Rise

by Victoria Powell

  In a tight corner Martyn would be there with her. He was her knight in shining armour, her conscience and her... well, now she caught herself thinking of him as a big brother. Perhaps this was what love felt like after the lusty bit had worn off? You don’t need to lust for a man forever, but you did have to trust he would be there for you.

  Pushing down the anger that kept firing inside her, Alex snuggled into the covers and watched the big wooden doors. She felt alert even with Martyn’s proximity. How could she sleep? How could Martyn? The cops killed her Dad while she’d had a three-day sleep. Every muscle and bone in her body ached after the last week of physical and chemical abuse. It felt like the worst hangover ever mixed with post-marathon fatigue.

  Propping herself up, Alex looked across the sleeping figures. Her eyes rested on a sleeping bag on the far side of the room. Her Dad’s old flame was still here, sleeping soundly. Gina didn’t fit in, she didn’t try to fit in. The fractious woman never spoke to anyone if she could avoid it and had only offered help once; yet yesterday was different. She’d been on pins as if expecting something to happen. Alex couldn’t shake her off.

  After the last surprise warehouse move Emma had a couple of bags packed and waiting by the medic station. Everybody was on edge. Toby said they should move out of the building. They should have gone already.

  Martyn shifted in his sleep and his breathing paused. Alex shook herself to clear the feeling that the floor was moving and tried to come back to reality. Her eyes closed, but the floor still felt like it was trembling. Make up a story, that normally works. She heard the watchmen running in through the door, but tried to ignore them until the sound of the bolts ramming home brought her to her senses. The floor was actually trembling.

  Watchmen were waking people as fast as they could. Goosebumps rippled across her skin. They’d found her. Already? How could the cops find them? The police had never got this close before. Wait, wait, wait; they were not caught yet. She rolled over and shook Martyn.

  He moaned and opened his eyes to see the fear in hers. “They’re here!” She whispered.

  He scrambled to his feet and put his trousers and shoes on over his pyjamas. She slipped a bra on, pulled on her boots and a long overcoat over her nightshirt. Martyn picked up a pistol and parted ways. Martyn woke more adults and Alex went to help the children put on shoes. Chaos. Why hadn’t they had an evacuation drill at the new base?

  Emma and Debbie were with the children. Alex picked up a three-year-old girl and a pair of shoes. “The watchmen say we’re surrounded,” Debbie whispered.

  Emma cautiously looked Alex up and down.

  Alex tried not to speculate as she put the shoed girl on the floor and held her hand, but she couldn’t help wondering. Had the cops followed her here? She cleared her head and started pairing children with their parents.

  Martyn was throwing stuff into bags and talking to Marcus. Alex looked around for an exit to lead the children out. The two main exits were blocked and the cellars were too dangerous. They should have got out earlier, like Toby said. It was too late.

  “Martyn,” Alex called.

  He turned to her; his face twisted. “To the roof, Alex. There’s a bridge up there, connecting this roof to another. Toby’s up there getting it ready.”

  Emma and Debbie pulled kids towards the stairs. Watching Martyn and Marcus still packing as everyone ran up the stairs, Alex waited.

  Martyn chucked a bag at Steve. “This is taking too long.”

  “Just grab a bag and head up,” Marcus said.

  “We can’t,” Martyn pulled Marcus back. “We need to divert their attention away from the roof!”

  Why did she have to overhear that? A brilliant, but dangerous, idea planted in her mind. Her escape plans were always ingenious and had never failed to spring a captive from the police cells… well, except for Nathan, but that was her father’s plan and his fault. The plan in her head had its pitfalls, most of which would lie on her shoulders, but it should mean all the kids would escape.

  “Get them onto the roof,” she said, pushing Martyn to the stairs. “I’ll take care of the rest. I have a plan.”

  Martyn squinted at her. “What?”

  She huffed. “Martyn don’t question me right now, just get out of the building and ready to run when the cops come in!”

