Yes, Bryan Sweeney really was a lucky son of a bitch!
*
Ethan Hardcastle was not made from the same cloth, though. He used to joke that he was so unlucky that if he ever fell in a barrel of tits, he’d come up sucking his own on thumb. Or if he ever got stranded in the desert, he’d most likely end up drowning. But he’d never actually believed it. He had never got more than three numbers on the lottery, true, and everything he owned he had grafted his backside off for, but that didn’t mean a curse had been placed upon him, did it? He didn’t believe in things like that. However, one gunshot wound and a slashed forearm later, and even Ethan had to seriously wonder where he ranked on the Unluckiest Man in the World graph.
He was leaning over the kitchen sink, looking through the window, bleeding like a stuck pig. When he spat a mouthful of yellowy sputum into the steel basin, he groaned as he saw it flecked with blood. Ethan turned, resting his frame against the marble work surface, searching desperately for a weapon. Kieran barged into the kitchen, steak knife glinting, despite the lack of light, hood pulled back up.
“Wait a minute,” Ethan pleaded. He realised he was trapped. He could try escaping through the kitchen window, but he knew Kieran would be on him like a shark with the scent of blood in its nostrils. Wind howled teasingly. He could hear rain drumming against the burnt-out wrecks in his driveway. “Just wait a minute, please.”
“Wait a minute? Did anybody wait before they killed Leanne?”
Ethan tried to swallow, but it was impossible. His throat was syrupy with blood. “I don’t… I don’t know. I wasn’t here when Leanne died.”
“I was!” Kieran snapped. “Trust me, no fucker gave her a chance!” He stepped forward and raised the knife.
Ethan had one hand left to play. If it wasn’t a straight flush, it was going to be a bloody gush.
“Why did you kill Harold?”
Kieran stopped. The knife froze above his head.
“He was your dad, mate. Granted, a fucking pathetic excuse for one, but still your dad.” Every second that ticked past was a struggle to keep his knees from buckling. “Why did you kill your dad?”
“He wasn’t my dad! He was one of you!”
“When he first came into the room, you didn’t attack him. You didn’t try to kill him. Why? Why did you only attack when the others turned up? Please help me to understand. My son turned tonight. I need to know why.”
Kieran clenched his teeth together.
“Why didn’t you attack him straight away? Why did you wait until the others appeared?” Ethan glanced over to the table where the buffet had been displayed earlier. A conveyor belt of cold sausage rolls, half-moon pork pies, congealed chicken drumsticks ran unappetisingly alongside each other. Nestled in between jars of pickled onions and bottles of cordial, he saw the unlikeliest of weapons. He needed to keep this charade up to get over there.
Bright light flooded into the kitchen, and the unmistakable sound of a taxi engine filled the bungalow. Ethan was desperate to scream for Karris to pull over, to reverse, to get the hell away from here, but he needed to keep his poker face. He moved slowly to the left. Kieran didn’t even notice; he was far too busy looking out of the window at the crawling vehicle. Surprise registered in those dark irises and Ethan slipped completely in front of the buffet table, good hand searching blindly for his deterrent. Karris beeped the horn and pulled up in the driveway.
“She’s your bitch, right?” Kieran said, pointing the blade towards the window.
“Forget her!” Ethan shouted. “Tell me about tonight! Tell me what happened in there! Tell me what made you change into… into this!” Trembling fingers skittered over hardened sandwiches, tubs of potato salad, finally stumbling upon the plastic container he sought.
“Nothin’ turned me into anythin’,” Kieran growled. He grabbed a handful of the builder’s bloody vest and jerked him forward. “I’m this way through choice!”
Ethan could hear shouts emanating from the hallway and, straightaway, he knew he was in a world of trouble. He rolled his eyes and became certain that he had committed bigamy on Lady Luck in a previous life. Through the doorway, Ethan saw at least a dozen breathless beasts stomp. He caught a snippet of Stretch, the Beretta, and he knew his time was up. They would lynch him… and do worse to Karris.
Do something! Do something now!
The tip of the steak knife dripped blood.
Harold’s blood!
