No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series

by Roo I MacLeod

  ‘What’s supposed to be under there?’ He took another look under the seat.

  ‘Nothing important.’ Jackie’s words, ‘get bag,’ mocked my assertion and Marvin, my quiet childhood friend, felt threatened when he talked about the bag and the men chasing him. The bags importance couldn’t be gauged, not by me, but I felt guilty losing the bag full of trouble.

  ‘Listen I’m heading off, Ben.’

  ‘You going back to that wee girlie at the Sister’s stall? You’re wasting your time with her because you need to talk to God about taking her anywhere but the church.’

  ‘No, don’t be silly, I’m off to the High Street. If the Scum have done their job the High Street should be ripe, you know, for picking up some bargains.’

  A tall, thin man holding a bright red handkerchief to his face stepped through Tommy’s exit, forcing Tommy to tumble into the girl singing in the band. The man smacked the thug holding the child across the back of his head and knocked his hat beneath the trestle table of the charitable Sisters of Mercy. He dropped the child to the ground and bowed to the good Sisters as they passed him his hat. The tall man pushed him away from the crowd toward the town hall, his hand on his back; the short squat man following, his role to secure their retreat from the square.

  Jesus Marvin, I muttered to my bottle of vodka. I took a swig and screwed the lid back in place. What has gone so wrong with your life you attract the attention of bad, ugly thugs from the East End.

  A battered car exited Church Lane trailing a cloud of exhaust smoke and parked against the wall of Ahmed’s Emporium. Multi-colored panels of rust and undercoat covered the sides and back. Black smoke puffed from its exhaust as the car wobbled against the brake. A load of children on small bikes pedaled past the battered vehicle raking sticks and bats across the car’s flanks, whooping and hollering as they skidded into the square. Folk scattered as they weaved through the stalls fleeing the reds and blues. The police car braked hard to the rear of the battered vehicle sending a wave of grit and mud into the night.

  I clutched my pack tight to my chest as the children ducked and dived and kept free of the Law’s grasping hands.

  The police presence had kicked the arse out of the atmosphere in the square. Plates of food littered the ground as folk searched for a quick exit. The huddle of old men outside the Bookies shop disintegrated, blending with the crowd watching the police swinging truncheons. Tables outside the Drunken Duck emptied, the Toffs taking refuge inside the pub and fighting the T-Girls for bar space. The Slotvaks gathered their clan into a huddle, crouching low beneath the screen, deep in shadow, snarling at the reds and the blues.

  Tilly stepped out of Sylvia’s coffee shop opposite Ahmed’s Emporium, her arm linked with Sylvia’s. She wore a multi-colored tea cozy over the mass of dark, thick curls. A heavy green jumper, hand spun by someone special in her past, drooped low to her knees.

  Harry, her child, slid his bike into my legs.

  ‘Hiya, Ben. You looking mean. Why the hood?’

  He threw the bike beneath the seat, pushed his black hood from his head and flopped beside me. As he tore the scarf from his face another child fell onto the seat beside Harry.

  ‘Piss off, Tyson,’ Harry said. ‘This is my alibi.’

  He pushed Tyson off the seat and nestled close, rubbing at raw-looking fingers. ‘You look mean, like.’ He pushed my hood back from my head and nodded. ‘Kick back, coz we’re in the square and the square rocks.’

  ‘Tough day?’ I said. I pointed at the police still chasing the shadows of children. ‘This anything to do with you?’

  ‘High Street’s on fire. They think we did it, like and the Scarlet Scum are looting big time, but I’ve been here with you, like, haven’t I?’

  I pointed at his mother standing twenty yards to our right, offering Sylvia a farewell embrace. ‘She’d be a better alibi.’

  ‘Shit. I’m not supposed to be here. She told me not to come into the square today. There’s a celebration or something going on, she said and no if’s she said and she said no but’s too; I was not to be in the square today.’

  As we both looked in Tilly’s direction the battered car jerked and bunny hopped forward, moving toward the town hall. Its engine screamed and clouds of black smoke spewed from the exhaust. It picked up speed, plowing a direct line through the square, bodies scattering out of its path.

  Harry and I watched its progress, stuck in time as the car neared the town hall. Harry’s talk of celebration rattled in my head.

