Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  Mark wants to shout at them for bringing his mother up, but he holds his tongue.

  “Your 'operation' ruins lives -” he begins.

  “For some, yes - so others can prosper. There'll always be victims, Mark. Look at you for example,” he laughs. “Tell me, are you still phoning your mother? Telling her that you've got a good job and a nice flat? That your project works?”

  He twirls the crowbar like a cheerleader's baton.

  Mark forces his shaking legs to tense beneath him and stands up with one hand on the wall. He is not a threatening figure – emaciated, starved, frightened and shaking. He slurs a little when he speaks, meeting the pack leader's eyes.

  “Don't stand there and mock me, and then call the King a visionary with a straight face. At least I can look at myself in a mirror without feeling sick at what I see.”

  The leader of the pack grins, showing Mark a single gold tooth embedded in his gum. Turning to his pack, he asks,

  “Verdict?”

  As if on cue, they chant:

  “Guilty.”

  “The jury has spoken,” the leader states, his arms outstretched. “The sentence for such crimes is clear.” He points the crowbar like a wand at Mark, who flinches back, tensed and ready to fight. “Take him.”

  The wolf pack advances on Mark, closing the short distance in a few steps. They pull metallic dusters over their knuckles, embossed with the crown symbol of the King.

  “One day you're going to meet someone,” Mark tells them as he scrambles back into his corner, “with the strength to stand up to you.”

  “Sure we are,” says the judge.

  The first punch throws his head to the side, dislodging a tooth that rattles around his mouth like a ricocheting bullet. Blood sprays his pasty white walls and smears his lips. His legs are kicked away, and he hits the floor hard.

  The skies above Glasgow burn as though a barrage of missiles are streaking through the evening clouds. A dull orange glow lights the murk as though the sun is trying to break through, and the clouds scream and burst into rain and thunder as flaming debris crashes through the atmosphere. Something within the fire reaches out with its mind and seeks those that will serve its needs best. It chooses them, and veers towards them as it splits itself into a dozen smaller burning lights.

  Jamie neglects to look up as thunder peels across the city: he is too busy disarming the locks and alarms on an expensive car with a small set of tools. He works in a blind fever, trying in vain to concentrate when all he can think of is Chloe, screaming, being dragged into a gloomy office by a gang of greasy men in trench-coats.

  He needs more time.

  The roar of the rain and wind picks up, deafening him. At the last minute he looks up at the fireball roaring towards him. He gets the beginning of a scream out before the flames hit him and engulf his entire body.

  Mark curls himself into a ball as boots and knuckles crack his ribs and bones. Blood spurts from his mouth with every blow.

  If only he had the strength to stand up to these people.

  His window shatters, bathing his assailants in purifying flames. The fire rushes towards him as though it were aware, and blazes through his body as he screams in fear.

  Mark feels no pain – there is only the endless, warming heat.

  The last thing he sees is his red journal, lifted from the floorboards by the explosion, burning to ash before he closes his eyes in acceptance.

  Fire rains down on Glasgow, a dozen small meteors hitting the city like a wild spray of bullets. For a moment, those hit by the fire become a part of something greater than themselves.

  Then the fire changes them.

  Episode 2

  Thrown to the Wolves

  He looks no different to an ordinary man, although perhaps that's the point. You might guess at his age or profession: middle-aged, middle-management, middle-child of a middle-class family. His navy-blue suit is stylish without being over the top; the watch on his wrist is functional, but not too expensive. A neutral gaze and hair that is cut for convenience complete the story: this man is his job.

  The office seems to darken as he enters. He crosses to the blinds and pulls them shut, and the light flickers like film reel until it disappears. He smooths his suit and tie and settles into a plain-looking chair behind a dark wooden desk. In the gloom, his eyes look like bullet holes.

  Sighing – the first time that Chloe has heard him breathe since he entered the room – he leans forward and clicks a green-tinged lamp on. Immediately a bubble of cold light encases the two of them, alone in the office.

  Chloe says nothing as his darkened eyes run over her features, until eventually the silence is broken by the man's monotone voice.

  “You know who I am.”

  It is not a question. Chloe picks a point on the desk and focuses her eyes there rather than meet his; he prompts her like a teacher.

  “Answer me.”

  “Yes,” says Chloe, her voice breaking. “You're Jamie's boss.”

  “Boss?”

  “King,” she whispers.

  “Better,” he gives her a polite smile in the darkness. After considering this for a moment, he takes a breath and leans forward. “You know why you're here?”

  “I'm insurance.”

  “I'm detecting a hint of animosity.” The King cocks his head. “You didn't know you were collateral?”

  Chloe gives him a questioning look with an eyebrow raised.

  “Of course you didn't,” says the King, gesturing to the piece of yellow paper in front of him. “It's not often that we get a person in a contract, I have to say.”

  “What kind of criminal gets his men to sign contracts?”

  The King says nothing – the silence intensifies like heat, causing Chloe to shrink back in her seat.

  “I am no criminal.” The King leans forward into the bubble of light, and she gasps and reels back from the coldness of his glare. “No more than any politician or leader.”