  Martyn stood back from the crowd surging up the stairs. He held Alex’s hand ready to take her up the stairs, but she shook him off. She walked over to the trap door into the cellar. “Help me open this, will you?”

  Martyn and Anthony pulled on the door and let it bang on the floor. “Alex, what are you doing? We need to go!”

  There were footprints down into the dark, touched by a candle lamp.

  “Martyn you need a decoy and the only person they want is me!” She said.

  He grabbed her wrist and held it tight. “I can’t let you do that, Alex! You’re wrecked, you can barely stand up.”

  Alex ignored him. “You need to get them out right now.”

  “Come with us!”

  Alex felt a shard of ice open up her chest. He was blind. She was not the only decoy here - he could be too.

  Coward!

  It was down to her again. She, who was in pain and could not outrun a toddler, would stay here until the gates cracked and let in the hounds of hell because her leader was too self-obsessed to volunteer himself.

  She wriggled in his grasp. “I won’t be caught. I’ll hide out down in the cellars and find you later. Now get out. Go! Get going – they’re coming.”

  “No!” He tried to pull her away with him, but two lads tugged him backwards and she pulled free.

  “You need a decoy. I am it!”

  Martyn grabbed her around the middle in a bear hug, tears in his eyes. “It’s too dangerous down there. You’re not going on your own!” He picked her up and started to carry her across the room.

  “No, Martyn! Guys, help me!”

  “Martyn!” Anthony called from the cellar door. “I’ll go with her.” Alex smiled at the burly youth in utter adoration.

  “What? No,” Martyn said quickly.

  “I know the cellars. I’ll look after her.” Anthony was the best possible volunteer for cellar tactics. He grew up down there with his parents and a colony of anti-government purists that called themselves The Celts. All the old buildings used a range of giant pipes and old streets; all of which could be deadly. The route Alex had taken from the police cells had been a piece of cake. This part of town though, it was a labyrinth of dead ends, sudden drops, roof collapses and giant rats.

  Martyn dithered and the noise outside was getting louder and closer. The watchmen abandoned their posts for the stairs to the roof. Martyn’s intense brown eyes were desperate. He pulled a pistol from his pocket and shoved it in her hands. Pulling her in close, their lips touched together before Martyn turned and fled up the stairs. The shard of ice twisted harder in her chest.

  “Find us soon, Alex!” He called, leaving her looking up at his departure with a numb acceptance.

  Coward.

  “Anthony, how’s it looking?” She shouted as she descended the cellar stairs.

  One last glance around the empty warehouse told her the stragglers were safely delivered up onto the roof. She called down into the cellar, “Anthony, did you see that new girl?”

  Anthony was wading through piles of crates. “No. She must have led out the first group,” Anthony shouted. He pushed a few chairs out of the way struggling to get to the back of the cellar. “I haven’t seen Ewan, Marcus or a dozen others either, so don’t worry.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Alex muttered.

  The empty black hole where the Ackersons exited onto the roof beckoned to her. The kids should be alright if the plan works. If the cops followed Alex and Anthony down into the cellar level then the others should be off the roofs and tucked up in bed before the cops realise their mistake. The hinges shook on the east door. Then the west doors creaked in reply. Anthony w
as terrified. So was she.

  Mentally shaking herself, she returned to task. “The plan is I’ll slam the trap door when the first men come through so they follow us and not the others.”

  Anthony waited for Alex to continue then sniggered when nothing else came. “The best plans are always the simplest.” He finished clearing the path to the back of the cellar, now with torch in hand.

  Alex shrugged. “Got a better plan? Anyway.... Then we go through the cellar door into the cellar streets and leg it a safe distance before we find another place to surface. Or hide.”

  “Avoiding the death traps,” Anthony added curtly.

  “Obviously.”

  “One question,” shouted Anthony from deep within the cellar.

  The bangs on the weaker west entrance started to turn into cracks. “What’s that?”

  “How do we unlock the door?”

  Alex looked around to see Anthony’s torch glaring at the padlock attached to the door handle. “No key?”

  “We hung it up there last night.” Anthony punched the wall below an empty hook.

