No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series

by Roo I MacLeod

  I pointed at the box he hid behind his legs. ‘Hence the box, eh? Have we sunk to the seedy level of a looter?’

  ‘It’s free.’

  ‘Nothing’s free.’

  ‘This was and there’s loads more just sitting there waiting for someone with a van. TVs and computers and loads of stuff, but I couldn’t carry it all on me own. But I got phones.’ He held up a plastic bag containing a jumble of small devices. ‘You want one?’

  I scanned the barren quadrangle. The skeletal bodies of the winos skulked beneath the massive overpass, their bony fingers reaching for flames, desperate to warm the thin stream of blood trickling along clotted arteries. The scent of contraband caused them to shake and drool and their secret mutterings carried on the wind as they plotted to steal Tommy’s booty.

  I shook my head in reply to his offer. Phones were off limits for folk dodging the Man. Jackie reckoned phones made you easy prey. The Projects banned phones because the Man and his forces tracked mobiles for a laugh.

  ‘Put the phones away, Tommy.’

  He shoved the bag beneath the broken springs and sagging innards of our prime piece of furniture. The dog licked at his head waiting for the scratch and the treats Tommy kept for him.

  ‘Where are you going to plug the bloody thing in?’ I asked pointing at the box.

  ‘Blacky will give us some electric.’

  ‘Yeah, for sure Blacky will give us some electric,’ Pete said. He sat on a stack of Bigger Issue magazines ripping at the pages and throwing them into the fire.

  Blacky’s workshop didn’t do electric. His water supply came from a tank out back that trapped rain water on his corrugated roof.

  ‘The reception should be good out here.’ Tommy pulled an antenna from his long leather coat. His optimism made me smile. ‘So you got it all sorted, eh?’

  ‘Well, when I saw you I was going after phones, wasn’t I, but then I thought it was a good night to nick a car you know. What with the coppers chasing Scum and Punksters they wouldn’t be looking out for hot cars.’

  ‘So where’s the car?’

  ‘The Punksters was torching ‘em. It’s a bloody crime, pardner, for sure.’

  I laughed at Tommy’s pain. Tommy and I first met when he crashed a car into one of the rusted council sheds. I pulled him from the wreckage and the ire of the four large robbers he’d been transporting. I understood the angst the villains felt toward Tommy, as the car he’d stolen fell way short in leg room for men who resembled mountains. And he’d stalled the old banger at a pedestrian crossing waiting for an old bird with a frame to cross. Tommy loved his cars, but he drove no better than a near-sighted geriatric.

  ‘They’re kids, Tommy. And they like to make fire, eh? It goes back to prehistoric times.’

  ‘But not cars.’

  ‘It’s a diversion. The Scarlet Scum get the Punksters to burn the cars while they loot the stores. Cops chase the children and leave the High Street fair game for the Scum.’

  ‘Yeah, it was kids,’ Tommy said. ‘On little push bikes, most of ‘em. One of ‘em had a bloody nappy on his arse.’ He shook his head at the memory of the child. ‘What mother lets her baby out in nappies when it’s minus a hundred?’

  ‘I could’ve used a car earlier, eh Tommy?’ I threw the burning stick into the hot coals and fell back against the sofa. The vodka had warmed and the cheap product didn’t taste so good. ‘I ran into a mate who left me with his luggage, but the damn bag was heavy and big with a load of chains and padlocks. So I left it in the square and that’s dumped me in the bad books with Jackie. The bastard gave me a slap in front of Tilly.’

  ‘You should’ve slapped him back,’ Pete said.

  ‘Yeah, that’d be a foolish play, eh? He’s Jackie John and no one slaps Jackie, not if you want to live.’

  I approached the furnace and Pete the Nose jumped from his seat and pumped the bellows. I removed his battered scout hat and patted his bale of hair.

  ‘Keep it up, Pete. You’re proving that badge wasn’t given lightly.’

  Pete smiled then picked at his nose. I slapped his hand, but the hand jumped back to the reddened sore.

  ‘Give it a rest.’

  ‘I’m only picking at the cancerous bits.’

  Across the rutted, weed-infested parking lot shadows with torches trod the wilds of the allotments.

