaming through, or climbing over the railings mounted atop six-foot-high walls and leaping down to the wet grass. Moving as one, they charged towards the cab and its bounty.

  “Fuck, Eth,” Dave cursed, “we’re blocked in!”

  “I know. Can we go back?”

  Dave wiped condensation from the back window. It was too dark to see properly but, as Ethan swerved onto the grass verge and attempted a U-turn, he saw a group of skinheads racing towards the car. Clenched fists slammed against the windows. Karris screamed for him to do something.

  What? What the hell can I do? I’ve got skinheads to the left of me and chavs to my right, here I am – stuck in the middle with you!

  “What are we going to do, Ethan?” Dave shouted. Ethan noticed that Dave’s hands were gripped tightly around the makeshift spear. Ethan looked at the hammer on the dashboard.

  How many could we take out before they overpower us?

  “Daddy, I’m scared,” Lincoln cried.