  “Shit! Martyn must have kept the key after he locked it!” She looked around desperately. “Hit it with something!”

  The west door broke. If Martyn had stayed then he could have unlocked the door and escaped. Damn him! Policemen started to run through the gap and straight towards them. Alex scrambled back over two boxes and heaved the trap door shut. “Where’s the lock for the trap door?”

  Anthony flicked his torch around to reveal the smooth surface of the trap door. No lock. The ring handle gave her a bit of hope, but the hinges were completely mangled. She reached for an abandoned broomstick and rammed it between the ring and the doorframe. Bang! The broom shook. Alex slipped down the remaining stairs and staggered into a table. Anthony was levering at the padlock with a bit of broken crate.

  The rattling grew louder and heavier. Bang!

  “They’re shooting the trapdoor?” Anthony gasped.

  Alex pushed Anthony out of the way and aimed her pistol at the padlock. It ricocheted off the rusty lock, smashing it to the floor.

  Anthony ripped the door open. “How are we supposed to lock them in now?”

  Alex ignored him and ran into the damp under-street. The walls had a florescent glow and a fruity smell. Sometime in the past the floor had been sculpted into grooved basins used to transport household brown water to the water treatment works. Today the streets were dry. They heard voices behind them as they reached a junction in the downward sloping slipstream. “Which way?” Alex shouted.

  “Any way! It doesn’t matter.”

  To the right the cylindrical passage was peppered with doorways, then it opened into a broad, lit area. To the left there were fewer passages and the way became narrower and darker. Alex swerved left and Anthony swerved right. Alex spun around to follow Anthony, but jolted when a bullet buzzed in front of her. “Shit!” The police were already here. She pinned herself against the wall and randomly shot a bullet back.

  Someone screamed. Her heart plummeted. Anthony was flat against a wall on the other side of the gap. “Oh shit! I shot a cop. I never shot a cop before!”

  “Give me the gun,” Anthony said. She threw it across the gap.

  She heard screams of pain; at least he was still alive. Anthony backed away from the gap towards the looming corridors. “Run Alex! I’ll see you at the top!”

  Alex baulked at the sight of Anthony sprinting away from her. Adrenaline pulsed as she thought of the impassable potential dead ends ahead of her. Anything could happen in this wild, smelly horror of a labyrinth.

  The darkness was getting deeper, the voices were catching up and her legs were giving out. The cops thought she had a gun. They would shoot on sight.

  She’d have to find an exit soon. Skipping over a hole in the street, Alex took a sharp left and veered down a wider path. There were doors everywhere, but the rust on the hinges meant they could be stuck tight. The cops were getting close, calling to her, beckoning. That door. Shoulder first, she jumped into a door and threw it off its hinges.

  The door was flat on the floor, riddled with rot and not likely to stand properly in the doorframe again. She propped it upright anyway to muffle the noises coming down the street. She shot a policeman! They were going to kill her. She leaned against the door for support when a bang echoed down the corridor.

  The police heard it too and they paused. It echoed. The police turned back to the crossroads.

  Anthony, what did you do? Alex breathed in the musty air and looked around for an exit. The door up to the surface was calling to her. Would the trap door be covered with a rug or a heavy box? Would it be bolted shut? There was only one way to find out.

  *****

  “Yes!” Anthony whispered. The cops heard the shot and turned away from their prey. Alex was safe to escape, or at least navigate with care through the cellars. The cops were running towards him, and he was already hiding. The likelihood they’d find the right place was slim.

  Anthony ran for the trap door leading to someone’s house. The door exploded behind him, sending shrapnel through the air and pinning him to the floor. Out of sight, he lay sprawled on the floor in a pile of dust.

  A pair of solid, thick-soled boots crunched on broken glass and wood, standing on the door, unknowingly pushing it into the semi-conscious Anthony. Deputy Commander Remea’s ugly face appeared out of the dust scowling at everything in the cellar. He spun on his heel and collared the policeman innocently standing in the doorway.

