Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  The King.

  The King hears it too, his name being shouted in the streets.

  His men have one-handedly levelled their sub-machine guns at Jamie and Chloe, and the King is patting at their shoulders to get him up the stairs. One of the suited men frowns as his earpiece fills with garbled sound.

  “King,” he looks up at his master, “we've got trouble in the street. Armed units have engaged a target.”

  The King screws his eyes shut in frustration.

  “If those idiots can't handle a few weirdos or whatever then what the hell are we hiding for? Whatever, the offices are locked down and no law is coming up here, let's get upstairs. Jamie, bring your little insurance policy and come with us.”

  When they don't answer, the King turns back, an eyebrow raised.

  “Jamie -” he begins.

  “Consider this my resignation, King,” he says.

  The word falls like the hammer of a gun. Jamie tenses up, and Chloe shrinks into him as though she is trying to bury herself between his ribs.

  The King sighs and rolls his eyes, waving a hand.

  “So much potential down the drain. Shoot him.”

  Jamie's finger pulls the trigger tight and the hallway erupts with the barking of gunfire and the strobe-light muzzle flashes. His nose begins to spew blood as the bullets slow and stop around him, hanging in the air like raindrops.

  Mark groans as he emerges from the crater of broken tarmac and dust that he has left in the road, and finds himself in a street filled with scattered, frightened onlookers. Some of them are pointing – others shouting. One or two are pulling phones from their pockets, trying to catch a glimpse of him in their cameras. He looks up, realigning his sense of direction, trying to find his destination -

  His destination.

  He frowns, pulling the card out of his overalls and squinting at it as his eyes adjust to the low light. The building marked on the card is on a street that he knows well. His eyes catch the large red office building in the distance, the marker of the street's end, and he focuses the strength into his legs and leaps into the air with an apprehensive grimace plastered across his face.

  Mark soars for a few seconds, just like before. His stomach flips as he passes over buildings, the cold air stinging his eyes as he ascends.

  Then the wind takes the speed from his spread-eagled form, and he begins to fall as though he were getting heavier and heavier. Wincing and tensing his stomach at the sickening lurch of his fall, he bends his knees and puts his arms out as though to catch himself.

  The ground rushes up to meet him – this time it is a tiny car park, and the concrete shatters into a spider web with him at its epicentre. His knees crack on impact as dirt and stone fly up around him. Car alarms go off and he flinches.

  In the distance the muffled noise of a helicopter changes tone from a calm chopping wind to an angry, scraping whine. The hackles rise on his neck, the familiar feeling of being hunted.

  Looking around, Mark feels a surge of adrenaline kicking in: he's nearly at the address marked on the card that he liberated from the King's thugs.

  He leaves the car park into a street full of scattered, panicked people, and begins walking down the middle of the road. Onlookers put a hand to their mouths and point, as more phones emerge to capture his every move.

  Mark stumbles onward, his head still swimming with alcohol. Coherent thoughts form in his mind as long as he is focusing on them – otherwise, words and images dissipate like smoke in a breeze before he can grasp them. He is walking on auto-pilot, trusting the burning strength in his muscles to get him there.

  Sirens bark behind him and he turns, an annoyed expression flickering across his face, as a large black van screeches to a halt. Dark-uniformed soldiers in face masks emerge, forming a firing line in layers, expanding to fill the road like blooming, black flower.

  More vans begin to herd like lost cattle behind them and Mark sighs in frustration and turns back towards his goal. Men are shouting at him as he moves, yet he swaggers away from them without a care.

  A warning shot cracks into the ground and the road at his feet coughs up a plume of dust. Flinching, he turns and spreads his arms out as if demanding an explanation.

  “Seriously?” His red eyes pan around the ever-increasing line of soldiers aiming rifles at him. “I'm trying to do your job.”

  A loud speaker crackles and whines to life, so loud that Mark feels it vibrating in his lungs.

  “Put your hands on your head and get on your knees, or we will open fire.”

