Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  He falls as the staircase below him is blown away, caught up in the avalanche. Mark is dragged down into the boiling darkness, entombed in the rock and the concrete. He feels himself burning, feels the ache in his lungs.

  It takes everything he has, but as the last light is blocked out by the falling building and the debris, he closes his fingers around the top of his flask, knowing that if he can just get it to his lips...

  His grip falters and his body goes limp.

  The last thing he feels is the trickle of blood from his nose, and then his eyes glaze over and the darkness claims him.

  There Mark lies, still and silent, buried beneath the structure that he poured his own life into.

  Trespasser One arrives to find a smouldering heap of rubble being assaulted with fire hoses. He barges through the crowd of fire-fighters, who protest until he pulls out his gun.

  “Hey, you,” he shouts at an older fire-fighter in a white helmet, directing hoses from the top of an engine. “You find anybody in there?”

  The man in the white helmet nods. “Yeah, we did. I saw some boys carry one man out.”

  “Wearing overalls like mine? A mask?”

  “Nah, he looked like a junkie or something. They've been in there for months. Didn't look like you at all.”

  “Just the one? Nobody else?”

  He shakes his head. “I'm sorry, we didn't expect to get anybody out of there as it was.”

  The Trespasser deflates, putting his pistol away and staring at the rubble-mound. Even at this distance, he can feel the heat coming from it like a second sun.

  “Hey,” Trespasser One waves to get his attention again. “How long until we can search for survivors in the rubble?”

  “Survivors? In that?”

  “My guy's a tough son of a bitch, trust me. Now how long?”

  “Long as it takes to cool. That's days, son. It'll hold that temperature for a long time – look, I'm sorry, but if you had a man in there? Well, you don't anymore. Nobody could survive that, and even if they could – we can't start digging until the temperature drops.”

  Trespasser One steps away, putting his hands over his mask and bowing his head. He takes a breath and sighs, activating his comms.

  “This is Trespasser One to Command. I have some bad -”

  “Trespasser One,” Command's voice interrupts him. “Mark just activating the tracking in his helmet.”

  Trespasser One stops dead. “What?”

  “He's moving fast, heading down the Clyde via the roads. We're sending you a chopper to intercept.”

  “Where's he going? Do you have comms?”

  “No comms, just tracking.”

  “Son of a bitch,” the Trespasser says, sprinting away from the scene to somewhere that the chopper can pick him up. “He must want us to follow him. If he's found the King...”

  “He isn't moving at his usual speed – we think he's in a car.”

  “Then the bastards must have gotten to him somehow – there's a high chance he's in trouble. Get the rest of my squad into a chopper and await my command. Maybe he's activated it for help.”

  “Trespasser One, arrival is in four hours.”

  “Four hours is more than enough time, now get me my squad and get me that chopper, Command.”

  “Trespasser One, your orders are to -”

  “Do you remember what happened when the last Command tried to give me orders like that, sir? Do you? Discipline me later if you have to, but I won't leave a man in trouble. I'm going after Mark.”

  “Don't miss the arrival, Trespasser One,” says Command. “You have four hours.”

  “More than enough.”

  Trespasser One leaves, running away from where Mark lies beneath the rubble, slowly boiling in his own skin.

  Episode 7

  Bait

  Gregor wakes up in a cold concrete cell.

  He sits up, alarmed, and two men wearing the uniforms of fire-fighters put their hands on his chest, calming him.

  “Relax, sir,” says the largest one. “We're in the prison.”

  He takes a breath and almost lets himself loose, and then his face twists up in alarm again. Before he can ask, the fire-fighter raises his hand again.

  “The plan worked – the fire. We got the bastard.”

  “His helmet, too?”

  “Yeah, it's been broadcasting for the last twenty minutes. They'll be coming.”

  Gregor nods, taking this in. He tries to sit up and grimaces, clutching his chest.

  “You ok, sir?”

  “My chest,” he grunts. “He hit me, didn't he?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Might have broken a rib,” says Gregor, clenching his teeth. Spittle flies from his mouth as he speaks. “Do we have control of the prison?”

  “See for yourself,” says one of the men, and offers him a hand.

  Gregor waves him away and wrestles himself to the edge of the cot. He stands, grunting in pain, leaning to one side. The piss-stained coat is still wrapped around him; he shrugs it off in disgust and screws his nose up. Pushing the men aside, he leaves the cell.

  Gregor marvels at what he sees. The cell doors all lie open; the bottom floor is filled with men in orange jumpsuits. One of the King's men stands atop a dining table, passing out weapons and orders.

  Lining up like refugees at an aid truck, they take the wrenches, claw hammers, and knives as they are passed out. The lucky ones are given pistols and shotguns from the numerous guards that lie prone across the prison floor; their bodies broken, their eyes blank.

  “How did they do it?” asks Gregor, turning.

  “Our man in the office opened all of the gates at once, and killed every guard in the security room. He locked the door, and before anybody could get in and stop him – well. The prisoners were loose and none of the doors would close. It was over fairly quickly.”

  “No guards left?”

  “None, sir. We brought in a van full of whatever weapons we could find. Bit of overkill if you ask me.”