Ethan grabbed a firm hold of the plastic container behind his back and emptied its contents onto the tablecloth. A couple rolled unnoticed to the floor. He ignored them, scooping a handful up.
The knife plunged down.
Ethan’s hand drove up a fraction of a second earlier.
Kieran howled with pain and grabbed his throat, dropping the knife to the floor. Ethan knew he had to act fast, forcing himself across the room, breathing raggedly, slamming the door closed on the hooded youths and grabbing the corner of the refrigerator, hauling it onto its side, spilling its contents, bringing it to a rest against the bottom of the kitchen door like a metal draught-excluder for a giant. He staggered back as fists pounded against the door. He turned towards Kieran.
A handful of cocktail sticks thrust under the chin was never going to keep the youth down, but it was enough to invoke a respite from any man – even a feral maniac like Kieran. The youth grabbed his bloody chin and reached for the knife, but Ethan charged forward, driving his knee into Kieran’s shoulder. The impact slammed both men against the kitchen sink.
From the hallway, the youths screamed for Kieran to open the door.
Combined efforts to shove open the door proved fruitless against the weight of the fridge. The Beretta was fired. Wood cracked.
Kieran pushed Ethan away from the sink and shot a clenched fist into Ethan’s nose. It broke in one punch, blood trickling like runny yolk from both nostrils. A sharp pain exploded in his ribs, creasing him and flat-lining across his chest. Ethan watched the man pull the knife from between his ribs, and he roared before falling awkwardly against the worktops. Before his pain-ravaged brain was fully capable of realising what had happened, a foul gust of stale oxygen hissed from his punctured lung and gushed up his gullet like wind up a chimney. Thick gouts of blood eagerly drowned it out, though, spilling from between glistening lips. Ethan could feel his heart clock in for overtime. He didn’t know how much more his body could sustain.
The taxi beeped again. He heard the door open, the sound of footfalls on loose gravel.
“No! Karris, stop!” Ethan bellowed. “Get out of here now!”
Karris paused and frowned at the pale face at the kitchen window. She saw him, bloody, pain-racked, eyes wide, mouth open, dribbling blood. Then an arm wrapped around his throat and yanked him back into blackness.
Ethan collapsed to hands and knees, crawling immediately away, blood spilling from the cavities in his shoulder and ribs, leaving puddles of it pooling on the laminate. Ethan collapsed on his back, choked on bloody phlegm.
“Kieran, are you okay?” Stretch called through wood.
“Yeah,” Kieran hissed. He placed a foot triumphantly on Ethan’s chest and applied pressure. Ethan grunted between clenched teeth. “Go get that bitch from outside! I want to finish what Dad started!”
“No!”
Ethan swept Kieran’s legs off the floor with a swipe of his good arm and, screaming with pain, knocked him flat on his back, driving the air from the youth’s lungs. He forced himself to his knees and grabbed two handfuls of Kieran’s hair, smashing the side of his head against the washing machine just as he heard the front door swing open. Ethan refused to let go, though, and instead climbed unsteadily to his feet, bouncing the side of Kieran’s face off the marble worktop. Kieran groaned and dropped to his knees. A snapped tooth surfed a wave of blood from his mouth.
A jumble of threats and shouts came from the driveway. He looked through the kitchen window and saw an army of monstrosities charging towards the taxi, illumina
ted by the one remaining headlamp. Lincoln led the charge.
Ethan pulled the cutlery drawer open, its wooden handle connecting abruptly with Kieran’s ear. The blow sent the lad sprawling towards the washing machine. A gloved hand slipped inside the drum and Ethan quickly kicked the door closed, breaking two fingers. Kieran screamed as though he was in the final stages of male childbirth.
Staggering to the stove, Ethan turned all four hobs on. Gas immediately hissed free, filling the small kitchen, the overwhelming atoms clogging his swollen nostrils, drying his mouth. Warning bells alerted an ignorant brain.
*
Karris jumped back behind the steering wheel and reversed zig-zaggedly up the driveway, slamming on the brakes, screeching to a stop. The vehicle remained motionless for a brief second as husband and wife, mother and child, exchanged impromptu goodbyes. Then the taxi was put into gear and the wheels chewed gravel as Karris Hardcastle drove down the country lane.
