Kingdom: The Complete Series (7 page)

“
Get
on your knees and put your hands on your head. You have three seconds.”

“
Really?
You're going to stop me from deposing a tyrant?”

He begins to walk
towards them, his arms out as though he were challenging them.

“
Two.”

“
Do
you know what bullets do to me? Nothing.”

“
One.”

“
Well
I guess that settles it,” he whispers to himself, and takes a deep breath. He
knows that it's going to hurt, and he can't help the slight shaking in his
knees.

“
Fire
,”
comes the order.

Mark tenses his body
and leaps forward.

His skull crashes
against the buzzing of a hundred bullets shattering on him, stinging his skin
like a haze of metal hornets. Exploding into their ranks, the soldiers scatter
like pins before a bowling ball. Men are thrown into the air as he breaks their
line, swinging punches like an amateur heavyweight.

His mind descends into
an alcohol-fuelled blood rage. A sweep of his arm bats three men to the ground
with such force that he feels their ribs crack and they hit the ground in
silence. Soldiers are thrown into each other in the chaos, all whilst they
continue to pour gunfire on him like boiling tar. He roars through the pain, a
hundred tiny needles trying to pierce his skin.

Mark keeps swinging,
but there is nobody within his reach any more. The soldiers have retreated from
the melee, forming a circle around him filled with wounded men, clutching their
broken limbs and writhing in pain on the road.

Another order comes
over the speaker and Mark is hit with shots from every angle. He grimaces as
though he is being electrocuted and brings his arms up around his face, his
ears ringing as the assault deafens him.

The bullets are like a
hurricane of lead, driving him to his knees, drowning him in agony.

He can't think
straight: everything is on fire. Every thought that his mind can formulate is
snatched away by the cacophony of gunfire and screaming. Before he can do
anything, he is curling up on the ground, his arms over his head, screaming in
pain. He twists and turns, trying to find an angle from which they can't hurt
him, and in his twisting he becomes aware of the buzz of rotor blades above
him.

The helicopter hovers
above him like a vulture waiting for his death. It's guns open fire, and he is
knocked onto his back, writhing like a wild animal with his soft flesh bared to
a predator.

Somewhere in the pain
and the anger, beyond the helpless loss of control, he realises that the heavy
buzz of the alcohol is leaving his mind. He is beginning to think straight, and
as he does the pain amplifies itself over and over. First the gunshots were
hornet stings – now they are gut punches, turning into the sharp agony of
switch-blades as he flails his limbs to try and paw the bullets away. As the
alcohol wears off, so does his strength and his endurance.

The terrifying realisation
hits him, and before he can help it he is shouting for them to stop, to let him
live – to cease fire before they kill him. He knows deep down that he cannot
endure much more. His body is burning too much alcohol keeping him alive.

Soon his skin will
start to break. He will start to bleed. Then the gunshots will rip through his
body, killing him.

They keep firing until
the pain is a constant blast of white noise hitting his entire body, whilst the
pounding bass drum of the helicopter's cannon repeatedly punches the wind from
him. With his death creeping up on him and no other end in sight, Mark's
kicking feet finally find purchase on the ground and he manages to stumble to
his feet. His arms come up around his face as though shielding himself from the
blast of an explosion, and his wincing eyes squint open as though he were
looking at the sun, for just long enough to take aim at the helicopter.

Then he roars like a
man at the end of his sanity, screaming at himself more than his attackers, and
leaps into the air.

Not a single shot hits
him in mid-air.

With a hollow thud he
slams into the helicopter and grabs on, his grip twisting the metal body into
handholds. Bucking and swaying like a wild bull, the pilot tries to shake him
off. Mark grits his teeth and holds on, drawing his hand back and punching
another handhold into the bodywork. He pulls himself up to a glass cockpit, and
finds two panicking pilots scrambling for something.

The pilot pulls a red
lever beneath his seat.

Explosive charges detonate
all around him, and the cockpit is blown off. Mark takes a cloud of flame and
broken glass in his face and cries out, clutching at whatever grip he can get.
The spinning blades explode and break away, slicing through the air like huge
cleavers as the pilots eject, soaring through the flames to safety. With the
world around him on fire and spinning rapidly out of control, Mark braces his
legs against the steel bodywork and then kicks himself off into the chaos.

The cool, passing air
calms the pain in his skin for a brief moment, and then he is rolling on
something solid. He tumbles to a stop and lies on his back, staring up into the
darkening clouds above as misty rain casts itself across the city.

Breathless, winded, and
covered in aching bruises, Mark pats his hands over his body and tries to relax
his tensed muscles.

Mark lets out a sigh of
relief, wincing at the pain that comes with breathing, and opens his eyes to
look around: he's on a walled rooftop, low and flat.

Across the street, he
realises with a grin, are the King's offices.

A loud crash rocks the
building, and a plume of smoke shoots into the sky, obscuring his view of the
King's throne room.

Mark rolls over and
groans as he gets to his feet. He is beginning to feel cold and sober again, filled
with a horrible sense of dread and irreparable regret.

Patting the tattered
remains of his overalls, burst and ruined by bullet impacts, he curses.
Underneath the raggedy fabric, barely hanging off his gaunt frame, his skin is
yellow and blue, swollen and inflamed. Round impact-craters mark as much of his
body as he can see.

Cursing, he kicks off
his battered shoes and tears the overalls off of himself, standing in a ruined
pile of burnt and torn clothes. His entire body is covered in red welts where
the bullets hit. His chest is covered in thick, purple blotches where the
helicopter's cannon hit him. Even his off-white underwear is marked by blood
and bullet holes.

