Reign of Evil

CHAPTER 23

Justin Nguyen rushed back to the tent, eager to show his family the score he’d made. He’d spent the last several weeks volunteering to clean up at Swansea Bakery. He’d helped shut the place down and had swept and mopped, backbreaking work, never asking for anything in return. This was his father’s code and to violate it would be to dishonor the memory of the great man. So Justin had suffered on, hoping for some meager reward. And now he had it.

He entered Kingscote Park at a run, weaving past the protestors who carried signs that said things like “Leave Our Land,” “Go Back to Vietnam,” and less savory things. They were just getting there and hadn’t yet rallied their voices into their usual hateful roar. As he passed, they shouted halfheartedly, then returned to their cliques, drinking steaming coffee and tea, grumbling and mean.

Once into the park, he was safe. Police monitored the CCTV cameras and had been making arrests of anyone who attempted to harm the temporary refugee camp put in place after the cargo ship they’d booked passage on crashed on the rocks in the Irish Sea. Half of the passengers had been deported immediately, but those who had relatives who were British citizens were allowed to stay until their status was legally determined.

Thanks to an MP friendly to the Vietnamese community, they were given temporary sanctuary, provided military tents and furniture, and fed three times a day, although the rationing of the food still left many of them hungry.

Which was where Justin came in.

He burst into his family’s tent. His two sisters and mother were gathered around the card table on which a heater stood, lava-red filaments radiating heat into the space.

“Mẹ, nhìn kìa!” Mother, look! “Tôi có bánh mì và bánh sứng bò!” I have bread and croissants.

He placed the paper bag he’d been clutching in front of her and beamed as she opened it. The Army rations they’d been eating were heavy with beef and pork, neither of which his mother’s digestive system could tolerate. Not only had Mr. Evans given him a helping of day-old bread, but he’d also provided Justin with fresh croissants. His mother selected one. When she touched it her face lit with a smile, which meant that he’d run fast enough that they were still warm.

“Eat, Mother. Eat, and enjoy. This is just the beginning.”

She nibbled at an end and nodded to her daughters to take some as well. Soon the entire Nguyen family was sitting around the table, basking in the heat, eating the warm bread. It was almost as if things were normal.

This new normal lasted exactly forty-seven seconds until someone screamed outside.

Justin shot to his feet and moved so his body was between the tent flap and his mother.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, Mother.” He took a tentative step toward the flap but stopped when several more screams sounded. He glanced back at the fearful looks on his family’s faces and knew that he wore his own version.

Suddenly a sound like a freight train descended upon them, so loud his sisters clapped their hands over their ears.

Justin felt compelled to investigate. He felt his mother’s hand on his arm but shook it off. He stepped to the entrance and opened the tent flap.

Indistinguishable figures hurtled by the entrance at breakneck speeds. Now everyone in the camp was screaming. The tent was ripped from its moorings and flew to the right. A tent pole struck him in his head, sending him to a knee as he fought the starry pain. With his eyes closed because of the dust and wind, he turned and crawled to his mother. He felt around, but she wasn’t there.

He opened his eyes to the maelstrom.

Gone was the table.

Gone was the heater.

Gone was the tent.

Gone were his mother and sisters.

He surged to his feet and screamed their names. Looking around, he saw that the land had been cleared of all the tents. Several people lay on the ground. The protestors were fleeing. Where their signs had been dropped, one picket could be seen impaled in an older man Justin only knew as Pham.

Justin searched for his family, but his eyes were drawn toward the dogs who began to turn toward him. Realizing he was the only person left standing in the encampment, he started to back away.

Something growled behind him.

He whirled.

Then the growling grew as the beasts that surrounded him began to stalk toward him.

His mind sought to flee where his body was unable. What was this? Was it a nightmare? If so, he desperately wanted to wake—

They lunged in pairs, grabbing his legs, ripping, tearing, raking teeth along the edges of his femurs. Another beast grabbed his head. He felt a tremendous pressure. His eyes bulged from his face. Somehow, his gaze locked in on a young woman across the street, red hair, white dress, taking picture after picture with an old Polaroid camera.

Then came a pop.

He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that he was dead. For one second he saw everything, knew everything, and understood exactly why he’d been murdered. But then it was sucked away from him and, as if he lived on the end of a whip, he snapped back into an existence he knew all too well.

He ran with the others.

He bayed.

And then came the King.