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

The lack of information was driving him mad. He didn’t know where Taz was, or if he was okay. He had to find out. He went to the door and started to bang his fists on it, but the metal was so thick he only made dull thuds. He stopped banging. The noise continued. What the—?

Yells, and a muffled bang. John stumbled back from the door. McDowell had found out where he was. It was like in Terminator, when the girl hid while everyone who was supposed to protect her got blown away. He glanced around. There was only the bed, and anyone who came in would look there straight away. He backed into the furthest corner, his heart hammering. Another bang sounded—a shot, he was sure of it—followed by a yell. The handle of his door started to turn, the metal bar-lock moving from horizontal to vertical. He looked around for something, anything, he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing.

Fuck it . He stepped into the centre of the room, hands spread in front of him, poised and ready. If they were here for him, he’d go down fighting, not cowering like a dog. The door opened.

“Come on!” Carter looked nothing like he had earlier. His baton was grasped in one hand, and his eyes stared out from a filthy face. Behind him a cop raced past, someone supported across his shoulders. Taz . That got John moving, across the cell and out. Carter pointed down the corridor. “Follow Sanderson—there’s a patrol car waiting.”

Yells sounded through the station and running footsteps came closer. Carter backed away, keeping John behind him.

“Get him!” a voice yelled, close and angry. More joined it, echoing through the tiled corridors.

Jesus, it was a riot . Like in the old days, when trouble sprang out of nowhere. But there hadn’t been any since the Zelo invaded—everyone was too busy either fighting them or finding a way to survive. His mouth twisted in sour realisation; now the Zelo were gone, Belfast was back to what it did best.

The sound of a shot got him moving, old instincts kicking in. It didn’t matter why the riot was happening, only that he was caught in it. He reached the officer helping Taz, who was at least making an attempt to walk, and took one of his friend’s arms over his shoulder.

The officer nodded his thanks. “The fire-escape,” he panted. They hurried to the door at the end of the corridor, and the policeman swung out from under Taz’s arm. “Take him.”

John tightened his grip on Taz. The officer slammed the fire-bar down and pushed the door open. A shrill alarm rang through the air. In the car park a crowd had gathered at barred fencing, shouting and jostling each other for position.

John ducked as something flew past him, something alight. More followed, lighting up the night sky and filling it with the thick smell of petrol. A second group of protestors sent up loud whoops as they broke through the main gates and flooded the yard.

“Bollocks,” said Sanderson, reaching for his pistol. He wrenched the door of the waiting police car open.

“Get them away!” yelled Carter from behind. “Go!” Another flaming bottle flew past and smashed. “Now!”

John heaved Taz forward, but one of the rioters had broken from the main pack and was blocking his way. Carter pushed past and faced the man, squaring up to him.

“Back off,” said the officer.

The rioter’s face twisted. “Fuck me, it’s the shit-lover!” he yelled. He lunged at Carter. “Here he is!”

The crowd surged forwards, ignoring John and Taz. Carter stumbled back and brought his baton up.

“Sanderson, get them into the fucking car!” he yelled, the posh accent gone. “Now!”

Taz was yanked away from John and thrown into the car. One of the men in the crowd thumped his fist off the car’s bonnet. “The shit-lover’s trying to do a runner!”

Sanderson grabbed John’s collar and forced him into the car, before bundling in after him. The car revved as he slammed the door closed, and the rioter backed off. The rest of the crowd had gathered at the station’s open door—Carter had no hope of getting through.

John grabbed Sanderson’s wrist. “We can’t leave him.”

“We’ve no option.” Sanderson jerked free. He tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Put your foot down.”

Sirens sounded as three army vehicles tore through the main gates towards them, scattering the protestors. Soldiers dived out into the remaining crowd. Flames framed the melee, distorted in the riot-shields. The troops forced their way through the protestors to be pushed back, then surge forward again, like a dance. At least one gun sounded.

“We’ll never get through!” shouted Sanderson. “We’ll have to try the back gate.”

The driver nodded. The car screeched in a circle. John craned his head to see what was happening to Carter but it was impossible to tell through the mass of bodies. The driver floored the vehicle. There was another crowd ahead of them. Christ, the car was going to hit them. Even Taz had managed to sit up and was staring ahead.

“Holy shit!” yelled John, ready for the thump of a body. The crowd parted at the last second, diving to the side, and the car made it through the gate and out onto the main road. Something hit the back window, giving a dull smack, and a yellowed flash filled the car. The driver kept going.

“Yes!” yelled Sanderson. He looked back the way they’d come. “They’re too far back—we’re okay!” He paused, and gave a sly smile. “Reckon ol’ shit-for-brains will get out?”

“Carter?” The driver glanced in the mirror. “He’s a lucky enough fucker, all right.”

John remembered the rioter’s face when he’d seen Carter. He’d been the target, not John. He frowned. “Why do they call him shit-lover?”

Sanderson made a hacking noise. “He’s the Zelotyr liaison officer in Belfast.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Carter was a collaborator? He looked over at Taz, whose eyes had widened in shock.

“He worked with the Zelo?” said Taz, his voice slow.

The officer hadn’t mentioned working with them. His hands closed, into tight fists. Bastard . He’d been half-sucked in by him. Hell, he’d thought about giving him McDowell’s name to keep Josey safe. Now it turned out the guy had sold out Earth. How did John know he wouldn’t sell him out, too?

“What did he do for the Zelo?” he asked. There might be some sort of mistake. Maybe Carter had been forced to take the post and had sabotaged the aliens at every opportunity, like an old-fashioned wartime spy.

“When the ceasefire was agreed, the GC put him to work with the local Zelo command.” Sanderson’s voice was as sour as John’s stomach. “He went for it. It seems he’s an ambitious little turncoat—he got a promotion.”

They pulled off the main road and sped to the outskirts of the city. Fires burned in the estates either side of them, radiating from the suburbs and snaking a line of orange into the city centre. Would tonight be the end for what was left of the city?

Carter’s posh voice came over the driver’s radio, ordering reinforcements to the squad trying to hold York Street. He’d made it, then. John felt oddly relieved; no matter what Sanderson said, he was still the only person who’d shown any interest in getting the kids out.

“Where are we going?” John asked.

“Somewhere safe.” The cop turned away and John watched out the window. The sky was orange, not black. There were no Zelo anywhere. None of their spaceships lit up the sky; their armoured transports were abandoned by the roadside, one with a figure lying over the control-panel, its armour glistening in a shaft of moonlight. They’d lost a few of the transports in the early days of the invasion, John remembered, booby-trapped by the locals until the Zelo had learned to check before they used them. It had been the subject of jokes, how the aliens were reduced to using mirrors to check any nooks and crannies, all their technology undone by Belfast’s determination to piss off the authorities, second only to the city’s ability to have a good riot.