Kingdom: The Complete Series

by Steven William Hannah

  Gary drops the forcefield and the Trespasser motions upward, giving the order.

  “Take them,” he shouts, and storms the stairs.

  Gregor, the King's right hand man, watches in amusement as Mark leaps from the lobby up into the atrium, smashing through the glass and steel banister and tumbling into a desperate group of armed men. They try to club him with their rifles, which clatter off his shoulders like toys before he floors them each with a series of wild drunken punches.

  All along the C-curve of the upper level stand confused and angry shooters, fumbling with magazines and trying to unjam rifles that have taken on a mind of their own. They look to Gregor for guidance, and he gives them a winning smile that offers nothing.

  Gregor watches, his hands still comfortable behind his back, as Mark crashes into another pair of men like a bowling ball, knocking one out with a single headbutt and grabbing the other by the collar, throwing him across the atrium and into a wall.

  Over the other end, a man in full Trespasser combat armour is using a shotgun like a baton, and clubbing Gregor's men to the ground as they try to attack him. Beside him is a flickering, teleporting man in a long coat, bending a lead pipe over the bones of his legion.

  Gregor chuckles, amused at the scene. Like a spectator he watches the battle rage. His men try to go for pistols and side-arms, but nothing works; guns jam and click empty, slides and triggers come loose and fall apart.

  Three of Gregor's soldiers go for a short, scrawny looking lad and the older, more rotund man beside him; the small figure extends his hand, and a blue wall of force crashes into his attackers, knocking them onto their backs.

  Two men go sailing past Gregor, who flinches a little. Their screams stop when they hit the plaster-white wall and crumple together. Gregor turns around, and finds himself staring Mark in the eye. He smiles.

  “No introduction needed” he says. “We've met before.”

  Mark is bent over, staring up at him with his fists clenched, anger shining through his bared teeth.

  “You,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “You were the tramp in the Gardens.”

  “Mhm. Gassed you and brought your life's work crashing down on top of you.”

  Mark doesn't bother with threats or one liners – he snarls and leaps.

  Without losing his smirk, Gregor drops his hands and opens them wide, palms facing towards Mark. A rippling wall of force tears the air apart with a low boom, and Mark is thrown back with such force that he crashes through the white pillars before leaving a deep indent in a wall and tumbling out, struggling for balance.

  Gregor shivers with anticipation, licking his lips.

  “Oh I've been waiting to let this out,” he sighs, rubbing his neck like an aching athlete.

  The sounds of battle fade away – only a gurgling protest comes from one of Gregor's men, before Trespasser One smashes his jaw with the handle of his shotgun.

  One by one, as Mark gets to his feet across the wide open hall, the eyes of the squad fall on Gregor, who is waiting patiently.

  They converge on him carefully, all apart from Stacy who stays on the lower floor, keeping the guns jammed.

  “Interesting to watch,” he says, projecting his voice like a priest. It echoes around the silent, plaster-cavern, and he has the attention of the squad; even the mousy brunette crouched in the lobby in her winter coat, blood trickling from her nose. “Very interesting.”

  He gives them a sarcastic clap, shaking his head and laughing.

  Mark shouts over him, to the rest of the squad.

  “He's the one,” he tells them, pointing. “He brought the Gardens down on top of me.”

  Jamie flickers and reappears behind Gregor, bringing the lead pipe in a wide arc towards his skull.

  Before it connects, a bubble of force pulses around Gregor and throws Jamie back into a wall. He tumbles to the ground with a painting that was hanging there, and the smash of the glass breaks the moment.

  Trespasser One takes aim and fires twice from his shotgun, moving towards Gregor as he unloads his weapon. It clicks empty, and he drops it and charges.

  Palms towards the Trespasser, Gregor throws out waves of trembling air, scattering the shot into the walls. Gregor aims a blast at the Trespasser's head and lets it go, but at a flat sprint the Trespasser drops to his knees like a dancer and slides. The blast ruffles the hair on his head and as he skids towards Gregor, clenching his fist.