  Mark scowls and turns away, regarding the clustered pedestrians. They huddle around dropped shopping bags, clinging to one another in their winter coats. All eyes are on him.

  “Can you believe them?” Mark asks the audience as he motions his hands towards the soldiers. “I'm going to take the King into custody for them and they're trying to shoot me. I wonder if they're on his payroll too. You.” Mark points to a mother clutching her child against her chest, her face gaunt with fear, “you ever heard of the King?”

  She shakes her head.

  “No? Sure you're not just saying that because you're afraid?”

  Mark looks her in the eye, his head bowed. She looks away, and he has his answer.

  “I wonder how many similar answers I'd get.”

  He turns back to the firing line, now a street filled side to side with black-clad soldiers.

  “If you hadn't noticed, we are living under a dictatorship in this city. Nobody will even talk about it out of fear. Well that changes today.” Mark runs his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath and composing himself, trying to think straight through the drunken haze. “Now I'm going to walk down this street, into a building, and I'm going to drag a man out. He's a warlord, a criminal; a tyrant. You're going to arrest him. Then I'll surrender.”

  The loud speaker whines as it bursts into life again.

  “Get on your knees and put your hands on your head. You have three seconds.”

  “Really? You're going to stop me from deposing a tyrant?”

  He begins to walk towards them, his arms out as though he were challenging them.

  “Two.”

  “Do you know what bullets do to me? Nothing.”

  “One.”

  “Well I guess that settles it,” he whispers to himself, and takes a deep breath. He knows that it's going to hurt, and he can't help the slight shaking in his knees.

  “Fire,” comes the order.

  Mark tenses his body and leaps forward.

  His skull crashes against the buzzing of a hundred bullets shattering on him, stinging his skin like a haze of metal hornets. Exploding into their ranks, the soldiers scatter like pins before a bowling ball. Men are thrown into the air as he breaks their line, swinging punches like an amateur heavyweight.

  His mind descends into an alcohol-fuelled blood rage. A sweep of his arm bats three men to the ground with such force that he feels their ribs crack and they hit the ground in silence. Soldiers are thrown into each other in the chaos, all whilst they continue to pour gunfire on him like boiling tar. He roars through the pain, a hundred tiny needles trying to pierce his skin.

  Mark keeps swinging, but there is nobody within his reach any more. The soldiers have retreated from the melee, forming a circle around him filled with wounded men, clutching their broken limbs and writhing in pain on the road.

  Another order comes over the speaker and Mark is hit with shots from every angle. He grimaces as though he is being electrocuted and brings his arms up around his face, his ears ringing as the assault deafens him.

  The bullets are like a hurricane of lead, driving him to his knees, drowning him in agony.

  He can't think straight: everything is on fire. Every thought that his mind can formulate is snatched away by the cacophony of gunfire and screaming. Before he can do anything, he is curling up on the ground, his arms over his head, screaming in pain. He twists and turns, trying to find an angle from which they can't
hurt him, and in his twisting he becomes aware of the buzz of rotor blades above him.

  The helicopter hovers above him like a vulture waiting for his death. It's guns open fire, and he is knocked onto his back, writhing like a wild animal with his soft flesh bared to a predator.

  Somewhere in the pain and the anger, beyond the helpless loss of control, he realises that the heavy buzz of the alcohol is leaving his mind. He is beginning to think straight, and as he does the pain amplifies itself over and over. First the gunshots were hornet stings – now they are gut punches, turning into the sharp agony of switch-blades as he flails his limbs to try and paw the bullets away. As the alcohol wears off, so does his strength and his endurance.

  The terrifying realisation hits him, and before he can help it he is shouting for them to stop, to let him live – to cease fire before they kill him. He knows deep down that he cannot endure much more. His body is burning too much alcohol keeping him alive.

  Soon his skin will start to break. He will start to bleed. Then the gunshots will rip through his body, killing him.