  “Overkill?” asks Gregor. “Have you ever fought a Trespasser?” The fireman shakes his head. “Exactly. If we're lucky, the super-humans will come for their friend. If we're unlucky, they'll send a Trespasser squad in. Either way, there's no such thing as overkill.”

  Gregor watches as the prisoners file away into the various parts of the prison, each with their orders etched into their mind.

  “These men,” says Gregor, talking to himself now. “All of them are the King's men?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I trust you all to see this through,” he says, turning. “If you'll excuse me, the arrival is due in -” he checks his watch, “almost three and a half hours. I have to be with the King for this. Could one of you take me to a vehicle?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Thank you – and men?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Don't take any chances. The plan depends on the King controlling the people affected by the arrival. To do that, we need the Agency to be occupied up here – or better yet, neutralised. Everything depends on your actions here, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the two firemen chorus, and one of them steps forward. “I'll take you to your vehicle now, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  The helicopter is crowded, and the passengers are tilted sideways as the helicopter races forward, nose-down, following the banks of the River Clyde. Jamie stares into the distance, ignoring the rest of the squad, his mind elsewhere.

  “Mark's signal is in that new prison in Dumbarton, which makes perfect sense,” shouts the Trespasser, his voice coming through their helmets. “The prison was constructed to house the huge number of convicts awaiting trial after the exposure of the Kingdom project. It was supposed to be temporary. It's full of the King's men, and we haven't been able to contact any staff or guards within the last fifteen minutes. It's safe to assume that the prison is now in the hands of the King.”

  Trespasser One pan
s his eyes around the inside of the helicopter. His squad are silent, their masks down to hide their expressions. Two other Trespassers – a tall, well built American soldier and the female Londoner with the cold blue eyes – stand at the back of the helicopter, rifles ready, masks on.

  “Ok, here's the plan. We assault the prison; expect resistance before we even touch down. Trespasser's Two and Three,” he nods to the other soldiers at the back. “You're with me, I'll take point myself. You know the drill. Command has authorised lethal force, no questions asked. The rest of you will stay with the helicopter and the pilot will keep his distance. We'll radio for you to come in and pick us up once we have Mark.”

  One of the masked figures looks up, and the Trespasser tenses himself. It's Jamie, looking right at him.

  “I'm coming with you,” he says. It's not a question.

  “Jamie, you're not trained like we are -”

  “I wasn't asking, Trespasser.”

  The Trespasser considers pulling rank on him, but realises how futile it would.

  “You know I can't give you a gun, then?”

  “I didn't ask you to.” Jamie's voice is cold, empty. He stops talking, staring into space with his hands clasped in front of him.

  “We want to come as well,” says Stacy, leaning forward out of her seat.

  Cathy pushes her back. “Come on lass, this is a job for the professionals.”

  “No; Mark's a good guy. If they're doing god-knows-what to him in that prison then I want to go too.”

  The Trespasser shakes his head. “Jamie has seen combat before, and proven himself. You haven't. We can't risk losing you guys, not this soon before the arrival. You stay with the helicopter.”

  Stacy folds her arms and glowers by herself, her small frame giving off a brooding, heated anger.

  The pilot's voice comes through their comms units:

  “We're here. I'll set you down in the courtyard. If comms go down, I'll pick you up here in fifteen minutes, got it?”

  “Understood, pilot.”

  “Touchdown in thirty seconds, get ready.”

  The Trespasser takes his pistol from his belt and drops the magazine, checking that it's full and not about to jam. Satisfied, he pushes the magazine back up into the handle and racks the slide, loading a round. He flicks the safety off and holds the pistol ready in both hands, his left hand cupping his right like a glove to hold his aim steady.

  Trespasser's Two and Three join him at the front, and Jamie stands up and wrings his hands as he waits.

  The helicopter touches down without stopping its engines, and the ramp at the back slams to the ground with a clang. Evening twilight and the purple glow of dusk streak across the courtyard.

  Trespasser One shouts the order and leads the charge down the ramp, crossing the prison courtyard and storming towards the heavy metal doors of the red brick building.

  The courtyard is silent. They stand one behind the other at the wall and the Trespasser shouts:

  “Breach.”

  He slams a small explosive against the door handle. It detonates in a cloud of smoke the door swings open; he throws a stun grenade in and it goes off like a thunderclap.

  He motions to move in and the squad follow him through the door, into the silent darkness.

  The rest of the squad sit in the back of the helicopter, waiting. It begins to lift off; then the engines stutter and cough, and the craft drifts back down to the concrete courtyard.

  “Hold on,” the pilot's voice comes through their helmets. “I'm having some engine problems.”

  The engines cut out. Slowing like a broken record, the blades grind to a halt as the helicopter touches down.

  “What's happening?” asks Cathy, panic shaking her voice. “Why aren't we flying, what's wrong?”

  “Uh, guys?” asks Gary, nodding to Stacy. She has her head in her hands, shaking in concentration. “Stace?” He reaches out to touch her and Cathy grabs his hand, stopping him.

  “Leave her, she's concentrating.”