“
I
could really use a drink,” he sighs, and looks into the pillar of smoke. He
takes a step backwards and braces his feet like a runner before a race. The
King's offices loom before him.

He runs, his hangover
burning behind his eyes, and leaps straight into the heart of the smoke.

Jamie's nose gushes
blood as he pushes Chloe to the ground. Around him are a swarm of bullets,
frozen in time. The only clear space that he can see is the floor, so he drops
himself onto Chloe and, his prone body covering hers, aims down the pistol
sights. There is no time for finesse – he can feel his mind straining like an
injured muscle. He fires once and the white shirt of one of the King's men
grows a small red blotch. The wall behind him is coated with blood in the
silence, like spray-paint.

Jamie grits his teeth
through the aching pain in his head. He can hear his pulse pounding faster and
faster, throbbing in the corner of his eye. Time begins to build up against
him, his mind threatening to burst and tear his brain to pieces at any moment.
He holds on – just one moment more, just one more shot –

His second shot, aimed
through narrowed eyes with a shaking hand, punches through the other man's
abdomen and doubles him over like a knee to the kidneys.

Gasping for breath like
a resuscitated man, Jamie lets go of his hold on the moment.

Time snaps forward again.

He clutches at his
head, rolling on top of Chloe. The two men carrying the King drop him as they
fall to the floor, and the King cries out in pain.

One of the men clutches
their midriff, screaming in agony. The other falls back against the wall, clutching
his chest, his eyes slowly losing their flame as he slides to the ground,
leaving a thick smear of claret on the grey plaster behind him.

Chloe is screaming as
bullets clang against the steel door behind her, trying to curl up under
Jamie's protective embrace. When the silence returns and the bullets stop, he
gets to his feet, trembling and shaking. His eyes won't stay away from the
vacant expression of the first bodyguard.

His victim coughs one
last time, and a pathetic spray of blood stains the front of his shirt and his
pale lips. Chloe's silent disbelief is the loudest sound, broken only by the
dying cries of the second bodyguard. The entire corridor stinks of burnt
powder. Jamie moves forward as though he is sleepwalking, still clutching the gun.
The second man is whimpering, and as Jamie comes closer his tearful pleas
resolve themselves into words – he is crying out for the King, begging for
help.

Standing over him as
though he is wounded animal, Jamie's face breaks into a hollow eyed mask of regret.

“
I
didn't want to -” he tries, and is cut off by the King shouting:

“
Put
him out of his bloody misery!”

The wounded man looks
up at Jamie, who levels the gun at his head. He is breathing in quick, short
wheezes – he whimpers, his voice shaking,

“
I
don't want  -”

“
I'm
sorry,” says Jamie.

The bullet pins his
head to the stairs like a nail gun. His legs twitch straight out and his arms
spasm before he goes limp.

Heavy breaths from the
wounded King fill the silence. Jamie is as still as if time had stopped again,
looking at the dead men before him with a confused expression on his face.

“
You,”
he turns the gun to the King. “They were just men doing a job, just like me. I
wanted to retire.”

“
Jamie...”
Chloe's frightened voice whispers behind him. She is on her feet and walking
towards him whilst he points the gun down at the King, who lies prone on the
staircase, vulnerable and helpless. He looks more curious than afraid, as
though he is anxious to see what Jamie will do.

“
Jamie,
killing me won't change anything,” says the King.

Jamie says nothing
back. He takes a shuddering breath in, fighting down the urge to scream. He
feels as though something is building up inside of him, something painful and
hot that needs to come out before it burns a hole in him.

The King continues as
Chloe approaches.

“
You
don't seem to understand, Jamie: I'm not the King.”

Jamie's eyes widen in a
mixture of confusion and horror.

“
Really,”
the false King goes on, chuckling, “you think one man could run an empire like
this? He's got offices all over the place. Sub-divisions. Body doubles. I'm
like a member of some huge council: all these Kings, all running their own
little cities as part of the greater whole. Nobody knows who he really is. Who
knows, maybe he's not even a real person? We just get our orders from the top
and make sure it all runs ok.”

The false King grins,
though he is sweating visibly, shaking as his face has gone red. He keeps
giggling to himself.

“
Kill
me, and they'll just replace me. It's pointless Jamie. You can't fight
something this big – it's ingrained into the very city, it's a part of it. You
can't destroy the King without destroying Glasgow.”

“
You're
the only King I've ever known.” Jamie's voice is hollow and distant. “I'll
settle for you. Then I'll leave this shit-heap city, and anybody who comes
after me will die just like you.”

He jumps as Chloe's
hand rests on his shoulder. The sudden fright makes the King tense as though
the shot had been fired. Only now, in the silence, does he realise how loud the
crowd outside is.

“
Jamie,
stop,” she whispers, trying to calm him.

There is shouting and
screaming; the sirens fight for dominance over the sound of crackling fire and
explosions.

He levels the pistol at
the King's head.

“
Chloe,
close your eyes sweetheart.”

The world explodes into
sound and debris, and the dry scent of ash fills his lungs. Jamie clutches
Chloe's arm and swings her into his embrace, protecting her with his body. He
backs away from the explosion, a blast that has punched a hole in the hallway
and let the murky sunlight filter in from outside. Jamie points the pistol at
the plume of smoke lazily filling the hall.

A gangly, skinny man,
naked except for some tattered, yellowed Y-fronts, emerges from the smoke.