Hope & Fury (Heroes & Demons Book 2)

Ruth watched the peak breach through none other than the medium of YouTube. In the days of twenty-four-hour news and endless social media, there was no way that she would need to wait for the report of some stuffy overpaid BBC newscaster, the Henry Davenport, to read in sombre tones about the ‘terrible events today in Malta’. Even with current news cycles being what they were she’d be waiting at least three hours for that – certainly for the footage.

It was the blessing and curse of the current age; the bane of her existence when it came to keeping a lid on everything that had happened.

When Rick, Sandy, Andrew and Ben had first decided to don their stupidly dyed BioSuits and arrange a smackdown with Stacey (Rick’s words), they had ended up in a foot chase through Manchester which ended at the Cathedral. Their smartphone cameras had snatched the moment a screaming woman, crackling and bursting with electrical energy, plunged downwards into the river Irwell below – seemingly succumbed to her fate.

In fact, she had been stabbed in the privacy of her office that no longer existed, several hours later after holding a knife to Louise’s throat.

That had been relatively easy to cover up. Rick, Sandy, Andrew and Ben had been arrested and did happen to have the good sense not to use their powers (much) in front of the police officers or their cameras. DCI Mercer had not believed a word she had said because simply she chose to say nothing and instead had Marcus Dixon’s people call the Greater Manchester Police’s people and the chain of command had set them free and shut them down.

The public memory forgot the brief and blurry footage that was shot, claiming ‘fake news’. Several profiles of people who no longer existed contributed to firing the fans of that particular flame and before too long it became a simple brawl on the street which was handled very well by the local police and the people involved were arrested but with no charge.

Several days later, a computer glitch erased the records of their arrest and it existed only in the memories of those who had been there first hand. She had Mark Weller to thank for that. The shadow suddenly entered the room and her memories, so she quickly pushed them away. There madness lay, and three o’clock in the morning waking up.

The Blackout had been both in some ways harder and in some ways easier to contain. The blessing of the modern age was that by attacking computers all computers were attacked – including the mobile ones held in people’s hands. The things witnessed on that night – the furious battle between the First Horseman of the Apocalypse and the four elemental ‘heroes’ only existed in the memories of the people who had witnessed it first-hand. Some had remained in their office too late and watched down into Piccadilly Gardens from the clear glass windows of their high-rise. Some were cleaners, taking the night shift so that the daytime workers never knew how the floor got miraculously polished between the closing of the shutters and the opening of the day. There were even a group of squatters who caught some of it, having taken over the floors above Burger King in a protest. Their banner had been pretty much destroyed in the blazing inferno that was Sandy – a fact which angered them more than anything else.

She knew all of the people who had witnessed the fight because, after the talk had died down and they began to spread those rumours, a few individuals visited them. A couple of men, dressed in expensive black suits, acting just the right level of bizarre. One stroke of genius had even been to ask for a glass of water and a spoonful of sugar during the interview. Many did not speak out after their encounter, the few that did sounded like conspiracy crazed loons.

She was not proud of that in many ways, but the truth of the matter was that truth was the most dangerous thing to them. They were not some covert government agency attempting to defraud the western world testing top-secret fighter jets or alien technology or hoarding the cure for cancer. They were not some nefarious secret society hell-bent on taking over the world’s cheese industry and giving everyone rickets to flog some pills. They were at most times six people, employees of a multinational organisation which had been drawn into something they were not always in control of. Six people, four of whom would be considered sideshow freaks and either burnt at the proverbial stake, thrown into a prison cell or taken away for medical science to unlock the secret of their ‘gifts’.

It was not hyperbole or paranoia – it was stone-cold fact. If the world at large learned that not only were there some people who had an unlockable gift for incredible powers – but that they came from an ancient civilization that foretold the end of the world through quasi-Christian philosophy, that would be very, very bad. Religious groups would be formed on a whim, while others would cry havoc and fake – angered that their beliefs were challenged by this new information. It was hard enough already to convince any DUP that dinosaurs existed, but humans not thousands but hundreds of thousands of years before they were supposed to have evolved? Mind-blowing.

The next race would begin – to unlock the secrets of the junk DNA they had found – a practice which the New Order seemed already to know all too well. If they already controlled the technology to be able to activate people’s dormant abilities – then surely that would become yet another powerful weapon for them. They could control which governments, which military forces, which individuals could have hold of them and from that spark conflict, deciding which side would win before the first battle had been sown.