  They keep firing until the pain is a constant blast of white noise hitting his entire body, whilst the pounding bass drum of the helicopter's cannon repeatedly punches the wind from him. With his death creeping up on him and no other end in sight, Mark's kicking feet finally find purchase on the ground and he manages to stumble to his feet. His arms come up around his face as though shielding himself from the blast of an explosion, and his wincing eyes squint open as though he were looking at the sun, for just long enough to take aim at the helicopter.

  Then he roars like a man at the end of his sanity, screaming at himself more than his attackers, and leaps into the air.

  Not a single shot hits him in mid-air.

  With a hollow thud he slams into the helicopter and grabs on, his grip twisting the metal body into handholds. Bucking and swaying like a wild bull, the pilot tries to shake him off. Mark grits his teeth and holds on, drawing his hand back and punching another handhold into the bodywork. He pulls himself up to a glass cockpit, and finds two panicking pilots scrambling for something.

  The pilot pulls a red lever beneath his seat.

  Explosive charges detonate all around him, and the cockpit is blown off. Mark takes a cloud of flame and broken glass in his face and cries out, clutching at whatever grip he can get. The spinning blades explode and break away, slicing through the air like huge cleavers as the pilots eject, soaring through the flames to safety. With the world around him on fire and spinning rapidly out of control, Mark braces his legs against the steel bodywork and then kicks himself off into the chaos.

  The cool, passing air calms the pain in his skin for a brief moment, and then he is rolling on something solid. He tumbles to a stop and lies on his back, staring up into the darkening clouds above as misty rain casts itself across the city.

  Breathless, winded, and covered in aching bruises, Mark pats his hands over his body and tries to relax his tensed muscles.

  Mark lets out a sigh of relief, wincing at the pain that comes with breathing, and opens his eyes to look around: he's on a walled rooftop, low and flat.

  Across the street, he realises with a grin, are the King's offices.

  A loud crash rocks the building, and a plume of smoke shoots into the sky, obscuring his view of the King's throne room.

  Mark rolls over and groans as he gets to his feet. He is beginning to feel cold and sober again, filled with a horrible sense of dread and irreparable regret.

  Patting the tattered remains of his overalls, burst and ruined by bullet impacts, he curses. Underneath the raggedy fabric, barely hanging off his gaunt frame, his skin is yellow and blue, swollen and inflamed. Round impact-craters mark as much of his body as he can see.

  Cursing, he kicks off his battered shoes and tears the overalls off of himself, standing in a ruined pile of burnt and torn clothes. His entire body is covered in red welts where the bullets hit. His chest is covered in thick, purple blotches where the helicopter's cannon hit him. Even his off-white underwear is marked by blood and bullet holes.

  “I could really use a drink,” he sighs, and looks into the pillar of smoke. He takes a step backwards and braces his feet like a runner before a race. The King's offices loom before him.

  He runs, his hangover burning behind his eyes, and leaps straight into the heart of the smoke.

  Jamie's nose gushes blood as he pushes Chloe to the ground. Around him are a swarm of bullets, frozen in time. The only clear space that he can see is the floor, so he drops himself onto Chloe and, his prone body covering hers, aims down the pistol sights. There is no time for finesse – he can feel his mind straining like an injured muscle. He fires once and the white shirt of one of the King's men grows a small red blotch. The wall behind him is coated with blood in the silence, like spray-paint.

  Jamie grits his teeth through the aching pain in his head. He can hear his pulse pounding faster and faster, throbbing in the corner of his eye. Time begins to build up against him, his mind threatening to burst and tear his brain to pieces at any moment. He holds on – just one moment more, just one more shot –

  His second shot, aimed through narrowed eyes with a shaking hand, punches through the other man's abdomen and doubles him over like a knee to the kidneys.

  Gasping for breath like a resuscitated man, Jamie lets go of his hold on the moment.

  Time snaps forward again.

  He clutches at his head, rolling on top of Chloe. The two men carrying the King drop him as they fall to the floor, and the King cries out in pain.