  ‘You don’t have cancer,’ I said, looking back at Pete. ‘You’ve never had cancer. What is growing on your nose is an infection and your constant picking is making it worse. I told you that yesterday and last week and the month before that. Picking the scab is gross. People don’t like gross. I’ve told you that, too.’

  He bowed his head for a second, kicked at the bellows and stuffed his hands in his pockets before wandering toward the allotments.

  Torchlights flickered through the thick foliage.

  ‘Eh, Pete,’ I called. ‘Find out what’s going on over there?’ I pointed at the thin beams of light searching the dark tangled growths.

  He ignored me, but walked toward the naked oak tree overhanging the allotment fence.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked Tommy. He’d taken over the bellows. ‘It’s too late for the Ferals to be working the land and that part of the allotments is wild.’

  We didn’t get many visitors at Blacky’s compound and we liked it that way. We had an uneasy truce with the Winos, but people fossicking in the allotments felt wrong.

  ‘Do you think it’s the Law?’ I asked Tommy.

  I took a couple of steps toward the allotment, not wanting to be seen, but intent on knowing who trespassed on the Ferals turf.

  ‘With everything going on tonight I’m thinking it’s the Law and we don’t need them on our arse, eh?’

  Walking out in the open didn’t compute as smart, so I retreated back toward Blacky’s workshop. ‘Maybe we should move inside the shed because they’ll notice Pete eventually and then they’ll want to talk to us.’

  ‘Bloody cold inside Blacky’s shed,’ Tommy said. He pumped hard on the giant bellows, the red glow shining on his face.

  ‘Probably no colder than a jail cell if they decide to hassle us,’ I said. ‘The Man is going to want a body to hang for the Mayor’s lynching and I don’t want that body to be mine.’

  ‘They’d be over here, you know, if they was wanting us, so stop with the worrying. Blacky’s is cool.’

  ‘Maybe they’re waiting for reinforcements, keeping us under surveillance, eh? It’s not like we’ve been good recently. I mean, you forgot to turn up for your court hearing, didn’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t forget,’ he pumped hard at the bellows. ‘And why would I be turning up to a courthouse, you know? That’d just be stupid when I’ve got the army wanting to partner me with you in the Man’s war.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter really, because you weren’t there and they must have a warrant outstanding for your arrest. You and cars, eh? And televisions,’ I said pointing at his box.

  ‘What about you?’ he said. ‘They could be here for you, you know. How is that wino you cut up? Is he still in therapy?’

  Tommy smirked, thinking it funny the social made me visit my victim and apologize.

  ‘Maybe they’re the army here to take your measurements so the uniform fits snug.’ Tommy laughed at his joke. He dropped the bellows and placed a fresh cheroot in his mouth before sitting on the arm of the sofa. ‘Oh pardner, you are going to look good in camouflage.’

  I offered Tommy a subtle version of the two-fingered salute as I scratched at the stubble on my jawline. ‘It’s not like you turned up to face the bullets, eh?’ I said. ‘How long you been running from the army?’

  ‘Perhaps they’re here for Pete,’ Tommy said.

  Pete had wandered away from the tree, dithering in the middle of the overgrown parking lot.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘That bird from Social did warn him to stay away from the playground and that’s like telling the fat kid to keep away from the sweet shop.’

/>   ‘Yeah, she was rude,’ Tommy said. ‘She had no need to be talking to Pete like that. He likes kids and most of the kids like him, don’t they? She made him out to be a sicko and he’s not like that. He’s just a bit slow, isn’t he?’

  The throbbing of a helicopter sounded beyond the slagheap. I ran to the sofa and pulled my vodka out of the pack and retreated to the shed. A spotlight headed our way and fast. I called out to Pete, but the loud throb of the blades drowned my voice. As the light swept over the council sheds, the winos ran from their cover. Hands reached for the sky as they stumbled from the light, disappearing into the tangled dark growth surrounding the slagheap. I cringed back against the warped wood of Blacky’s shed, hoping the eaves hid me from view. A man leant from the side of the chopper holding a rifle.

  ‘Tommy!’ I shouted. ‘You need to move! He’s got a gun!’

  Tommy tried to keep his hat on his head as the downdraft from the rotor blades whipped up a tornado of dust, grit and litter. The butt of the rifle nestled against the man’s shoulder, his eye to the sight.

