No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series

by Roo I MacLeod

  ‘Move! Now! We have to get out of here.’ I gave him a shove toward the alley, looking for Tilly and Harry.

  ‘What about the Sisters?’

  ‘Fuck the Sisters.’

  Pete laughed, his head thrown back, his mirth so out of place in the chaos behind us. ‘You can’t say that. The vicar keeps telling me, you can’t think that about the Sisters. You can’t.’

  Again I grabbed the front of his big wooly coat and slapped him. He shook his head and sprayed a load of mud at my face. His pale blue eyes stared into my soul.

  ‘Don’t hit me, Ben.’

  The man had the girth of a bear, the maturity of a child, but his sanity couldn’t be trusted. I didn’t hit him again.

  ‘What about Billy?’ he said.

  ‘What about Billy?’ I repeated. Hysteria grew in my chest. Billy Two Guns stood at four foot, which made him impossible to locate in the mayhem.

  The teargas choked the square, stinging my eyes.

  ‘Where was he?’

  Pete shrugged and pointed into the clogged mayhem of Smelly Alley. ‘He’s gone up that way, I think.’

  I grabbed his arm, trying to get a grip on the bulk of his coat. As I pushed him forward, ducking beneath the awning of the tobacconist I caught sight of a figure in red struggling against the town hall wall. The chopper spot lit his plight as he rose into the night, his feet kicking and his hands clutching at the rope strangling his neck. Above, men in sand colored army fatigues and heads wrapped in black scarves hoisted the man up the flaming wall. A sniper leant out of the chopper and shots sounded. Two bodies dropped but the red figure continued to rise and his struggles diminished. Another volley of shots and the bodies on the top of the town hall disappeared, but the body remained spot lit to the flaming building.

  ‘Who is that?’ I asked.

  A man fell beside me. I helped him to his feet. Dark smudges obscured his face. Bloodied hands gripped my clothing. He smelt of smoke and petrol. He choked, coughed and clawed at his throat.

  ‘The Mayor.’ He spat the words and continued to cough and gasp.

  Bodies bumped and pushed past me as the fight left the Mayor’s life.

  ‘The Man will make the Projects pay for this,’ he said.

  He pushed himself to a stooped position leaning back against the shop window.

  ‘That Jackie John is a dead man.’

  Chapter Six

  A Slap and a Tickle

  I fell to the ground with my back resting against the wall of a charity shop. My fingers fumbled with tobacco and paper, before a slurp of vodka calmed my nerves. Alight and puffing, I watched Pete pacing and bouncing off bodies as they discharged from the alley. Talk babbled without coherence, but the majority of folk stood in silence. Most bore scars of the attack with blood and grime masking their faces. Tears from the teargas attack blurred my vision. I wiped at my eyes and reeled in horror at the stench of my coat. I’d kept the clothing because I owned nothing else, but freezing in winter’s deep chill had to be better than living with the charred scent of death.

  ‘Do you think the Projects set them bombs off?’ I said. I directed the question at Pete, but faces turned to me, nodding and shaking and shrugging, but no one willing to voice a thought.

  Pete stuttered and turned to face me, knocking into a lady in blackened rags. I jumped from my seat and prevented her falling. She clutched at my arm, her lip quivering; her face scratched and dirty, sniffing at tears and nestling against my chest.

  ‘Can’t have,’ he said.

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  ‘Projects are at Blacky’s, so they can’t have set the bombs off.’

  I shook my head at his statement because I’d met with Jackie after the first bomb. But bombing wasn’t their thing. The Projects didn’t hurt, kill, or maim citizens. Jackie had always believed terrorism counterproductive.

  ‘But that man identified the Projects on top of the town hall lynching the Mayor,’ I said. ‘He said the Projects would pay and that Jackie John was a dead man.’

  ‘Hello, Tilly,’ Pete said. ‘Hello, Harry.’

  He bounced across the narrow lane to where Tilly sat with Harry in her arms. She clutched the child tight to her breast, patting at his fair hair and kissing the top of his head. She had acknowledged me as Pete and I exited the alley, but I felt sure her near death experience counted against my worth in her life. I didn’t cause the grief, but she understood grief followed me, always sniffing at my heels.

