Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  Jamie jogs past the van, keeping low, and smiles at the pop-hiss behind him as Gary slashes the tires. Gary's squeaky, thickly accented voice comes through the phone a second after Jamie hears him say it:

  “Van is fucked.”

  “Neutralised,” whispers Jamie. “The word is neutralised, Gary.”

  “Van's fucking neutralised,” comes the reply.

  Jamie sighs.

  Another voice cuts through their chatter as they cross the grimy, ash-soaked gravel.

  “This is Trespasser One,” he says. “You're all clear. Remember your training.”

  They meet at the door, and Jamie slips the lead pipe out from the inner lining of his jacket, grasping it by the duct-taped handle. Looking to his left, he finds Gary standing with his back against the wall, giving him a thumbs up, and Cathy behind him, her tazer clenched in both hands as though she's afraid of dropping it.

  “If anything happens,” he whispers, “just do your thing and let me do mine, ok?”

  They both nod.

  Jamie turns and grasps the door handle; the cold metal stings through his gloves, and he eases it open, wincing at the creaking, and disappears into the gloom with his team.

  The interior opens up like a supermarket, with a dingy lobby covered in shattered glass from a pair of sliding doors that no longer work. Jamie steps through them, glass crunching underfoot, and lets his eyes adjust to the gloom.

  Rows of shelves like trenches are spread before them, lined with whatever the looters left. Rolls of carpet, clinging onto ash and dust like hoarders. Jamie motions for the others to follow him and, holding his breath, pushes into the darkness.

  There are voices in the distance, so he moves towards them, creeping down aisles devoid of customers and light. Only the faintest silver glow comes from the moon outside, let in by the smeared, greasy skylights above them.

  Somewhere in the building there's a voice, speaking with such low, fierce power that it sends shivers through the team. It sounds as though the voice is giving a sermon, calling followers to worship.

  “Cathy,” he whispers. “Take a look, see what we're dealing with.”

  She shakes her head. “I can't see for mist and fog and stuff when I go invisible -”

  “Shit,” he whispers. “Ok, I'll do it.”

  He crouches at the end of the aisle and inches his face around until his right eye is almost pressed against the edge of the flimsy metal. In the distance, he sees that two electric lights are on, illuminating one corner where men stand in a circle, watching some figure in the middle.

  Jamie strains his eyes, but can barely make out the man speaking, or what he's saying. Someone steps out from the circle, into the centre, and kneels. Like a priest granting a blessing, the shrouded man in the middle touches his head and says something in a low murmur, before allowing the man to stand.

  “Cathy,” whispers Jamie, “get us close, we need to hear what this guy is saying.”

  Cathy nods, and holds her hands out. Like a mother walking two children across the road, she takes their hands and heads for the light. Before they leave the aisle, mist envelopes them like a storm, and when it dissipates they are much closer to the sound.

  The light casts shadows here, and the team shy away from it like animals from fire, pressed against the aisle as the minister around the corner delivers his sermon.

  “Ok, I'm taking a look,” says Jamie, and flexes the muscle in his mind. The arrow of time crashes straight into a wall formed by his willpower, and everything stops, the colour draining like paint in water.

  He steps out and walks towards the group, lifting the revolver from his pocket. There are at least eight men, all armed with fierce looking assault rifles. They stand like mourners at a funeral, heads bowed and hands clasped, their guns cradled like children in their arms. In one corner are stacks of crates and boxes, one of them opened to reveal the metallic mass of weaponry inside.

  Jamie steps around, and gasps. In the centre, stands a suited man with eyes like black holes, a constant sneer of superiority painted across his face like a tattoo.

  The King.

  He looks at the revolver, and then back at the King.

  Raising the gun, he points it at the King's sneering face. Cursing, he takes a breath to steady his aim, his palms growing slippery with sweat. The barrel shakes with his body, throwing his aim off.

  Teeth chattering together, Jamie looks the King in the eye and tries to pull the trigger. It creaks and squeaks, and the hammer starts to move.