*
Ethan allowed a flicker of a smile to flash on his waxy face. “Hey!” Ethan bellowed at the top of his one remaining inflatable lung. “I’m over here, you fucking arseholes!”
The mob in the driveway turned at the sound of his strained voice and charged back into the house. An avalanche of hoods and balaclavas and tracksuits poured into the kitchen. Ethan backed away, holding bleeding ribs, his head spinning due to a combination of the toxic fumes and the hellfire burning in his shoulder and side. Breathing had become strenuous.
“Come… on,” he breathed. “Come… on… you… fuckers...”
The kitchen heaved with youths; it looked like a frat party gone bad. And at the front of the baying crowd was Lincoln. His eyes were fixed on his father and had turned the purest white. There were no irises, just the colour that reminded Ethan of boiled rice. He didn’t seem to smell the gas, or ponder why his father was bleeding. He showed no emotion. He showed no remorse. All he cared about was ripping Ethan’s face off.
Ethan stepped back.
Lincoln moved forward.
The crowd followed.
The builder reached the already open drawer and snatched a handful of cutlery free. He opened the microwave door and bunged the lot inside, twisting the dial, cranking up the wattage. There was an immediate gurgling sound like a bad stomach, then a pop-pop-popping noise as the metal acted like an antenna and bounced energy. Plumes of acrid smoke spewed from the back of the microwave.
The crowd took another step forward as one.
Ethan backed against the wall as Stretch pulled Kieran to his feet and handed the Beretta to his brother. Kieran accepted it, pointing it directly at Ethan.
A flash of flame licked the inside of the microwave door.
Burn, fucker, burn!
“You’re dead,” Kieran growled.
Ethan smiled cockily. “Me… and you… both…”
He closed his eyes and saw Karris, saw Lincoln, revisited his wedding day, happy days spent on the beach, teaching Lincoln to fish, chasing him through lapping water with Bella jumping up at them, barking, yapping, Lincoln laughing. His mind hurtled back to first glances, first dates, first kisses. Then the DeLorean sped everything up, showed childbirth, Lincoln’s first Christmas dressed as an Elf, Karris laughing wholeheartedly; saw everything for one final time before the microwave exploded and Ethan Hardcastle could see no more.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the second and final book in the National Emergency series!
NATIONAL EMERGENCY II
STAGE TWO
PROLOGUE
Two men raced across the road, deciding that they didn’t know if they had luck unless they pushed it, sprinting past the burnt-out remains of an overturned tram, skirting a taxi which had flipped onto its roof. They ran, leaving the safety of the promenade behind, making instead for the open beach. The characteristic smell of hamburgers and chip fat and ice-cream still lingered on the salty wind roaring in from the Irish Sea, evoking memories of crashing waves, sandy beaches, and the cry of seagulls.
Both men knew that they were taking a risk. At this time of the year, the seaside town of Blackpool should have been teeming with holidaymakers eager to fill their stomachs with fish and chips - before emptying them again on the Big Dipper - not rabid mobs of blood-craved youths. The men knew that they didn’t have any other choice, though. They needed sustenance - even if it was just chocolate bars and sun-warmed, dented, cans of cola.
Karl Johnson cranked the hook of the crowbar beneath the jamb of the shutter, jimmying the entrance to the sweet store open. He worked quickly, devouring energy, breaking the rusty padlock clasped around the metal bolt in the frozen ground. He paused briefly, glancing over to his companion. “Are you ready?”
His comrade nodded his beanie-smothered head. Directly behind him, that looming tower stretched like an obscene finger gesture towards the grey clouds. “Let’s make it quick, yeah, Karl?” When Martin Kivel spoke, his breath fogged into a cloud of vapor. “Don’t know about you, but I hate being out here during the day. It doesn’t feel safe.”
“That’s because it’s not,” Karl grunted. “We don’t have any other choice, though.”
Gloved fingers grabbed hold of the roller shutter and it was hauled up into the chamber overhead. The scream of weathered metal grating against rusty coils was loud – too loud – and Karl winced. Frozen with fear, he looked towards the locked doors. Martin held his breath, tightening his fingers around the handle of the baseball bat.