  The girl in black and I settled on the ground, our backs resting against the metal shutter, the vodka between my legs and a cigarette in production to replace the tattered butt smoldering on the muddy cobbles. Once I’d set it alight she grabbed the butt with trembling fingers and took a quick puff. The smoke coughed out into the night and she returned the cigarette. I grabbed the bottle and drank.

  ‘Jackie can’t have done this craziness,’ I said to the girl. ‘He sent me to the square so he can’t have known about the attack. But,’ and I shook my head as I weighed up the other possibility. ‘He stood before me warning me, he did, so he knew about the second bomb.’

  She nodded and smiled, but her body trembled against my side. ‘Why did Jackie send me to the square if he knew about the bomb?’

  Gun fire sounded as two lads with scarlet hoods covering their heads ran hard from the alley and disappeared left toward Blacky’s compound. A chopper appeared above us shining its spotlight, the rotor blades whipping at our clothing and spraying a mist of water into our faces. The girl jerked away and screamed as a man leant out of the chopper with a rifle to his shoulder. She ran back into the alley as two soldiers appeared at the entrance. They shoved her hard with their weapons and knocked her to the ground, rounding their sights on anyone moving toward them.

  ‘Move on,’ the soldiers chorused.

  ‘Where?’

  Left took you to a dead end near the Blacksmith’s compound and right curled back toward the mayhem in the square.

  I crossed the road and helped Tilly and Harry stand. ‘We need to leave,’ I said. ‘You want to come back to Blacky’s and find out what Jackie knows. I mean I saw Clan on the town hall, but they’re well dead, eh? The Man won’t let them resurface after all this time’

  ‘It’s five years.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘It’s five years since the Back Pack bombings.’

  ‘Shit, really that long ago?’

  I placed an arm over Tilly’s shoulders and drew her close as we headed toward the darkness and the old brewery building. Pete bounced into view as we turned into the narrow passageway leading to Blacky’s.

  ‘What about Billy?’

  ***

  The blacksmith’s furnace glowed bright red, the light from the fire tainting the pale weathered wood of Blacky’s work shed. Beyond his building two metal drums coughed noxious fumes and burnt a luminous orange between the council sheds. Shadows flitted around the drums, the skeletal fingers of the winos searching the flames for warmth.

  We stepped into the compound and headed for the sofa facing the furnace. The long muscular body of the hound basked before the hot coals, its body stretched across the length of the wonky piece of furniture. Its head lifted at our approach, slapping a welcome on the soiled fabric with its tail.

  I pointed at the fire. ‘Go work the furnace, eh?’ I said to Pete.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, go for it. Just don’t set the bellows on fire.’

  Pete shoved his fire badge in my face. ‘Yes, I know, Pete. And last week you got the First Aid badge and now the Fire badge. Remember, we’re going for world peace next week, eh?’

  Pete beamed at Tilly and Harry. Tilly clutched Harry to her side as they perched on the sofa. ‘I had to chop and stack wood and rub two sticks together to get a flame.’ He offered his palms as exhibits. ‘I got blisters and cuts doing it. You want me to show you how I did it?’

  ‘No, the fire’s going fine,’ I said. ‘Throw more coal on and
get to work on the bellows, eh?

  ‘You two all right?’ I said. I grabbed the chain attached to the dog’s collar and hauled it off the sofa. Tilly and Harry sat back, still clutching at each other. ‘That was close back there, eh?’

  I ducked my head in the trough of ice-cold water and scrubbed at my face. My lungs gasped at the night air when I jerked my head back and shook hard to lose the frigid water. Harry looked at his mother before getting down on his knees and splashing water on his face. He cupped his hand and drank.

  ‘People are saying more bombs were set off in Old London Town and the East End,’ Tilly said. ‘Two buses and three trains were targeted with multiple casualties.’

  ‘Who said that?’ I stood thawing my head by the furnace.

  ‘People in the alley after the second bomb went off. Before the network went down images were streamed of carnage in Old London Town. You can’t find out anything now. The Man’s closed the airwaves.’

  ‘Serious.’

  Tilly nodded. ‘That’s what people were saying.’