  Then it comes down again, too heavy for him to lift.

  “The hell is wrong with me,” he whispers.

  Cursing under his breath, he pockets the revolver and returns to the aisle.

  He lets time flow again, and raises his his phone-pocket to his mouth. As he breathes in his nostrils are coated with the scent of old, dry air, as though the place has been burned from the inside out, leaving nothing but a husk that he's inhaling.

  “This is Jamie,” he whispers. “Get in here. It's him.”

  The sermon continues.

  Trespasser One appears like an apparition, Donald crouched in his ill-fitting armour behind him. With nothing more than hand signals, Trespasser One tells them what he wants them to do. As he motions towards each of them in turn, the sermon drones on.

  “Son,” drones the King, his voice trembling and swaying like a shaman lost in the fumes. “You have ensured your place in the Kingdom, and a place for your wife, your two children, and your brother's family. You have done the right thing. Do you swear fealty?”

  “I do, my King,” comes the timid voice, thick with a London twang.

  “Then stand, and count yourself amongst my men.”

  The sermon goes silent, then there is the clatter of another man getting to his knees, and the same things are said, altered slightly to reflect his situation: this man has ensured that his parents will be counted in the Kingdom, they hear.

  Trespasser One finishes signing his instructions, and hands Jamie a single metal canister; a stun grenade for him to drop in the centre of the sermon before they move in and subdue the targets.

  Jamie takes it, looks around at his squad, and then vanishes.

  There's a hollow clank as the grenade hits the ground, and Jamie flickers back into existence beside the squad, safe.

  The flash-bang coughs and detonates, met with the sound of pained screaming. Someone fires their rifle, shattering the silence.

  Then the squad attack.

  They round the corner at speed, the Trespasser first with his rifle raised to his shoulder. In the haze, someone scrambles for their gun. Trespasser One blows their shoulder out their back and they collapse, clutching at the wound. The other men lie on the ground, unconscious. Some are bleeding from their ears.

  The Trespasser raises his hand and the squad stop behind him. There's one figure standing in the darkness, head down, wearing a navy blue suit.

  As the smoke drifts and clears like fog on a moor, they see the King smiling, his shoulders starting to shake with laughter.

  Mark and Stacy stand at Chloe's back, watching: she alerts the police with an anonymous tip and plots the team's escape route on a digital map, all whilst listening to them through the numerous phones and speakers.

  They flinch as they hear the flash-bang go off.

  Then all is silent.

  One gunshot, then silence again.

  “Paul King,” says a voice, and they all exchange a look. It's Trespasser One's voice. “This is a citizen's arrest, for countless crimes including multiple homicide. Put your hands on your head and get on your knees.”

  There is no reply.

  Instead, they hear laughter, followed by screaming and gunshots.

  Then silence once more. Stacy turns and runs for the camp bed.

  Chloe looks up at Mark, terror in her eyes.

  “Go,” she pleads. “Go.”

  Before he can hesitate, Stacy returns with a bottle of whiskey.

&nb
sp; She puts it in Mark's hand, and he stares at it, feeling the weight.

  “I'll meet you there,” says Stacy. “Go.”

  He nods, and runs for the hatch.

  Episode 3

  Scattered to the Winds

  Jamie throws himself out of harm's way.

  The King is a blur, rocketing forward without warning. Trespasser One puts three rounds into him before his gun is wrenched from his hands. Unarmed now, his training kicks in – he gets his elbows up to block the King's strike; but the King isn't just fast.

  He's strong.

  The King's blow snaps Trespasser One's arm, and before a scream can leave his lips the King drives a punch into his stomach that silences him, throwing him through the air until he crashes into a bare shelf. It crumples under his weight and he falls, limp, to the floor.

  Jamie focuses his mind, stopping time as he runs for Trespasser One's body. He skids to a halt, crouching beside him.

  “Hey, Tony, come on man, get up,” he whispers.