  Jamie opens his eyes, bracing himself for pain that never comes. He remembers the fire: the warmth, the heat – but not pain. There was a feeling of peacefulness, like a fading dream: a memory of time being stretched and pulled like putty around him, and then:

  Silence.

  He sits up, taking a deep breath. The world is quieter than he has ever heard it: the silence threatens to crush him like the weight of an ocean. Rushing blood fills his ears and his sight dances with dots.

  On the roof of a parking garage, he extends a hand and waits for the pouring evening rain to wash his palms clean.

  The rain never falls.

  Jamie looks up at the grey clouds and waves his hand through frozen raindrops hanging in the air. He tries to stand and yells in fright, falling backwards.

  A man in full, black body armour and a dark face mask showing only his eyes is standing a few feet away from him, pointing a fierce looking assault rifle at his chest. Jamie throws his hands up as he scrambles to his feet and backs away.

  The soldier does not move.

  “Don't shoot,” he pleads, and the words seem to freeze in front of him like breath on a cold day. Like a statue, the soldier remains still. “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  Jamie takes a step forward. Looking into the mask with a pleading grimace on his face, he tries to talk again.

  “Anybody in there?”

  As though on cue, the soldier begins to react.

  Like an ancient robot moving for the first time in millennia, the soldier creaks and groans as he starts to turn. The assault rifle is tracking towards Jamie; he moves to stay out of its way.

  Frowning in confusion, Jamie dances to the side and watches as the soldier struggles to track his movement, as though he were covered in tar.

  Something wet touches his top lip.

  Bringing his hand up to his face, he finds warm blood dripping from his nose. Lifting his hand away, a droplet leaves his finger and the air seems to catch it and hold it still. Jamie watches it just hang
there. It stays floating in mid-air.

  “I see gravity was cancelled today,” he mutters.

  Nearby, the soldier is beginning to speed up: the rifle is halfway turned towards him.

  Jamie moves again, behind the soldier, and looks at his watch. It has stopped.

  Before his eyes, the second-hand moves in slow motion, sprinting the gap between seconds before stopping again.

  “Time?”

  Jamie breathes, his heart pounding in the silence. He dabs his hand to his nose again as more blood trickles out, swearing under his breath. The second-hand moves again, catching his eye. Turning faster now, the soldier pivots as though he were underwater.

  Jamie takes a step backwards and the droplet of blood that he left hanging in mid air begins to fall. His heart races faster as sound begins to pour back into his ears – the traffic outside, a man shouting, the hiss of rain, helicopters in the distance, his own words bouncing off the walls of the parking garage...

  Time catches up with a snap.

  “Don't move,” the soldier screams, aiming the rifle at Jamie. Jamie raises his hands again, more blood dripping from his nose and over his lips. “Get on your knees,” he roars, motioning downwards with his rifle.

  Jamie complies, terrified, and gets on his knees. Raising a hand to his ear, the soldier says in a shaking voice: “Command, I've got one. Send backup, he's – different.”

  The soldier listens to a voice that Jamie cannot hear, and then looks at him. From behind the face mask, Jamie can only see his frowning eyes.

  “Yes,” he says, “his nose is bleeding.”

  He listens again and pauses, still sighting down the rifle's sights at Jamie.

  “Ok,” he says in response to a command. He lowers the assault rifle and reaches for something from his belt. Jamie's heart skips as the man pulls out a small black pistol with a yellow lightning bolt on the side: a tazer.

  “This is for your own good,” says the soldier, taking aim.

  He fires, and a loud buzzing fills the air.

  Flinching back, Jamie hears the rush of his own blood in his ears and realises that the silence has returned. Two tazer-darts float in mid air, swimming towards him like dazed fish on their wires.

  This time Jamie is ready.

  He leaps to his feet and runs. Around him, the flow of time begins to stutter and start again.

  The smeared evening light streaks across the concrete like wet paint as he sprints down the ramps of the parking garage. Jamie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card with an address written on it, getting his bearings from the landmarks around him.

  It's like a muscle in his head – like lifting a weight with a limb he did not know he had until now. If he concentrates, he can force it. He feels time pushing through his head, trying to break him. Gritting his teeth, he mentally pushes back and leaves the garage.

  Jamie runs out into a silent street filled with grey statues of people in mid-panic, soft raindrops suspended in the air like a fine mist.

  “Chloe,” he mutters as he runs.

  Mark opens his eyes to the men staring at him from the corners of the room. The broken window lets the strained evening light in. He rises first to his knees, then stands on legs that are stronger than he has ever felt.

  “What the hell was that -” one of the wolves whines from the floor, rubbing his singed, red skin.

  “Some kind of gas explosion,” another bleats as they get up.

  Mark stretches his arms, feeling a strength in them that he is not used to: it is the strength of intention – the strength to act. His bruises and cuts are drunken memories now, vanished as though he is wearing a new suit of armour over his old sallow skin.

  Sirens echo in the distance, and the wolves look to one another in alarm. A helicopter chops the silence into slices.

  “They'll be coming,” says the leader of the pack, looking out the window in alarm. “This changes nothing. Get him out to the van and we'll continue this elsewhere.”