  ‘Down!’ I yelled and pushed Harry to the ground. He complained and fought me, but I held firm.

  The car rammed the first aid van and screams followed its path through the square. I stood up as it clipped the juggler and I cried out as the child dropped the collection hat and dived for cover.

  For a moment, a breath, maybe a sigh, I hesitated and watched the car collide with the town hall with a grating crash of metal.

  The explosion was bright, flare bright.

  The boom thunderous.

  And the blast knocked me hard against Harry, the two of us blown against the wall and crushed in the dirt.

  Chapter Five

  Smoke and Mirrors

  I lay on the ground trying to breathe while Harry squirmed beneath me. Muffled sounds filtered through the dark. I opened my eyes, blinking at grit and dust. Tears streamed, my chest hurt and my head throbbed. A body pushed off my legs as Harry wriggled and kicked. A hand threatened my face, clutched at my clothing and I slapped it away.

  Bells rung in my ears as dust clouds settled. Alarms screamed, glass smashed, amid an orchestra of coughing and wailing. Through a blur of tears I saw smoke and flashes of flame. I held Harry in place, but his attempts to lever from my clutches became frantic and painful. I rolled to my knees and shook dirt and debris from my hair. Each breath caused a sharp pain on my left side. I wiped my eyes, trying to see through the smoke. Hysterical screams broke the night. Bodies lay strewn across the jumble of metal and canvas.

  ‘Mum!’ Harry cried.

  Bomb or gas explosion and other random thoughts struggled with my inability to act. The ground felt safe, whereas standing suggested target. The best option involved doing nothing and I held onto Harry hoping he agreed.

  Long shrill whistles broke up the cries of the wounded. Harry sat up, trying to stand, but I kept hold of his jacket, desperate to keep him safe. He hit out, slapping me across the face and left me with his hooded coat clenched to my body.

  Hands pulled me to my feet and held me as my world spun and threatened to tip me on my arse. Smoke and dust stung, my eyes bleeding tears. A woman ran from the chaos and pulled at the front of my coat, her face a mask of blood and her words garbled nonsense. A hand slapped at the lady and she collapsed, screaming and clawing at the ground.

  I fell back onto the seat. A black clad figure with a balaclava over his face squatted before me. He held my hands tight. Tattered black gloves slapped me hard. Twice. Sound came back full and loud in the right ear as the gloved hand grabbed my chin.

  ‘Have you got bag?’

  His voice sounded fuzzy, his lips seeming to move ahead of the sound. ‘What?’

  ‘Where is bag?’

  ‘Jesus, Jackie, give me a break.’

  ‘Get out of square now. Get bag and leave. Will be another bomb.’

  ‘Fine, so let me go.’

  ‘Another bomb.’ He pulled his right sleeve back and pointed at his watch. ‘Ten minutes only.’

  ‘I can’t leave without Tilly and Harry.’

  ‘Ten minutes. We meet at blacksmiths.’

  Jackie retreated, absorbed into the mass of disorientated bodies, smoke and dust.

  Another flash and a boom rocked the square causing cries of despair and able bodies ran in circles, along paths leading nowhere.

  I cleared the seat of debris and sat with my pack on my lap, trying to clear my head. My hands shook as I sucked on the vodka. Scattered bodies lay in curious positions, not bothering w
ith the debris burying their lives. Figures wandered alone staring at the fire engulfing the Mayor’s offices. People hugged, rocking back and forth as they clutched at life. From the rear of the square beneath the screen, a long high-pitched wailing noise spoke of pain and fear.

  Food stalls, once islands of laughter and color and such sweet smells, lay flattened to the ground, sheets of canvas flapping in the chill wind. The betting shop leant to its left, the door open, windows smashed and smoke pouring from inside the dark interior.

  I slung my pack on my shoulder and plodded through the swirling smoke toward Sylvia’s Coffee Shop and Tilly’s last known location. Sirens sounded in the distance. Bells clanged as fire trucks raced to the scene and whistles screamed to my left. Many feet stomped on the cobbles leading to the square and the slow grind of metal caterpillar wheels approached.

  Tilly grabbed my arm. ‘You all right?’ she said. She bore a cut to her forehead and a trickle of blood leaked past her eyebrow.

