The Tube Riders Read online

  The

  Tube Riders

  Chris Ward

  Visit Chris Ward’s page on Amazon

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  Novels

  The Man Who Built the World

  Head of Words (forthcoming)

  The Tube Riders : Exile

  (Part Two of the Tube Riders Trilogy – due summer 2013)

  Collections

  Ms Ito’s Bird & Other Stories

  Short Stories

  Benny’s Harem*

  Forever My Baby*

  Going Underground*

  Joyriders*

  Ms Ito’s Bird*

  Saving the Day*

  The Ageless*

  The Cold Pools*

  (*found in the collection, Ms Ito’s Bird & Other Stories)

  Castles Made of Sand

  Death Depends

  Forks

  The Tree

  Writing as Michael S. Hunter

  (The Beat Down! action/comedy novella series)

  Beat Down 1 - Clones

  Beat Down 2 - The Heist

  Beat Down 3 - Badassaur! (forthcoming)

  About the Author

  A proud and noble Cornishman (and to a lesser extent British), Chris Ward ran off to live and work in Japan back in 2004. There he got married, got a decent job, and got a cat. He remains pure to his Cornish/British roots while enjoying the inspiration of living in a foreign country.

  In addition to The Tube Riders, he is the author of the novels The Man Who Built the World and Head of Words (forthcoming) as well as the Beat Down! action/comedy novella series under the name Michael S. Hunter.

  “Like” Chris on Facebook at Chris Ward (fiction writer) or follow on Twitter @ChrisWardWriter.

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  Chris also has a blog about his writing and his life –

  http://amillionmilesfromanywhere.blogspot.jp/

  The second Tube Riders novel, tentatively titled, Exile, is underway. The author would love to hear your suggestions and comments as well as what you thought of this book. Please email them to –

  [email protected]

  For Isaac,

  My first reader

  And Matt,

  My first fan

  You boys rock.

  And in loving memory of my Grandfather

  Leonard Ward 1921 – 2010

  Your little green screen Amstrad

  was the first computer I ever wrote on.

  R.I.P.

  “The Tube Riders” Copyright © Chris Ward 2012

  The right of Chris Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.

  Cover by Su Halmark @

  http://www.novelprevue.com

  This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  “Tube riding” is a fictional activity and should be considered highly dangerous. DO NOT attempt to recreate any of the stunts described in this book. The Author holds no responsibility for any injuries that may occur.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Chris Ward

  About the Author

  Part One – London

  1 - Breakfall

  2- Jessica

  3- Huntsman

  4- Owen

  5 – Dreggo

  6 – Training

  7 – Confrontation

  8 – Discovery

  9 – Enemies

  10 – Revelation

  11 – Hunted

  12 – Help

  13 – Lab

  14 – Trail

  15 – Scent

  16 – Attack

  17 – Loss

  18 – Danger

  19 – Preparations

  20 – Escape

  21 – Gathering

  22 – Aftermath

  Part Two – Bristol

  23 – Lost Boy

  24 – Newborn

  25 – Landing Party

  26 – White Rage

  27 – Sleeping Place

  28 – Lost Girl

  29 – Freedom Fighters

  30 – Darkness Rising

  31 – Kind Strangers

  32 – Fresh Scent

  33 – Government Policy

  34 – Friends, Enemies

  35 – Ambush

  36 – Repression, Production

  37 – Escape

  38 – Battlefield

  39 – Departure

  40 – Prison Break

  41 – Rescue

  42 – Cruise

  43 – Family Values

  44 – Train

  45 – Bloodlust

  46 – Crossed Paths

  47 – Past Lives

  Part Three - Cornwall

  48 – Respite

  49 – Menace

  50 – Breaking and Entering

  51 – Vengeance

  52 – Mistakes

  53 – New Order

  54 – Community

  55 – Tunnel

  56 – Trap

  57 – Goodbyes

  58 – Reunion

  59 – Conflicts

  60 – Last Stand

  Epilogue

  Notes on the Text

  Acknowledgements

  London

  Chapter One

  Breakfall

  The roar in the tunnel grew louder.

  The noise came from far back in the dark, building from a low, distant rumble into a rolling, thundering crescendo like a thousand hurricanes colliding, tearing each other apart. Marta, squatting in a sprinter’s crouch, closed her eyes as she always did, concentrating, seeing in her mind something monstrous, untamed. She let out a slow breath, looped her wrists through the leather safety straps and closed her fingers over the cold metal handles of the wooden clawboard.

  Bring it on.

  She smelt engine oil, heard the hum of the vibrating rails on the track below. She grimaced and shifted her wrists as the straps rubbed against the old marks on her skin.

  Seconds, just seconds . . .

  Come on. I’m waiting.

  The roar was almost deafening now. Marta’s eyes flicked open, her concentration sharp. Muscles tensed in her legs and arms. Her fingers clenched so tight she thought they might break. She glanced up at Paul standing further down the platform, one arm raised into the air.

  Marta waited. Three . . . two . . . one –

  ‘Go!’ Paul screamed, as the wind rose to wrap itself around her. His arm dropped, and the fear, the exhilaration, the sheer adrenalin rush struck her like a hammer.

  She dashed for the platform edge. Behind her, she heard Simon, Switch and Dan – the new boy – fanning out as they followed. She hoped Dan made it, of course, but in the moment of the ride it was only herself that mattered.