  ‘So it wasn’t the Projects, eh?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. People are blaming the Projects because the Clan is dead. Do you think the Projects would kill innocent people?’

  Harry stepped away from the fire and sat with his mother as the door to Blacky’s workshop opened. A line of black-clad figures from the Projects exited. Balaclavas sat back on their heads, faces smudged in black with guns on their hips and berets tucked inside shoulder straps. The last two soldiers held automatic weapons. Jackie John, fearless leader of the Projects, broke away from the group and approached the furnace.

  Jackie stalked rather than walked, but I noticed a slight limp to his gait and smudges of soot covered a bloodied scratch on his right cheek.

  ‘Why don’t you ask the main man,’ I said to Tilly. I turned to face him. ‘He was in the square when it all kicked off.’

  ‘You get bag,’ he said.

  He’d lost the crop and appeared injured, but his severe attitude remained intact.

  ‘No, the bag is gone. How did you expect me to get the bag back in that chaos?’

  His men returned from the bus and formed a semi-circle behind Jackie, hands ready at their weapons.

  Jackie smiled as he stepped forward. ‘Your mouth gets smart.’

  He attempted to slap me, but, as taught by Jackie himself, I deflected his attack with a simple palm strike and swiveled out of harm’s way. My victory encouraged a series of lighting chain punches to my face, as Jackie forced me backward, my defense becoming more frantic as he increased the tempo and broke up his rhythm to break my counter.

  I thought the kick to my groin an act beneath Jackie. My guard dropped, my body slumped forward and he slapped me hard across the face. I fell to the ground, my head narrowly missing the furnace.

  Harry jumped off the sofa to offer back up, but his mother caught his coat and dragged him back to the sofa. Pete dropped the bellows, his bulk lumbering forward.

  ‘What you doing to Ben,’ he said.

  The two rifles turned on Pete and he retreated to the bellows.

  ‘Get up, Street Boy,’ Jackie said.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Show respect,’ he said.

  He held out his hand and pulled me to my feet. Without letting go he yanked my sleeve back to my elbow and revealed the red dragon tattoo on the inside of my forearm.

  ‘One day you earn black tattoo, but control of anger is big lesson for you.’

  He smiled as he twisted my arm up my back and pushed me front first against the metal table adjoining the furnace. The heat from the coals seared my hair and scorched my face.

  Pete, the mongrel, resumed pumping the bellows increasing the heat on my face. The dog yelped once and jumped onto the sofa, next to Harry thinking a pat might be on offer.

  The lads from the Projects moved closer to the action. Soft voices egged Jackie to give me another slap. I struggled against his grip the anger inside me building. I sucked deep and counted slowly as I exhaled.

  Jackie’s mouth leant into my ear. ‘What we do about bag?’

  A simple backward head-butt might suggest he remove his mouth from my ear. He pushed my hand further up my back and his forearm forced my body to bend closer to the red and orange of the flames and burning coals.

  ‘Fuck the bag,’ I gasped. ‘Let’s talk about the bombs and why you feel a need to slap me in front of friends.’

  I relaxed my arm in his grip and ignored the pain in my shoulder joint. ‘Why did you send me to the square if you knew about the bombs?’ I looked at Tilly and Harry sitting on the sofa. ‘People died tonight, Jackie and you could’ve prevented the slaughter.’

  The dog jumped from the sofa and growled.

  ‘Please let go of my arm. The damn dog thinks this is a game.’

  ‘Is no game,’ he said. ‘Christian Clan set off bombs. Not us.’

  He released the pressure on my arm and turned me, face to face. I wanted to hit him, but he stepped back in fighting stance and the Project lads stood with guns pointed at my chest.

  ‘The Christian Clan was disbanded years ago,’ I said. I clutched at the pain in my arm. ‘Most of ‘em are in jail.’

  Jackie shook his head.

  ‘How’d you know about the bomb?’ I said. ‘Two bloody bombs.’

  Jackie took another step backward, but his hands remained in defensive mode. I took a seat on the arm of the sofa and patted the dog. My arm hurt and a layer of my face had melted into the fire, but I ignored the pain not wanting the Project lads to rejoice in my suffering.