  Nothing.

  He lets time come back, whipping his head around as he shakes Trespasser One, trying to get a response.

  The rest of the squad scatter as the King rushes into their ranks. Cathy and Donald flinch back as the King descends upon them. A blue wall of force blossoms from the air and pushes the King back before he can strike them. The King looks at it, spite in his eyes.

  Gary is biting his cheeks, standing over Donald and Cathy with one hand on his head and the other outstretched, holding the field in place.

  The King smiles as he looks at Gary, and raps his knuckles on the forcefield to test it.

  Cathy sees the intention in his eyes, and reaches up for Gary's hand.

  “Hold on, son,” she mumbles. Donald holds on to her other hand, and they stare into the black, bottomless eyes of the King.

  He smiles; then his fist blurs, and he drives it into the forcefield. Gary cries out as though he himself had been hit, and falls to his knees. A crack spreads along the forcefield as though it's glass, and the King steps back and throws another brutal punch at it.

  The field shatters, and blood spurts from Gary's nose as if he had been struck. He collapses, and the King rushes forward -

  Nothing.

  Cathy pulls them away, out of this universe and into another place, leaving thin air where they stood before, and a single puddle of blood on the floor.

  The King turns and sees Jamie, crouched over the Trespasser, checking for a pulse.

  Jamie looks up, and sees the King approaching. His stomach flips; he grabs the Trespasser and focuses, stopping time for them again.

  The King is frozen in mid-stride, staring straight at him. Jamie takes the revolver from his pocket and points it at the King.

  This time, there's no hesitation. He fires once, twice, the gun bucking in his hands. The cylinder rotates again, clicking empty.

  Jamie takes a breath, and lets time begin to flow again, holding the King's gaze.

  The King flinches and stops as the bullets crack against his skull and leave the room in silence.

  Rubbing his forehead, he gives Jamie the strangest, good-natured laugh and shakes his head, looking at him as though he is a misbehaving child.

  “Is this all?” he asks, and strolls towards Jamie, meandering to link his hands behind his back. “To think I once had to skirt around you people.”

  “Jamie,” Chloe's voice comes in through his ear peice. He holds a poker face, giving away nothing as the King comes closer. “Jamie, Mark is on the way, get out of there.”

  Jamie can't help but feel a pang of hope when he hears his friend's name.

  “Ok,” says Jamie, sighing.

  He gives Trespasser One's body a long, heartfelt stare and pats his shoulder, whispering something like an apology. Then he stands up, taking a deep breath and sliding the lead pipe out of his jacket.

  He faces the King.

  “What do you want me to say?” he asks the King, spreading his arms wide.

  The King narrows his eyes. “Ah, I know you. You; you were the man in the rain. You're the one that beat me, all those months ago.”

  “In the flesh.”

  The King lets him have a kind smile and points to his weapon. “You know, a lead pipe isn't going to do much. You'd have been better off with the revolver.”

  “That didn't do much either.”

  “It might have.”

  “We'll see.”

  “Yes we will,” he says, biting his lip. “Now I only count five of you here tonight. I think we're short one or two. In particular, a man I was very interested to speak to...”

  “Is that so?” asks Jamie, keeping his voice flat and level. He fights to stop the trembling in his voice.

  “Yes. Where is Mark?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Not with you at least, like he used to be. You know, after the whole almost-apocalypse thing I expected to see him flying around Glasgow with a cape on. I'm disappointed.”

  The King takes a step forward, smiling.

  “Do you think he'd come if he knew that I was hurting you?”

  That's when the roof explodes inwards, and a bearded human shape crashes into the ground.

  The dust clears and Mark, one bottle of whiskey sloshing in his stomach, stumbles up out of the crater, grabbing at the aisles to steady himself. His eyes are out of focus, and his jaw is slack, setting his face in a permanent out-of-breath grimace; he looks confused.

  Seeing Jamie, he waves, smiling.