  Rising under Gregor's guard, Trespasser One snaps his head back with an uppercut – his brass knuckles cut Gregor's jaw open and blood flies upwards like a fountain. Out of instinct, Gregor puts a hand on Trespasser One's armour and pushes him back with a wild, instinctual blast of force.

  Trespasser One spins through the air like a ragdoll before slamming against a wall and staying there, lodged in the plasterwork like a taxidermy, unmoving.

  Gregor laughs and massages his bleeding jaw; he peers over the smashed banisters at Stacy below him, still struggling for breath on the floor after using her powers. He aims an open-palmed blast at her and lets it loose.

  A roaring freight train of raw force barrels towards Stacy, who scrambles to try and escape it. Blue force blooms around her, and windows and glass throughout the lobby shatter as the two forces clash.

  Gregor looks around for her protector, and sees Gary's scrawny frame in the dust of the atrium. Gary puts a hand on his head and motions his arm as if he's throwing something – too late Gregor sees the wall of blue force screaming towards him, and Gary's bubble hits him like a car, knocking him off his feet.

  He tumbles, scrambling to his feet in time to see Mark pounce through the broken pillars and hit him in the chest with a punch that breaks ribs and throws him back against the wall, spluttering blood.

  Gregor slides down the wall, pawing at his chest in silence, his breath gone.

  Mark stands above him, fists clenched, and lowers his voice.

  “Horrible feeling isn't it?” he murmurs. “Not being able to breathe.”

  Donald and Cath materialise next to Trespasser One, pulling him out of the plasterboard as Donald lays his hands on his chest. Stacy and Gary lift Jamie off the ground, his arms around their shoulders as he fades in and out of consciousness.

  Bodies litter the floor of the atrium, dust wafting up from the lobby like steam. Mark stands like a statue over Gregor, who has sank to his lowest and looks up at Mark, fighting for breath.

  “What's the King planning?” asks Mark.

  “Too late to stop anything anyway,” says Gregor, giving him a spluttering laugh. “The police in this city are all dead. Most of them, I guess. Not a lot you guys can do either.”

  “We might surprise you yet.”

  Gary and Stacy are helping Jamie over to Donald, motioning to him for help. Cathy stands up, one hand on the little earbud in her helmet.

  “Mark,” she says, walking over to him. “Chloe is on the comms, she says that there's a broadcast going out. It's the King.”

  “He's in the studio?”

  Cathy nods.

  Gregor looks up at Mark and laughs.

  “Go,” he wheezes. “Try and stop him. He'll kill you one way or another. Today. Tomorrow. It doesn't matter.”

  “Mark,” whispers Cath, touching his arm. He turns around. “We're in no condition to fight the King. He nearly beat us last time, we've got men down -”

  “I know,” says Mark. “Get everybody out of here. Get out of Glasgow. Tell Chloe to do the same.”

  Stacy looks up from Jamie's prone form as Donald lays his hands on him.

  “We can't leave,” she says. “The King can't win after all this.”

  Gregor wheezes again. “He already has -”

  Mark silences him with a brief, brutal kick to the chest. Gregor goes limp, his head lolling forward.

  “He isn't going to win,” says Mark. “But we're in a mess right now. Get everybody out of Glasgow. We can come back when we're ready, when we can win.”

  It's Jamie who
answers him, sitting up with Donald's hand on his shoulder.

  “We can win now,” he grunts.

  “Mate, no,” says Mark. “Look, we're all angry, but this guy nearly killed us all before he had powers.”

  “Give me one second with him and I'll jam a gun down his throat and unload it,” says Jamie. “See how invincible his insides are.”

  He starts to check the load on his revolver.

  “You saw this guy move, Jamie,” says Gary, shaking his head. “Mark's right, we should regroup. You just got knocked out, man, we need -”

  Jamie snaps the revolver shut. “Wasn't asking.”

  Then he flickers and vanishes.

  “Shit,” hisses Mark, and turns to Stacy. “Stace, get everyone out of here – out of Glasgow, do it.”

  “We can't just leave -”

  Mark doesn't hear her, and starts running for the doors to the studios.

  Stacy and Gary look at each other, then at Gregor, unconscious against the wall.