  ‘We have people inside the Christian Clan.’ The voice came from the backing group. He stood a head taller than Jackie, but with the same dark olive skin and black hair.

  ‘So why couldn’t you stop it happening. It was carnage out there tonight.’

  ‘We learnt about the bombs well late,’ he said. ‘Seriously, we didn’t know about them when we were here talking with you. We suspected something might happen and that’s why we were here. The Rebels in London Town have lost men tonight trying to stop the bombs. But when we got the call we tried to prevent the bombs. We just didn’t have enough time.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. How did you know there were two bombs?’

  ‘Always two bombs,’ Jackie said. ‘Second bomb delayed till first aiders arrive. Maximum kill for second bomb.’

  ‘You’re taking the piss because you sent me to the square for a fucking bag knowing about the bombs. The real problem is you didn’t care about me or the people who lost their lives in the square tonight.’ I pushed off the sofa and stood in his space. ‘You don’t come from here, do you? That’s the problem.’

  The fist to the sternum caught me by surprise. The power radiated through to my spine and knocked me hard against the furnace. ‘I fight for country. I love country.’

  ‘You’re no more native than the Slotvaks. I bet no Slotvaks died tonight.’

  ‘I am not Slotvak.’

  ‘You talk like one.’

  ‘My parents no like the King’s English. It is mongrel language, they say, so they never teach me, they tell me not to learn shit language. Not a like our classical language. But I love country. I fight for country. What do you do? I’ll tell you what you do.’

  Again he thrust me in the chest, three fingers poking at my bruised sternum. ‘You drink and piss your pants and wash in horse trough.’

  Tilly glared, but she knew it was the horse’s trough before her son chose to wash his face and drink from the donkey’s trough.

  ‘And you lose bag. Bah.’ He walked away from me and stood with his hands on his hips, his shoulders rising as he controlled his passion.

  When he turned back he looked at me closely and again his finger pointed.

  ‘Find bag. Do good.’

  Chapter Seven

  Run You Stupid Man Run

  ‘Ben,’ a voice called from the darkness.

  The hound lifted its head from my
lap at the sound of Tommy’s voice. He stepped out of the darkness by the council sheds dragging a large square flat box. The donkey poked its head out of the stable door to receive a quick scratch on the nose. Tommy stepped up to the furnace kicking at the dirt in scuffed boots and chewing on a long brown cheroot. His Stetson sat crooked and the blonde locks stuck sweat wet to his forehead. He leant the cardboard box against the metal workbench by the furnace.

  ‘Crazy night you know. Scarlet Scum did a right job on the High Street, didn’t they?’

  I poked a gnarled stick at the fire still mulling over my altercation with Jackie and his Project lads. Tilly and Harry had hitched a lift on the Dragon bus without a word of farewell. I understood Jackie’s concerns for the bag. I needed to find Marvin and get the bag back, but behaving the bully in front of the boy and Tilly bordered on cruel.

  Anyone might’ve taken the bag. Punksters, Scum, the Law and even the good and mighty citizens of Upper Ostere had opportunity. Two Slotvak girls sat on the seat when I returned. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Slotvaks had commandeered the booty and that would be the last anyone saw of the bag. But I needed to talk with Marvin and find out what the bag contained. I wanted it packed with Marvin’s worldly possessions. Like socks and underwear, so I could laugh at Jackie’s over reaction. And maybe the Projects, well Jackie mainly, could forgive my latest fuck up

  Not likely eh? Jackie and the Projects had issues with me, well documented over the year I spent training with them. On one occasion I fell asleep working as the lookout on some damn fool operation having smoked a serious brand of skunk washed down with a bucket of vodka. They abandoned the raid and gave me a right pummeling back at camp.

  Pete stopped pumping the bellows and offered Tommy a greeting. Tommy lifted his straw hat to Pete, raked his blonde hair off his forehead and replaced the hat.

  ‘You didn’t hear the square being bombed by the Clan?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I heard something. That’s when the Scarlet Scum scampered and them inbred Punksters followed. They’d already set the High Street on fire and the coppers scarpered thinking they’d trap them in the square. That left all the stores open, burning and fit for thieving.’