  “Where is she?” He bellowed.

  The policeman staggered to attention and saluted wildly. “Sir, we traced the noises to this room, sir.” He paused, looking around for inspiration. “And the trap door hasn’t been touched! Sir!”

  A whirlwind of muscles and a pistol pointed up from the dust at the bewildered junior policeman’s head. The shot rattled out of the chamber and flew true, striking hard.

  Anthony screamed as the pistol jolted, then twisted the pistol at the Deputy Commander.

  A pistol went off. Remea’s pistol.

  “You guys just don’t get it. You can’t kill me,” Remea spat on Anthony. “Where is she, boy? Tell us!”

  Anthony coughed bubbles.

  “Where would she go?” Remea shouted.

  Spluttering, Anthony said, “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “She’s not here.”

  His breath rattled, building, shaking in his chest. Laughing.

  23 - The Policeman

  Today the guards had company. The blood red room with green leather chairs was lined with crisp uniformed militia. Nobody was waiting there. The secretary, pale and edgy, sat to attention at her desk.

  “Don’t sit down,” she commanded. “They’re waiting for you.”

  Defoe nodded to her as he passed at speed. The guards in the corridor repeated the pat down he’d had on entering the building and on approaching the Commander’s suite. Extra cameras and closed-circuit weaponry were dotted along the corridor.

  Defoe slowed as he approached the door, hearing raised voices inside. Remea had arrived ahead of him, which would not work in Defoe’s favour. Swanson was a tough man to please at the best of times. Taking a quick look back down the corridor at the path to freedom, Defoe took hold of the door handle and delved into the maelstrom beyond.

  “Our intelligence indicated that the underground was considered an unviable exit strategy to the Ackersons. The two ground level exits were the only escape routes. We could not have predicted...” Remea stumbled over his words when he saw Defoe enter, “couldn’t have predicted the outcome of the operation from the information available.”

  Closing the door, Defoe took in the room. Swanson slid him an irritated look, his face red with a mix of pent up rage that Defoe couldn’t untangle. The Chief of Police was juggling anger, frustration, insomnia and grief whilst proposing the most aggressive tactics of his police career.

  “Stop talking shit. Th
ey’re your intelligence operatives and you told me your intelligence was fresh. Up-to-date, but bloody crap.” Swanson’s spittle sprayed across the desk.

  “She’s still with them. We can strike again,” Remea said.

  “Enough Remea! Two failed strikes in a week. Your spy is not reliable, not observant enough to ensure that they won’t disappear again,” Swanson said. His hands were curled into tight, white-knuckled fists suspended a centimetre above the desk. “Do you know how much these strikes cost?”

  Defoe watched the quiet shadow at the end of the table. His face masked with a black silhouette, eyes sparkling. The spectre’s hands were placed elegantly on the table with fingers interlinking in a diplomatic calm.

  Defoe leant forward to interject between the two senior coppers. “We chased Alex Jenkins and an unknown into the cellar system. Remea caught the boy and we are working on his identity.”

  “We’ve already covered this,” Swanson snapped. “You lost the girl and by following her you also lost the others. If you’d left a sizeable squad to check the building they might have caught the ringleaders on the roof. But you didn’t do that, so all we have is an unnamed corpse.”

  “You’re right,” Defoe conceded. Swanson hated butt kissers. The only way to manage the Commander was to tell it as it is. “I doubt there will be any significant intelligence gained from the papers and personal items left behind. We could bring in some relatives of the group members based on photographs or DNA found on site, but the outcomes of that exercise would be small fry.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Swanson growled. “Remea, have you had confirmation of their current location?”

  Running his hands through his hair and desperately trying to ignore his nicotine craving, Remea said, “Not yet Commander. Gray is going to wait at the rendezvous site until our agent arrives. We expect her tonight.”

  “I’ve had enough,” Swanson said, he flexed his fingers and poked the table animatedly. “When you receive the intel I want a strike order on that site. The Ackersons can all go to hell in a tin can, like the Erikssens.”