  ‘Yeah, I’m cool.’

  From the laneway separating Sylvia’s Coffee Shop and Ahmed’s Emporium, figures in scarlet hoods marched on the square. They bashed bats against tin shields and hollered their battle cry against the Man.

  ‘We need to leave,’ Tilly said. ‘Sylvia’s closed and barricaded her shop. We’ve helped Ahmed close the Emporium. We can’t be here for the Scarlet Scum, Ben.’

  Jackie’s warning had been how long ago? ‘Yeah, but Harry’s here somewhere.’

  ‘What do you mean? Here?’

  Tilly gazed into the bedlam, tears falling as she pointed at a man clutching at the stump of his severed leg.

  ‘Harry’s all right,’ I said. ‘He was sitting with me before the explosion. Last I saw of him he was heading towards Sylvia’s looking for you.’

  Her gaze remained on the man’s stump his wailing causing me to shiver. ‘Harry’s not hurt,’ I shouted.

  I grabbed her arm. ‘We have another problem.’

  I needed to share Jackie’s thoughts on the second bomb, but Tilly spotted Harry and ran. A police officer held the child by the neck, his head pressed to the bonnet of a police car. Pittsville Punksters, juniors to the Scarlet Scum, laden with missiles were giving the copper’s grief.

  By the time I caught up, Tilly had finished admonishing the police officer for his treatment of her child, pointing toward the Scarlet Scum’s advance.

  ‘They’re your problem,’ she shouted and turned on the Punksters. ‘And them, but not my child.’

  Tilly’s white knuckles gripped the back of Harry’s shirt as she led him toward the square.

  ‘No,’ I called to them. I pointed toward the church on Church Lane. ‘We need to head away from the square.’

  Tilly wanted nothing to do with the row of police vans crowding Church Lane.

  ‘We can’t, Ben,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve got to get my bike.’

  The Mayor’s water cannon lumbered into view, its metal caterpillar tracks scraping against the ancient cobbles. Soldiers wearing masks flanked its sides and rear. It parked opposite the entrance to the town hall as the Scarlet Scum swarmed out of Ostere Lane, their weapons hammering on Sylvia’s Coffee Shop and Ahmed’s Emporium.

  ‘We can hide in Sylvia’s,’ Tilly suggested.

  ‘We can’t,’ I said. I wanted to broadcast the prospect of a second bomb to the square. I held my hands to my mouth and shouted against the mayhem. The police beat with their truncheons and the Scarlet Scum hammered their bats on tin shields. The water tank ground and whirred with the soldiers chanting and stomping their black boots. My message went unheard.

  We had two minutes if Jackie’s time proved correct. I looked up at the clock in the town hall tower but gave little credence to its accuracy. We needed to run: Simple.

  The Scarlet Scum, juveniles in outrageous red hoods, flooded into the square on mopeds swinging chains and bats and machetes. Behind them came a wave of chanting Scum with incendiary devices stacked in wheelbarrows and drunken shopping trolleys. To the rear and sides a raggedy collection of homeless youth with bats, hoping to impress the Scum ran to join the fray.

  I grabbed Tilly’s hand and dragged her toward the alley. ‘Smelly Alley,’ I shouted. ‘There’s a bomb about to go off.’

  ‘Another one?’

  I hustled Tilly and Harry before me. The water cannon sprayed its first volley into the flaming building. Shots rang out. Bottles with flaming fuses flew high and bright in the black backdrop. The cannon burst into flame as the glass smashed. The wind whipped the suffocating odor of petrol into our faces. Soldiers scattered, crouching behind bodies to shoot at the rioters. The sound of semi-automatic rifle fire filled the air as more bottles took flight, disintegrating and spraying the soldiers with petrol. Black silhouettes, writhing in bright flame, ran screaming in circles. Extinguishers added their white smoke to the thick air as the cannon moved further into the battle. The Scarlet Scum faced the mechanical monster, jeering at its tortoise-like advance. From Church Lane the police marched forward, creating a second front for the Scum to attack.

  We made steady progress toward Smelly Alley. I pushed a huddle of bloodied citizens off the seat and grabbed Harry’s bike, grateful the bag hadn’t reappeared as we didn’t need trouble slowing our pace.