  Cathy and Donald help Trespasser One up, who groans and lifts his mask off his face. He picks up his shotgun, stepping over the scattered, unconscious bodies of the King's men, and begins thumbing shells into his shotgun.

  “Trespasser?” asks Stacy, ruffling her jacket. “You're not going to leave Glasgow, are you?”

  He finishes loading and racks the slide.

  “Like hell I am.” His voice is coarse, the wind still knocked out of him. “Follow me.”

  He leads them after Mark, towards the stairs leading up to the studio.

  Jamie has seen the BBC newsroom more times than he can count – the red panels and rows of computer desks frame a familiar podium. His footsteps on the carpet are drowned out by a loud, sonorous monologue echoing through the room. Jamie cocks the hammer on the revolver and stalks through the desks, averting his gaze from the man standing at the podium giving his speech to the cameras.

  He can hear the words as he steps over bodies riddled with claret stains and bullet holes.

  “No longer,” announces the King to an array of unmanned cameras. “No longer will the Kingdom be a shared secret. No longer will Glasgow's true benefactors hide away in the shadows. Bullets and bombs cannot stop me. Politics and sanctions cannot stop me. When the sun comes up, those of you who remain loyal, who remain within the city centre...” he takes a breath and Jamie hears the contented joy in his voice. “You will wake up to a new world – a changed world – where the only suffering is necessary suffering. Where the only crime is that which I allow – where the only victims are those who deserve it. Citizens of Glasgow, you have until sunrise to make your choice. As soon as light falls upon Glasgow; nobody will be entering or leaving, upon pain of death. Together we will build a world we can all be proud of, where people are at their best.”

  Jamie is aware of others behind him, and peeks over his shoulder: the rest of the squad are following him through the desks, keeping low and quiet. Mark is at the front, catching up to Jamie.

  “You got a plan?” he whispers.

  “Yeah, stop time and put a few bullets down his throat.”

  “Probably won't work.”

  “What if we get Donald close to him? Stop his heart?”

  “Probably a better idea,” says Mark, and hesitates before adding: “I can be a distraction if you need it.”

  The rest of the squad catch up and crouch behind a desk next to Jamie and Mark.

  “Guys,” says Chloe through their earpieces. “Guy's you're visible on the camera. I think the King knows you're -”

  Jamie and Mark glance at each other. The monologue has stopped.

  “Here they are,” booms the King, turning at the desk.

  Jamie and Mark sigh and stand up, meeting his burning gaze.

  “Glasgow's heroes,” he sighs. “Here to steal the future from us.”

  “Sounds about right,” says Mark. He turns and whispers to Jamie as he steps forward. “Freeze time and get Donald to him.”

  Jamie gives him an imperceptible nod.

  Mark steps into the lane between desks and starts strolling towards the King.

  “Showing your face in public now?” asks Mark, opening his palms like a businessman as he approaches.

  “Actually I've got my back to the camera, Mark. Care to join me?”

  He motions to the anchor's desk as Mark comes to a stop.

  “No, I don't imagine I'll be staying long,” says Mark, and looks past the King's shoulder to the cameras.

  The King flexes his arms and neck in his exquisite navy-blue suit, checking his cuff links and shaking any tension out of his muscles.

  “This didn't go so well for you last time, son.”

  “That was then. Now we're here to give you an ultimatum.”

  “Oh really? You'll want to say it loud enough for the cameras, then.”

  “Fine,” says Mark, stepping forward. The King tilts his head back as he approaches, smirking down his nose. “Paul King. I am making a citizen's arrest, for -” Mark pauses, and shrugs. “For just about every crime there is. Let's go for 'crimes against humanity', eh? Given your immense strength, I am warning you that if you fail to surrender, I will restrain you by force.”

  The King smiles, and turns his back to Mark, facing the camera.

  “Citizens of Glasgow – of the world. Watch what happens to those who stand in the way of progress; of the Kingdom.”

  The King turns, cracks his neck, and then rushes Mark.

  Mark raises his arms to protect his face like a boxer, and the King crashes into him.

  Jamie ducks and flinches as desks and computers fly over their heads.