A flock of squawking gulls took to the sky.
Karl pushed back the hood of his coat; icy wind sandblasted his flushed cheeks, stole his breath, caused bags of candyfloss pegged to a cart in the doorway to dance crazily. Yanking two bags free, Karl tossed one over his shoulder to Martin, then tore open the other polythene bag with the hunger of a famished five-year old boy. He shoveled spun sugar into his mouth. It melted instantly against his tongue, arousing forgotten memories once again, tasting great!
“Shit,” Martin grinned, strands of cotton candy decorating his scraggly beard. “Man, I used to love this as a kid.”
“Didn’t we all?”
Martin unbuckled his rucksack and tossed bags of candyfloss inside as Karl stepped in front of the all-glass door, cupping his hands to the sides of his head, squinting into the shop. The souvenir store was dark and, obviously, without electricity, but he could still make out shelves of stuffed animals, T-shirts, artifacts, coffee mugs, stationary, postcards, all proudly displaying that tower. He could see the black outline of one of those addictive arcade claw machines that you fed coins into just so you could try grabbing a stuffed Minion or a bundle of twenty pound notes or a Rolex (the prizes may have been extravagant, but the results were always the same), and he smiled with nostalgia.
Karl hit the top of the door with the curved head of the crowbar and the door fell like a glass curtain, the ear-piercing krrssshhhh creating more noise and eliciting more panicky gasps. Karl crouched beneath the jagged-prongs, slipping inside, the rubber soles of his heavy boots obliterating nuggets of glass.
Martin threw the rucksack, along with the baseball bat through the opening, and then crawled inside on his hands and knees
“Okay, let’s make this quick,” Karl whispered.
Because there was no electricity, the burglar alarm didn’t trigger. Karl wasn’t particularly surprised, though. Most of Blackpool had been left without power since the War began.
“Ain’t got to tell me twice,” Martin replied, filling the rucksack with boxes of fudge, chocolate bars, popcorn, lukewarm beverages, bags of Doritos, candy-canes - everything his gloved hands grabbed hold of. There were shelves of brightly colored rock - aniseed, hot chili, minty chocolate - all left behind, untouched. Martin lobbed a couple of cellophaned boxes inside, aware that they’d hardly satiate a grumbling stomach, but would pacify the long and lonely hours. Karl picked up a small teddy bear, placing it in the pocket of his duffle coat.
Ten minutes later, the rucksacks were crammed. Karl scrambled
back outside, dragging the looted bounty with him, climbing to his feet and brushing glass and dirt from his hands. He peeped around the corner. The coast - literally - was clear.
Martin emerged a couple of seconds later, and both men sprinted back across the abandoned road. The promenade was unnaturally quiet, nothing moved. Neither Karl nor Martin would have been surprised to see a tumbleweed go sweeping past. They had almost made it to the side street where Karl had parked the Peugeot when they saw it. Invisible tendons of fear rooted Karl to the spot, and Martin felt his bowels turn to liquid jelly.
It stood proudly in the middle of the road, blocking their path, in between a takeaway called Pick’a Piece’a Pizza and a seedy-looking bar with a sign still out front boasting CHEAP BEER & CHEAPER WOMEN. Karl swallowed hard, grabbing Martin by the elbow, indicating for him not to move. The sound of waves smashing against the pier filled the quiet street.
The tiger sniffed at the ocean air, growling, the fur around its mouth matted and congealed with dried blood. It snarled throatily, gigantic paws edged with razor-sharp claws.
“Jesus,” Martin breathed, “where’d the hell did that come from?”
Karl shook his head. “This place got a zoo?”
“Maybe. But what’s it doing here?”
“Looking for the same thing as me and you.”
“Food?”
The tiger released a snarling bark, prowling towards the two breathing sacks of blood and meat, snorting, flaring its nostrils. Staring directly at Karl, a flap of pink leather slipped from its mouth and licked its blood-caked lips. Its fur fluttered in the wind. Karl raised the crowbar, and Martin did likewise with the baseball bat. Both men were aware that their pitiful weapons were nothing more than feeble deterrents against a famished tiger. It roared threateningly, cocking its head to one side.
National Emergency Page 17