  Mark looks at his hands and knows that something is different – something has changed. One of the wolves approaches, looking at him with hesitation.

  “Come on.”

  Mark feels the cold fingers like iron bars around his forearm and looks the man in the eye.

  He pushes the man backwards with his forearm.

  A surprised cry echoes around the room as the man is slammed to the ground as though Mark had hit him with a sledgehammer. He curls on the floor and cringes in pain, clutching his ribs.

  Mark looks down at his hands in shock, then around the room. He swallows his fear like glass: these are not men to be trifled with.

  The leader of the pack curses at him and lunges, swinging the crowbar. Too late to react, Mark takes the blow to the side of his jaw.

  His face barely moves, and the wolf drops the crowbar and clutches his hand, cringing in pain. A dull clang rings out as the weapon hits the floor, and Mark rubs his face. The pain never comes to him.

  Now he understands.

  Mark steps forward, grabbing the wolf by the collar of his jacket. With a grunt, Mark throws him into the wall with a fleshy snap. He lets out a winded yelp and collapses on to the floor, leaving a spider-web crack where he hit.

  The other three men exchange a perplexed look as Mark leans down and picks up the crowbar. His eyes says everything they need to know, and they turn and flee for the door, clawing at each other to get away.

  Mark lets out a tense breath; the clatter of boots fades as they leave. With a grateful sigh, he drops the crowbar with a heavy clang.

  A feeble whine breaks the silence. Mark looks down to see the first of the two remaining men curled in a ball, holding his stomach. There is a puddle of bile and spittle dribbling from his reddening lips onto the floor. Remembering himself, Mark leans down and puts a hand on his shoulder in concern; the man flinches away.

  “I'm sorry -” Mark begins, trying to formulate his regret into words. “Let me help.”

  “You're dead,” the injured man hisses at him.

  “I didn't mean to hurt you,” he says, taking his hand off the man's shoulder. “Let me call you an ambulance.”

  Mark lifts his head as he hears the sirens, closer now.

  “You idiot,” the leader slurs from across the room. He sits with his back against the wall. Above him is the cracked plaster where Mark threw him into the wall, hanging over him like a dream-catcher.

  “I didn't mean to hurt either of you,” says Mark. “You didn't leave me a choice.”

  “The King,” the man grins through bloodied teeth, “does special things to people who hurt us.”

  “I didn't mean -” Mark begins, and trails off as the red-lipped grinning man reaches slowly into his leather jacket and produces a small, ugly pistol. Mark's stomach flips into his guts and he freezes as the barrel is levelled at him.

  “How's your mother doing, Mark?”

  “Please -” he whispers.

  The single shot deafens him, a sudden thunder clap bursting the hushed silence like a balloon. Mark grunts as the force of the shot throws him onto his back. Icy numbness spreads across his chest and up his arms as his hands paw at his skin. He can't breathe: the air has been punched from his lungs.

  Writhing on the floor, gasping for air, Mark looks up in terror to see the pack leader shuffle himself up the wall, getting to his feet as the sirens grow louder outside. The whir of helicopter blades cuts through the patter of rain.

  “You should have stayed on the floor the first time,” he slurs through clenched teeth, and lowers the pistol to Mark's prone figure.

  Mark tries to murmur a plea for his mother's life; all he can manage is a weak whimper before the pistol barks again and again, shot after shot crashing into his body. He jerks and spasms as each bullet hits him.

  With each shot he sees the ugly end of his life: just another life, a tax paid for the King's utopia.

  Everything comes back to the King, eventually.

  The shots stop and
he lies twisted and broken on the floor, eyes glassed over. He can feel his own heart pounding in his chest, fighting for life. Beside him, the shooter bends down and picks up his prone comrade, still clutching his ribs, and helps him up. Putting an arm under his shoulder, the shooter begins to carry him out, muttering something under his breath.

  Mark lifts his head; it feels like it's being weighed down with bricks. His janitor's overalls are covered in tiny black holes, as though a hundred men have extinguished their cigarettes on him.

  But there is no blood.

  Bit by bit the numbness leaves him, and a deep trembling fills his bones with spreading heat. The janitor grunts and forces his lungs to take in a shuddering breath, then heaves himself up. He aches as though he has been running for days, his muscles stiff and heavy; but solid.

  He feels strong.

  The shooter stops, halfway out the door with his friend over his shoulder, and turns. His eyes are cold with doubt as he sees Mark, one hand on the plaster wall to steady himself.

  “Oh come on...” the man whispers.

  The injured man leaning on him begins to twist away in terror.

  “He's not normal mate,” he groans. “Just get us out of here.”

  “To hell with this,” he barks, and produces the pistol again. He quickly drops the magazine from the gun and produces a second from his coat as the first clatters on to the floor. He slams it into the pistol and racks the slide back, before pointing it at the janitor one-handed and unloading another magazine into his torso.

  The shots hit Mark like heavy punches, knocking him sideways, backwards, doubling him over. Crashing, screaming gunshots fill his ears like cymbal strikes. Strobe-light flashing blinds him with every shot. He is pushed back steadily until he is braced against his own broken window, hanging onto the sides with grim determination, tensed and ready.