  “What do we do?” asks Gary, trying to bury himself under the table.

  “Donald,” shouts Jamie, “grab my hand and come with me.”

  Donald nods, letting Jamie lead him.

  The sound dies away as they link hands, and their friends freeze mid-moment. Donald takes a breath, like a rush of static in the silence, and lifts his mask for air.

  “What's the plan?” he asks Jamie.

  “Don, you're probably not going to like this -”

  “You want me to kill him?”

  Jamie says nothing, twisting his mouth into a verbal shrug.

  “Well, yeah. Nothing else that we've got can hurt him.”

  Donald nods, sighing. “I reckon I'm saving at least a few hundred lives by ending his anyway. Let's go.”

  Jamie takes the ageing doctor out into the mess of desks that now lie scattered like cars in a pileup. In the middle of the detritus stand the two titans, Mark and the King, frozen in that second. Mark is losing, even with time stopped Jamie can see that. He has his arms raised to block the King's blow, oblivious to the elbow the King is aiming at his ribs.

  “Ok,” says Jamie, circling the fighters. He treads with caution; for all that time has stopped, he can't shake the feeling that the King will turn and break his neck at any moment.

  “Right,” says Donald. “You just do your thing, and let me do mine.”

  They step over a shattered monitor, and Donald reaches out for the King as though expecting to get burned. Jamie keeps the revolver trained on the King's head as Donald grasps his wrist and closes his eyes, his breathing slowing until Jamie can't hear it at all.

  “Ok,” whispers Donald. “Here we go.”

  Jamie watches Donald as he ruffles his grey ponytail and wipes the sweat from his face, then readjusts his grip and begins to breath heavily.

  Jamie notices a faint tingling in the air, like walking under a power line. The air around Donald grows a little colder, a little dryer. Jamie can feel time building up in his head, trying to break through – he holds it back, letting Donald work.

  With a sudden gasp that makes Jamie jump, Donald lets go of the King and reels back, clutching his head as blood streams from his nostrils. Jamie catches him, keeping time frozen for them, and lowers him to the floor.

  “Don? Don, are you ok?”

  “Fine,” he grunts
, and rubs his eyes with his free hand. Bloody tears well at the edges of his eyes, staining his face like war-paint. “It's done. He's dead.”

  “What? Just like that?”

  “Stopped his heart. He's only human, Jamie.”

  “Good man, Don. Good man.”

  “I don't feel like a good man,” sighs Donald, and struggles to his feet with Jamie's help.

  “Ok, I'm going to let time come back, ok?”

  “Ready when you are.”

  Mark raises his arm to block the King's hammering downward blow – but as he catches the King's first strike, an elbow slips in under his guard and crushes his ribs, punching the air from his lungs.

  Reeling, Mark blinks the sweat from his eyes and swings a wild haymaker.

  It never connects.

  The King has stopped like a broken machine, standing on the spot, staring at Mark as his lips blubber and tremble. He's trying to talk – trying to shake his head – and he clutches at his heart. Hands that were clenched in anger have gone numb, fumbling with the buttons on his waistcoat as he falls; first to his knees, with a heavy, resounding thud. Then he pitches forward as the life leaves his eyes, and crunches a hole in the floor where his heavy head lands.

  Mark hasn't moved yet.

  “Well,” says Jamie from behind him. Mark whips around. “That was bloody anticlimactic.”

  “My head,” groans Donald, rubbing his temples.

  “Did you -” Mark points, and Jamie nods.

  “It's done. Over. The King is dead, long live the King, all that pish.”

  Jamie holds up a hand, raising a finger to his ear.

  “Oh,” he adds, “Chloe is reminding me that we are live on television, so, you know. If you want to say anything, now's the time.”

  “Uh, I don't know,” groans Mark, stopping his protests when the rest of the squad join them over the King's body.

  Stacy folds her arms. “Say something, Mark. The world's watching, this is your chance.”

  He shrugs. “I guess. Doesn't anybody want to come up with me?”

  Trespasser One cradles his shotgun in the crease of his elbow. “You're the big hero, Mark. Go do your thing.”