  “If you think,” says Stacy, groaning with effort, breathing hard, “that I'm leaving my friend behind -”

  The helicopter's lights go out and the ramp opens.

  “Stacy, stop it,” Cathy urges her. “Let the pilot take off, it's too dangerous.”

  “Exactly,” she says, undoing her own harness and standing up. She stumbles to the side and Donald catches her, noting that her armband has flashed to orange. “You don't leave your mates in the shit. Run away if you want.”

  She pushes Donald away and staggers towards the ramp, hands out for balance.

  “Bugger this,” says Gary, unclipping as he runs after her. “I can't let her go alone.”

  “Oh for the love of - “ sighs Donald, following them.

  “Guys,” Cathy begs. “We can't, we have orders.”

  “They're barely adults, Cathy,” says Donald. “I can't stand back and let them go alone.”

  Cathy tries to protest, but something in Donald's voice makes her throw her hands up and follow him down the ramp.

  “Come back for us soon,” Cathy tells the pilot, and lets Donald lead her down the ramp. Together, the rest of the squad head across the courtyard, into the prison.

  Trespasser One leads the first squad into the second wing, this one as devoid of life as the first. Jamie drifts behind them like a ghost.

  They pace through it, guns raised, ready for anything. His eyes scan over the bottom floor, then the upper floor. Every cell is empty: the only bodies are those of the guards. They push through the silence, into the last wing.

  “Mark should be -” the Trespasser stops, checking his tracker. He whips around, pointing his pistol into an empty cell with it's barred doors lying open. “It says he's in here.”

  He turns and stops dead.

  The squad come to a halt in the middle of the empty wing as they see what he is looking at. A single black helmet, the kind worn by the Trespasser squad, lies in the middle of the floor.

  “Where is he?” asks Jamie, his voice beginning to break. “Where's Mark?”

  “He's not here,” says the Trespasser. “They knew we'd follow the tracker in his helmet. It's a trap.”

  A metallic rattling makes them stop, and too late they realise what the sound is.

  The rattling stops with a clang.

  Trespasser One turns around: the door behind them has closed over. The other door at the far side of the wing has slammed shut.

  The sound of a hundred footsteps tramping in unison fills the wing.

  “It's a bloody trap,” repeats the Trespasser, louder this time.

  He turns with the rest of them to see the crowd emerge.

  “Contact,” shouts the woman, and raises her assault rifle.

  Jamie watches as the orange horde comes around the corners, spilling from the gaps like a plague of rats. They are all – every one of them – smiling as they march towards the squad.

  Some of them start to clang their weapons – their wrenches, tire irons and lead pipes – against the prison bars that recently held them, whilst others stamp their feet and hoot. The squad starts to move backwards as the horde advances, a wall of jumpsuits and blunt weaponry.

  “Orders?” asks Trespasser Two.

  “On my count, close your eyes. Cut through to the second door.”

  Jamie steps forward from the squad.

  “Jamie, clear the line of fire -”

  Jamie opens his arms wide in a challenge and begins swaggering towards the advancing horde. To his surprise, they stop.

  “Was this your plan,” he shouts to the roof, his voice trembling with anger. “Trap me in a prison with your dogs and kill my friend? You thought that would work out for you?”

  He drops his arms and starts pacing towards the horde. Some of them step forward to meet him.

  He vanishes.

  “Open fire,” shouts the Trespasser, and their guns light up, bullets cutting into the horde, throwing them backwards in puffs of red mist.<
br />
  Jamie re-appears in the midst of the horde. He grabs a lead pipe from the hands of a surprised prisoner and smashes it into the man's face, breaking his nose.

  The prisoner's react like one organism, turning on him with their weapons raised.

  He vanishes again.

  Jamie reappears behind them and mashes the lead pipe against their ranks. Two prisoners fall, clutching their skulls in agony, before they can react. Then he is gone again.

  The bullets start to fly. Rather than try to fight a phantom, the prisoners form into one unit and charge straight into the gunfire like a medieval regiment, even as their bodies go limp and their friends tumble to the ground.

  Leaping over the scattered bodies of their fallen comrades, the prisoners close the distance with the Trespassers.

  Trespasser One throws a stun grenade into the air as he holsters his pistol. Beside him, his squad have emptied their assault rifles and discarded them.

  “Knives,” he shouts.

  The squad pull their knives from their belts in one fluid movement. With a loud bark, the stun grenade goes off, blinding and deafening every one of them.

  The Trespasser's ears ring, and everything slows down.

  A wall of orange descends upon him – somebody, covering their eyes and swinging, gets a lucky strike on his shoulder with a crowbar. His armour holds, but the shock of the blow puts him off his stride.

  He pushes the figure aside with his knife, driving the blade through the target's throat as he does so. Another takes his place, trying to grapple with the Trespasser; he ducks his grasping hands and drives the knife deep between his ribs, extracting it and moving past the limp attacker. Another man comes at him with a wrench, swinging it. The Trespasser ducks, but someone behind him drives a claw hammer into the small of his back.

  Grunting in pain, he turns and slashes the man's face in two; he goes down screaming. The Trespasser does not hear his wailing: everything is a loud and constant ringing.