  ‘Tommy!’ I yelled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Run!’ I yelled. I couldn’t tell if the man aimed at Tommy or Pete, but sitting out in the open left Tommy a target.

  ‘Run, you stupid man. Run!’

  Tommy dived to the earth, spreading his body flat to the ground, his head buried in the dirt to avoid detection. The dog ran, the chain dragging in the dirt to its full length, yelping as the chain snapped tight. The spotlight passed overhead and Tommy jumped to his feet running across the dusty quadrangle to the stables. He kicked the door open and the donkey knocked him backward as it bolted from the building.

  The helicopter eased over the allotments, its bright spotlight waking the myriad creatures housed within the forest. Tommy stood with me in the dark beneath the eaves of the shed. The dog whimpered and yanked at its chain.

  ‘What’s a helicopter doing here?’ Tommy shouted above the din.

  ‘Don’t know. Damn town’s burning and they’re pissing about in our patch. You figure it out.’

  Pete ran to the tree and pointed into the allotment. He turned to look at us and called out, but the chopper drowned his words. We understood trouble lurked in the dense jungle bordering the narrow service road. He waved with both arms and pointed with hands, body and his reddened nose.

  ‘What’s that madman doing,’ Tommy said.

  ‘I don’t know, but hopefully the man with the rifle will shoot him before the blokes with the torches start looking over here for that damn TV you nicked, eh?’

  The chopper parked over the allotments, its blades thrashing at the foliage lit by its spotlight.

  ‘Do you think there’s looters in there?’ Tommy asked. ‘It’s not a clever place to hide. Do you remember that bloke who robbed Ahmed’s and the army chased him from town and he jumped the fence into the allotments, but the army wasn’t in no hurry to follow him, was they? He didn’t seem keen much either, but they started shooting and he ran.’ Tommy pointed into the dark depths. ‘He was never seen again.’

  ‘Perhaps they learnt Jackie John and the Projects are holed up here. The Projects are going to get the blame for the bomb attack in the square tonight. And the lynching.’

  I took a slug of vodka before pulling my hood over my head. ‘Best go and find out what’s going on. ‘We’re not going to find out hiding back here.’

  I ran for the graffiti-ridden sheds, keeping a corner of the rusted buildings between me and the bright light of the helicopter. The red glare of the winos cigarettes burned within the tangled briars by the slagheap. A black sedan had parked off the narrow service road, its doors gaped, the engine idled and the interior light shone on polished wood and leather trim.

  ‘What’s going on, Pete?’ I shouted as I stepped up beside him, keeping the tree between me and the men with the torches.

  Pete placed his hand to his ear and shrugged. The black hatted men trudged beneath the spotlight, slashing at the clawing brambles with long machetes. The chopper moved toward us with its beam tickling at our cover. The spotlight focused on the fallow vegetable beds and ramshackle huts where the Ferals kept their tools. To the edges of the bright light, amongst the wild brambles and scrub dominating the allotment, a body lay before us, a shroud of rotting vegetation obscuring its demise.

  Chapter Eight

  Billy Two Guns has new Shoes

  Tommy joined us, hiding against the thick trunk of the oak tree. As the spotlight moved deeper into the allotment, I crept closer, leaning over the sagging fence separating us from the body. An assortment of dirt sacks, compost and manure represented the body’s bed. His bloodied head, rested against a muddy mound, his face sunken into the sodden earth. The shard end of a bone poked through a jagged hole in his trousers, the bloodied bone pointing toward the night. His soiled, sodden clothes stuck to his body and one lone sock clung to wet dirty toes. Long white fingers dug deep into the wet, black soil, clawing at the mud.

  Tommy leant into me, his mouth inside my ear. ‘Who is it?’

  I jumped back from his question. ‘I’m not positive, but I think it might be Marvin.’

  ‘Really? Your mate Marvin?’ I nodded. ‘Has he been murdered?’

  ‘No, Tommy,’ I hollered into his ear, fighting the throb of the chopper. ‘He fell from a really tall tree and banged his head on every bloody branch.’

  Tommy removed his hat, the blonde hair falling across his eyes and scanned the allotment for the suspect tree.