She knew she was justifying dangerously to herself but also knew that the consequences often formed part of the reason she woke up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. Not the whole, just some.

There in her office, she witnessed something she could not quite believe. The tumultuous rise of an ancient pyramid, buried beneath the ground. The swath of destruction it rained as it burst through the landscape like some ancient demonic pimple was astounding. The cameraman, a bus driver from Mosta, found himself trapped in his bus. The video ended as his phone clattered to the floor. About ten minutes after the shaking stopped, the video had been posted and she had watched. As had about ten thousand others.

It would be reported on the news, there was no denying that. It would be reported, the footage would be shown and there would be no denying to the world that a pyramid had pushed its way through the Earth and arisen in Malta.

A minute later she had been on the phone to Marcus, his voice betraying no anger or annoyance at what was happening in the world at large – or why she was having to give him so much of the story in one quick succession. He had simply asked her, in that inquisitive way he had, what she thought they ought to do. It had taken her only a moment to think.

“I think our first port of call is to make contact with the Maltese Government,” she had explained, “They are naturally going to be extremely concerned, but somehow I don’t think they’d quite be ready for the wonders or horrors that might exist inside anything by the Temple Builders. Especially if our team confirms that is genuinely the lost city of Atlantis.”

“Next, we reach out to all media outlets through the usual channels, spin the story the way we need. An earthquake, measuring I would say some way on the Richter scale, had dislodged an ancient monument. There are enough caverns and underground temples on that island already it shouldn’t too hard to believe that a pyramid could exist there as well. After all, it’s closer to Egypt that a lot of other places with pyramids – people will be able to believe that.”

“Due to concerns regarding the structural integrity of the area, relief efforts will continue but be supported by the Maltese army – who will cordon off the area. I think we would be best to convince them that our local team of experts, there on company business, might be best to go inside and take a look? Especially since the design seems reminiscent of some sites we’ve been uncovering in the Middle East recently – or so we say. That might take some arm twisting, no doubt the fact we’re not tied to the British government will make our offer seem more meaningful.”

“As for any videos which might show any of the other events not directly connected to the Temple rising – I think it might be time to use the WORM.”

The WORM was a piece of software Ruth had been ‘gifted’ with. It had been written by the man she didn’t like to think about, found amongst his things. A rudimentary piece of software which had been developed into a full-blown tool. She knew why he had not shared it with her, knew its implications.

In short, the WORM (the stupid stoner-sounding name being What Other Reality Man) was a piece of software which could scour the web, normal and dark, detect any trace of certain images, videos or posts and artificially block. A share seems to work for the sharer, but never goes anywhere. A video posted with particular content appears to be live on various websites, but somehow never gets seen. Eventually the lack of likes, hits and comments – except the odd trickle through ones – make the original poster believe that the world isn’t interested. In a way, it was a method of turning the Instagram-generation off the scent and counting upon short attention spans.

So far they had yet to put it into practice – but considering a secondary video she had seen contained not one but two winged individuals, a whole load of dead birds and people disappearing into thin air...might have been time to use it.

Marcus agreed. Of course, he would, their trust was implicit and had been throughout the years. He knew she handled her shit and in return, she handled it damn well. By the time she had put the phone down the wheels were already beginning to turn.

Three swift knocks at her door and she found DCI Mercer once more entering her office. She looked up at him, trying hard to keep the irritation from her face and her voice. They had not got a standing arrangement and she had not requested his presence.

“Are you busy?” he asked, his voice veiled as to whether it was a pointed comment or not.

“Always,” she responded, “How can I help you, Detective?”

“It’s me who came to help you,” he responded, “Of course if you’re too busy dealing with pyramids and stuff rising in the middle of Mediterranean islands…” She allowed her irritation to finally shine through, but to his credit, he only mildly smirked. “Oh come on, you think I can’t recognise the two doctors in the back of that…viral video? You truly have been keeping cards close to your chest.”

“Did you only come to pry?” she asked.

“No,” his look grew more serious, “I came because I’ve found her.”

Mary. She took one breath.

“Where is she?” Intent, focused, ignoring the world around her. She felt dread in the reply.

“Nearby,” he explained, “I can take you there?”

She felt her heart torn, between duty and family. Only for a second, she nodded.

“Yes, please,” she agreed, “But first I just have a few phone calls I need to make.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Oh, just about some pyramids and stuff.”