  The King looks at Jamie, then at Mark. “Well, speak of the devil.”

  “Right,” says Mark, stumbling forward. “Jamie, get everyone out of here.”

  Jamie nods, and vanishes along with Trespasser One's body.

  “You,” Mark points at the King. “You're coming with me.”

  The King laughs. “Well, what can I say Mark, you caught me.”

  He puts his wrists out as though waiting to be handcuffed.

  Mark narrows his eyes and takes a long, hard look at the King, as if trying to figure out what's wrong. The King sniffs once, looking up as he thinks.

  “Wait, I'm smelling... is that whiskey? Eighteen years at least, something oaky -”

  “Ok, jail time,” says Mark, and grabs the King's arm. He starts to drag him, and jerks to a stop as though he has dropped anchor. He tugs again, and turns in confusion.

  The King isn't moving.

  “Wait, what -”

  He barely even feels the King hit him.

  Jamie lets time start again when he's outside, and falls to his knees in the misty rain with Trespasser One's body in his arms.

  “Come on Tony, what's the point in all that armour if you just die after one punch, don't be such a bloody woman.” He looks around in the mist. “Donald? Don where the -”

  Cathy materialises beside him, Gary hanging over Donald's shoulder with one arm.

  “Ah shit,” whispers Donald. “Here, Cath, take Gary.”

  Cathy takes his weight: he stumbles onto her like a drunk to his mother, arms wrapped around her neck.

  Donald crouches beside the Trespasser. Jamie lets him flop onto the ground, lifting his mask off his face to reveal closed eyes and a slack jaw with blood trickling from one side.

  “Don,” he whispers. “Is there – y'know, is there anything -”

  “Maybe,” he says, and lays his hands on Tony's body.

  Behind them there's an almighty crash, like thunder peeling across the plains.

  “Is that Mark?” asks Cathy, ducking with another crash.

  “Yeah. I think he's pretty wasted.”

  “Good,” she says.

  “Here goes,” whispers Donald, and closes his eyes.

  The fire starts to flow from his hands into Trespasser One's body.

  Mark pulls himself out of the broken aisles and rubble, brushing bricks off of himself, cursing as he trips and stumbles. When he is upright he sees the King hands behind his back again, tutting and shaking his head
.

  “I remember how afraid I once was of you,” he says. “A man considered unstoppable by conventional means – but now I hold that same power and do you know what, Mark?”

  Mark leaps for him, and before his blow lands the King has sidestepped out of the way and driven an elbow into his spine, slamming him into the ground. Mark writhes, trying to get up as the King puts his foot on his back with all of his strength, grinding him into the broken concrete.

  “I realised,” he says through gritted teeth, “that the power changes nothing. Even with all this strength, you're still only as powerful as you are prepared to be.”

  Mark puts all of his effort into his core, and rolls, grabbing the King's foot before he can retract it. Holding his ankle close to his chest, Mark twists and wrenches the King to the ground with him. They scramble for one another, and Mark gets a struggling, desperate knee into his ribs, sending him reeling back.

  Laughing, the King leaps to his feet, brushing himself down and fixing his hair.

  “Passable,” he says. “But this is senseless. I'm trying to make a point, son.”

  Mark puts one hand on his knee, trying to get his breath back and swallow away the dryness in his dust-coated throat.

  “Then make it,” he grunts.

  “Ok,” says the King, holding up his hands and giving him an innocent, naïve smile. “We both want the same thing. We've known this since we first met.”

  Mark scowls, throwing his hands up. “You want to control the entire city -”

  The King clears his throat, stopping him. “Actually, I'm thinking the country now. Never had the powers before, did I?”

  “Whatever,” sighs Mark. “You think the people need to be controlled. You weren't right then, and you aren't right now.”

  “On the contrary,” says the King. “How do you intend to help people, Mark? By inspiring them? By enforcing someone else's law? You want to control them as much as I do, you just want to do it whilst maintaining some veneer of heroism.”