  One of the men clutches their midriff, screaming in agony. The other falls back against the wall, clutching his chest, his eyes slowly losing their flame as he slides to the ground, leaving a thick smear of claret on the grey plaster behind him.

  Chloe is screaming as bullets clang against the steel door behind her, trying to curl up under Jamie's protective embrace. When the silence returns and the bullets stop, he gets to his feet, trembling and shaking. His eyes won't stay away from the vacant expression of the first bodyguard.

  His victim coughs one last time, and a pathetic spray of blood stains the front of his shirt and his pale lips. Chloe's silent disbelief is the loudest sound, broken only by the dying cries of the second bodyguard. The entire corridor stinks of burnt powder. Jamie moves forward as though he is sleepwalking, still clutching the gun. The second man is whimpering, and as Jamie comes closer his tearful pleas resolve themselves into words – he is crying out for the King, begging for help.

  Standing over him as though he is wounded animal, Jamie's face breaks into a hollow eyed mask of regret.

  “I didn't want to -” he tries, and is cut off by the King shouting:

  “Put him out of his bloody misery!”

  The wounded man looks up at Jamie, who levels the gun at his head. He is breathing in quick, short wheezes – he whimpers, his voice shaking,

  “I don't want -”

  “I'm sorry,” says Jamie.

  The bullet pins his head to the stairs like a nail gun. His legs twitch straight out and his arms spasm before he goes limp.

  Heavy breaths from the wounded King fill the silence. Jamie is as still as if time had stopped again, looking at the dead men before him with a confused expression on his face.

  “You,” he turns the gun to the King. “They were just men doing a job, just like me. I wanted to retire.”

  “Jamie...” Chloe's frightened voice whispers behind him. She is on her feet and walking towards him whilst he points the gun down at the King, who lies prone on the staircase, vulnerable and helpless. He looks more curious than afraid, as though he is anxious to see what Jamie will do.

  “Jamie, killing me won't change anything,” says the King.

  Jamie says nothing back. He takes a shuddering breath in, fighting down the urge to scream. He feels as though something is building up inside of him, something painful and hot that needs to come out before it burns a hole in him.
<
br />   The King continues as Chloe approaches.

  “You don't seem to understand, Jamie: I'm not the King.”

  Jamie's eyes widen in a mixture of confusion and horror.

  “Really,” the false King goes on, chuckling, “you think one man could run an empire like this? He's got offices all over the place. Sub-divisions. Body doubles. I'm like a member of some huge council: all these Kings, all running their own little cities as part of the greater whole. Nobody knows who he really is. Who knows, maybe he's not even a real person? We just get our orders from the top and make sure it all runs ok.”

  The false King grins, though he is sweating visibly, shaking as his face has gone red. He keeps giggling to himself.

  “Kill me, and they'll just replace me. It's pointless Jamie. You can't fight something this big – it's ingrained into the very city, it's a part of it. You can't destroy the King without destroying Glasgow.”

  “You're the only King I've ever known.” Jamie's voice is hollow and distant. “I'll settle for you. Then I'll leave this shit-heap city, and anybody who comes after me will die just like you.”

  He jumps as Chloe's hand rests on his shoulder. The sudden fright makes the King tense as though the shot had been fired. Only now, in the silence, does he realise how loud the crowd outside is.

  “Jamie, stop,” she whispers, trying to calm him.

  There is shouting and screaming; the sirens fight for dominance over the sound of crackling fire and explosions.

  He levels the pistol at the King's head.

  “Chloe, close your eyes sweetheart.”

  The world explodes into sound and debris, and the dry scent of ash fills his lungs. Jamie clutches Chloe's arm and swings her into his embrace, protecting her with his body. He backs away from the explosion, a blast that has punched a hole in the hallway and let the murky sunlight filter in from outside. Jamie points the pistol at the plume of smoke lazily filling the hall.

  A gangly, skinny man, naked except for some tattered, yellowed Y-fronts, emerges from the smoke.