  A torrent of water knocked us to the ground. We hunched low as the water bounced off the bare earth, splashing mud into the air. It panned away, its force knocking into bodies, the cries of alarm dying in the muddied puddles.

  I picked up the bike and Tilly helped her son to his feet. Wiping mud from her face, I smiled.

  ‘Run, eh?’ I shouted.

  She nodded as a second wave of helmeted coppers entered the fray with Perspex shields and batons raised, striking at bodies in their path. Grenades of tear gas launched into the square with a hiss and a clatter as they landed. Coppers blocked our exit, but rioters on mopeds, scarlet scarves wrapped across their mouths, attacked with venom and inspired a hasty, blue-bodied retreat.

  The three of us crouched behind the metal bike frame and scuttled toward the alley. Panicked folk clogged the entrance. As we pushed into the alley, the second bomb exploded, the boom loud, the sound reverberating and numbing with the pressure knocking us to the ground.

  Harry’s bike fell against me with a frantic body pinning me to the ground. My nose dug into the grubby wet cobbles, the rancid scent of fish waste threatening to turn the contents of my stomach onto the path.

  A wave of dust, ash and smoke consumed the alley. Screams and cries filled the air. I pushed at the bike, trying to dislodge the bodies. Harry yanked the frame, as Tilly stood, her body sagging against the shop front. Bodies rose from the ground, allowing me to stand and retrieve Harry’s bike. I offered Tilly a hand, but ended up falling against her, the two of us supporting each other as we fought the surging crowd.

  Everywhere I looked, panic ruled. The smoke and dust obscured the exit.

  The deep throb of a helicopter approached, its spotlight searching every corner as it flashed over the alley, swirling smoke and debris in its path. Another chopper swooped into the square to spotlight the action as the riot police and soldiers hemmed the rioters into the middle of the square.

  ‘Ben!’ a voice cried.

  I looked past the bodies, my eyes screwed against the smoke. People shoved past me, desperate to flee the choking smoke. One man ran into me, his fingers scratched at my face as he pushed and knocked me against the butchers shop front. Tilly and I had become detached as more bodies beat against me.

  The rotor blades fanned at the smoke. Grit, water and mud sprayed in our faces, but the air cleared and the madness in the square became visible.

  Pete the Nose sat in the dirt two paces short of the alley. Mud covered his face. He clutched his scout hat, his mop of straw plastered to his scalp with sooty mud. Folks ran over him, knocking and cursing him.

  Water sprayed from side to side causing bodies to trip and flail at the mud as the torrent of water ripped at their clothes.
A bullet exploded out the back of a man, the body collapsing in the mud as the copper panned the square looking for his next target.

  A man ran into the shuttered door of the tobacconists shop, careered off the doorjamb with his clothes engulfed in flame. The hideous scent of burning flesh stung my nostrils. The pitiful screams willed me to intercede. I removed my coat, bodies striking and pushing past me and pointed at Pete’s checked coat.

  ‘Help me,’ I said.

  Pete didn’t move. The man pivoted, stumbled toward him with flaming arms flapping. I held the coat before my face and knocked the man to the ground covering his body with the thin fabric. A jet of water from the advancing cannon knocked me and my coat off his body and the flames lessened. Again I attacked, quelling the flames and damping the embers, but the fight had left the man, his charred body melting into the mud.

  I grabbed Pete by his checked coat and pulled him to his feet. Blood covered his legs. Scraps of skin hung from his knees. The sore on his nose glowed bright red.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I screamed.

  ‘What’s going on, Ben?’ Pete’s eyes stared.

  ‘Jesus, what do you bloody think? Why are you sitting here, you nutter? The army, police and the Scum have gone to war. Two bombs have just exploded to seal the deal and you—’

  Shots sounded. Pieces broke from the walls behind us and I flinched and ducked my head.

  ‘People are dying and you sit on your fat arse picking at that rancid sore. Move!’

  A foul smelling smoke consumed the square, stinging my eyes. A rioter, his head covered in a scarlet scarf, swung his bat at Pete’s head. I pushed Pete away from the danger and punched the rioter hard in the face.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Pete repeated. ‘I tried to help the Sisters, but their stall’s gone. One of the Sisters was hurt, but she didn’t want me to help her and she knew I got my First Aid badge.’