  The helicopter lifted and veered across the sky, the light flashing over the body before heading toward the town square and the allotments turned to black.

  ‘Jesus,’ I muttered.

  My voice boomed in the sudden quiet. The men’s torches shone in our direction, but illuminated little. I had my lighter in my hand, but I didn’t want to draw attention to our presence.

  ‘That’s Marvin. It’s definitely Marvin, but what’s he doing here?

  ‘Perhaps he come to see you.’

  A plaintive, feral cry called from the black of the undergrowth and the sound of the men cutting and clubbing at the foliage stopped. Torchlights flashed across the dark wall of vegetation. The long piercing call caused me to rub at my arms. Tommy leant against me and, he grabbed at my coat. We backed away from the fence.

  ‘Why they looking over there?’ he asked. ‘Should we tell them Marvin’s back here?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Ben. Should we?’

  ‘I think they know. They just aren’t bothered he’s dead. They’re looking for something else. I think they’re looking for something they thought Marvin had with him.’

  The torches headed toward the gate opposite the sheds on the narrow road. I dragged Tommy behind the tree, away from the torch lights. The beams flashed across Marvin’s body and probed the surrounding foliage.

  ‘He’s hidden it somewhere?’ one of the men said. His voice sounded quiet and thin in comparison to the feral beasts cry.

  ‘But not here,’ his mate said. He spoke in a deep quiet whisper. ‘Let’s get out before we get eaten. I don’t like this place.’

  The car pulled out of the road, the darkness complete and I pondered joining the dog on the sofa. No one ever wanted to meet the beast that cried so desperately at night in the depths of the allotments, but it felt wrong to leave Marvin without saying something.

  A voice from the dark spoke and Tommy and I jumped in fright.

  ‘Was that Marvin?’ Pete asked, grabbing at my arm.

  Again, I jumped, pulling my arm back from Pete’s touch. ‘Jesus, Pete. A little warning cough might be nice.’

  ‘Sorry, Ben. But was that Marvin?’

  ‘Yeah, Pete, he’s calling us from the grave. I hope you didn’t piss him off.’

  ‘I didn’t know him too well. Only met him once, so I don’t think I pissed him off or anything. Should I say sorry, just in case?’

  ‘What you all be doing here?’ the deep voice gru
mbled.

  A large shadow detached itself from the darkness and we stepped further back from the fence, praying the beast we’d heard earlier didn’t follow.

  ‘Why so many people invading our land?’

  I disentangled Tommy’s hand from my coat and stepped up to the point I’d last seen Marvin. ‘Someone’s been killed.’

  ‘Marvin’s been killed, Ben,’ Pete said. He grabbed my arm and shook hard. ‘It was Marvin. Did that man kill Marvin? Did he, Ben?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘He’s awfully big,’ Pete retreated behind the tree.

  ‘He was my friend,’ I said, stepping to the fence, happy the sagging wire stood between me and the large man. He puffed on a long thick butt, the smoke well sweet, the glow from the tip revealing the grizzled face of the main feral man. ‘I don’t know who those men were, but we’re guessing they killed him.’

  ‘He was killed before men with hats arrived.’

  ‘Right.’ I nodded my head

  ‘Ben,’ Pete hissed from the cover of the oak tree. ‘Did he kill him? Have you found out yet?’

  The man leant forward, his large mitts resting on the sagging wire of the fence. Again he dragged on the butt and exhaled the sweet smoke at my face. He stood a good six inches taller in his hunched stance than my six two and a good hundred pounds heavier. In the dark, the whites of his eyes loomed large.

  ‘Man who killed him was tall like you,’ he said, jabbing the butt at my face.

  ‘Tall like Ben?’ Pete repeated.

  Silence ruled until Pete spoke in a whisper to Tommy. ‘Did Ben kill Marvin?’

  Reds and blues flashed across the overpass their brakes squealing as they took the sharp turn into the narrow dirt service road leading to Blacky’s shed. Pete ran from cover and hid behind the council sheds.

  ‘But walked like a cripple,’ the monolith said.

  He grunted a low rumbling growl before he melted into the forest. We slunk from the fence looking for deeper cover to keep our presence mute. The police car stopped by the small gate to the allotment.