SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

A hard shove sent Josey towards a car. “No!” she shouted, but if there was anyone in the street, they weren’t going to interfere. Liz was pushed into the car. Gary kicked Josey’s legs from under her and shoved her in, too.

“You can’t hurt the kids,” she said. “They know nothing.”

He got in beside her and slammed the door. “Last warning. If you don’t shut up, I’ll beat you black and blue.”

She closed her mouth. He would, and then she’d be no use to anyone. He nodded his satisfaction.

“Good.” He leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Drive.”

Carter closed the door and found Sanderson waiting in the corridor.

“Any luck, sir?”

“Yes, he’s given us an address. He won’t give me a name, though.”

“We think it was McDowell’s lot.” Sanderson gave a balancing gesture with his two hands. “Dray was a runner for them."

"Makes sense. Get someone to follow it up. Also, I need a car."

"What are you planning?"

They started to walk towards the reception area. “I’m going to head down the Oldpark and check the house.”

Sanderson stopped and stared at him. “You missed the last bit.”

Carter shook his head, puzzled. “I did?”

“Go down the Oldpark, check the house and get lynched.”

Carter paused. Sanderson was right, the Oldpark wasn’t somewhere just to walk into. Not in this city of hidden dens and closed-off, half-feral streets. “I’ll liaise with the army, get some back up.” He smiled. “We may as well go out with a bang.”

Later, as they drove up the rubble-strewn streets of north Belfast, he wasn’t smiling. The city felt as if it was in stasis: the explosion of fear, held in abeyance for months, close and dangerous. The soldiers sat in silence, their faces closed and grim. Peters, leading the squad, had seemed resigned to the request from Carter for support. They passed no other vehicles, saw no one out on the streets. Below them, deceptively calm, was the lough. One of the old passenger ferries from before the attack was moored at its neck. No smoke rose from the sewage farms, but their smell permeated the van, an accusing reminder of the Zelotyr.

They pulled up outside the house. Carter got out of the vehicle, glancing down the small cul-de-sac. There was no one in sight. He could see the Oldpark Road, just visible through a gap beside number ten, its tarmac filled with weeds. A sparrow chirruped nearby, making Carter jump. He looked at the surrounding houses. Their windows—the ones with glass—were dark and empty. Was anyone there? Peters came alongside, his firearm ready, and Carter pulled his pistol from its holster. Both men walked forward, crunching over broken glass in the small front garden. The rest of the soldiers got out of the vehicle, dispersing into the house and round the back. Carter waited, tight against the wall, his heart hammering.

“Clear!”

He stepped through the splintered gash, Peters close behind. Carter pushed a door to his right and stepped into a small living room. He opened the curtains, ignoring the skittering spiders. Peters sniffed; the room was dank, unused. They moved to the back, into a small kitchen, Peters leading this time. Dishes stood in the sink, mould-covered. There was a stench of decay—not just mould, but foul air merging with it—and when Carter touched the kitchen boards a film of dirt clung to his fingers. Peters pointed to the back door. It was ajar, swinging on its hinges. Peters approached it, Carter covering him, and pushed it open. The only people in the yard were three of the squad, carrying out a search. The back gate to the alley beyond was open, and one of the soldiers had taken up position beside it.

“We’ll check the bedrooms,” said Carter. He climbed the stairs. A breath of air touched him and he looked up at the ceiling. Peters was right, the boy had lied—no one could live here. He paused at the top of the stairs, listening, and shivered in the cold landing.

“Over there.”

Carter jumped at the voice. Peters pointed at a small pile of blankets in the corner. Carter nodded and walked forwards, into a small bathroom. It wasn’t clean, exactly, but it was dust free. Four toothbrushes sat on the sink. His breath hitched: the boy had tried to keep going as if it was normal, had brushed the kids’ teeth and made them wash their hands. He rubbed his mouth, feeling sick, and turned on the tap. The water came out, rust brown. If they’d been using this for washing, it was amazing they’d survived. He stepped into the hall and saw the empty water bottle.

“They’ve been here,” he said to Peters, who nodded, his eyes troubled.

Carter pushed open the next door, to a small bedroom dominated by two beds. Light flooded through several holes in the ceiling, and a breeze lifted dust motes, making them dance in the air. He touched one of the duvets, and it was sodden. The other bed had a plain blue cover, and draped over the end was a football shirt, worn through and at least three seasons out of date. They obviously hadn’t had much even before the war, if the boy hadn’t updated it. He took a deep breath and turned round, imprinting the room on his memory. He’d seen many horrors since the war began, but this room, the desolation masking as normality, hit him hard. How had they survived here? They must have been like rats, curled together in a nest. A small noise, like a rustling, made him turn round.

“Peters?”

“Down here! Looks like the parents’ room.”

Carter crept forward and checked the landing, but it was clear. He’d been spooked, that was all. He spun at another noise and scanned the bedroom again. He walked to a small wardrobe and opened it. From the back of the wardrobe, two pairs of eyes, grey like John’s, watched him.

“Peters! Come here.”

Carter reached into the wardrobe. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The children shrank back from him, and he reached in a little more. His hand touched one of them—

“Shit!” he yelled, pulling his hand back, seeing the line of teeth marks. “You little sh—”

The children darted past. He made a grab for the smallest and caught him, but the child wriggled and pulled away, leaving Carter holding only the coat. He lunged forward, into the hall, and found himself looking at Peters, a child held firmly in each hand.

Carter knelt in front of them. The boy was evidently Stuart, and the girl was young; Sophie, he presumed.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m Carter—John sent me. Where’s Josey?”

“Gone,” said the girl. Her voice was a whisper but her eyes met his, brighter since he’d mentioned her brother. “The man with us left when he saw your van.”

Carter got to his feet. “Take them out to the APC. We’ll get them into one of the hostels and cleaned up. I’ll arrange someone to keep them safe. I assume whoever was left with them wasn’t a babysitter.”

“I’d guess not,” said Peters. “And then?”

Carter shrugged, helplessly. He walked down the stairs, taking in the house one more time. How many more were like this? He had no idea. The small figures walked past him, each hand held firmly by Peters. He rubbed his fingers along the hood of the boy’s coat, seeing where a piece had been torn off. They were too young for all this. He stopped and scanned the sky, taking in that thought. They were too young. All of them. Slowly, he smiled.

The outside door of the station slammed, announcing a pissed-off Superintendent O’Brien. Carter set his cup down, checked his uniform, and rubbed at a smear of dirt on the pocket. The more he rubbed, the more it spread, and he cursed under his breath. Still, he’d been on duty for the best part of a day and a half; that might give him some leeway.