  Racing across the cracked, dusty tiles, Marta pressed her wrists against the leather straps and squeezed the metal handles until her fingers ached. The wood creaked, and she prayed today wasn’t the day the clawboard failed her.

  She held the board up, the metal hooks on the outward surface angled down.

  The train exploded out of the tunnel, its glaring headlights blasting through the dust curtain that hung over the station’s pallid emergency lighting. The engine roar filled the air. Marta looked up as it came level with her and then rushed ahead, one, two, three carriages clattering past. She saw the thin metal drai
nage rail that ran along the top edge of the nearest carriage and she steeled herself for the mount.

  ‘Now!’ she screamed, a war cry partly for herself, partly for the others behind her. Then she was leaping at the train, the clawboard arcing in towards the rail. Her heart slammed against the back of her ribs, the rush of adrenaline so great she thought it might burst out of her chest. Eyes narrowed, teeth gritted, she stared down what in these moments was the Reaper, was Death. Don’t fuck up, her mind shouted. You fuck up, you die.

  The metal hooks, two of them, four centimeters wide, dropped towards the outer lip of the drainage rail. Marta’s feet brushed the side of the carriage, and for a second she was flying. Then the hooks caught, a massive jolt shuddered through her shoulders and upper arms, and Marta had won, this time.

  Her scream rose over the rushing wind: ‘Yeeeeeeesssss!’

  With her feet apart, she braced herself against the side of the carriage. Her battered, often-repaired trainers left tread smears in the oily dirt coating the metal. In front of her, from the carriage window, a reflection of her own face stared back, thick dreads of hair fanning out around her like columns of smoke.

  Behind her Marta heard two metallic crunches as first Simon and then Switch caught. In a group ride you rode in order of seniority. That was the rule. And I’ve survived the longest so that makes me leader. She listened for Dan, but there was only the roaring of the train and the rapid clattering of the wheels over the rails.

  Something had gone wrong.

  She glanced back, terrified of what she might see. Dan should have been exactly one second behind Switch, but he was still running towards the train like a commuter who had overslept, his movement jerky, out of time. He hesitated! Shit, he lost his nerve and now his timing’s all screwed up.

  ‘Pull out!’ she tried to scream, but her lungs, still empty, failed her, and the words trickled out like the last rains of a flood. She stared helplessly as Dan lifted the clawboard, jaw set, eyes hard. His pride was driving him on. When pride was all you had it was difficult to give it up, but down here where the trains roared it could get you killed.

  Dan tried to leap. Going far too slow, he was way out of position. His clawboard fell short of the drainage rail, and his body slammed against the side of the train. The motion of the carriage spun him around in the air like a demented ballerina, eyes wide in terror, arms and legs flailing. He ricocheted off, a staccato, barked scream escaping his throat just a second before he landed hard on the platform. Momentum rolled him; the gap between the platform’s edge and the rushing train loomed close. Don’t end up like Clive. Please don’t. I can’t handle that again.

  Dan got lucky. The straps of the blocky clawboard still circled one wrist, and the board arrested his roll, inches away from the edge. He rolled back as the train thundered past, and the clawboard finally spun loose.

  ‘He’s hurt!’ Simon shouted as the train sped on, carrying the others away.

  ‘Wait!’ Marta shouted back as the braided dreads of her hair buffeted her face. ‘Wait for the mats! Okay . . . three, two, one –’

  She kicked off from the side of the train, pushing forward and up as she’d done a thousand times before. The clawboard released its hold on the rail, reluctantly, as always. Marta leaned backwards as she fell, pulling her arms in and ducking her head forward. She grimaced as the pile of old mattresses and blankets at the end of the platform came up to meet her.

  The fall knocked the wind out of her. Coughing, she glanced up to see Simon dismount after her, followed by Switch. They landed on the breakfall mats beside her and came to an untidy stop.

  As the train roared away into the tunnel and the noise receded, all three climbed to their feet and dusted themselves down. Marta rubbed at her hip where she’d landed on a mattress seam.

  ‘Fuck yeah,’ Switch muttered. He shook the straps off his wrists and turned the board over, checking for abrasions. ‘Paul, you fat chump, what’s my score? Paul?’

  ‘Forget your score!’ Marta shouted at him. ‘Dan failed the mount. He could have died, you idiot. Didn’t you see it?’

  ‘Ah, whatever. Live and die by the trains, ain’t it just?’

  Marta gave him a scowl that said just sod off then looked back up the platform to where Paul was crouching next to Dan. Dan was curled up on the ground, hugging his chest. He tried to stretch his legs out, then grimaced in pain. His voice floated back down the platform towards them, echoing off the high rafters. ‘Ah fuck, I think I busted my hip. Shit, that hurts.’

  Switch cocked his head and gave Marta the kind of smirk a cheeky kid would give a scolding teacher to say he didn’t really give a shit. ‘Fuck that clown,’ he said. Looking back towards the platform edge where chalk lines marked the distance in feet back from the end of the platform, he grinned. His bad eye flickered. ‘That must have been sub-twenty feet for sure. Eighteen? What do you reckon, Si?’

  ‘Don’t be a cock, Switch,’ Simon answered. ‘Let’s go check he’s okay.’

  ‘You pussy. Just cos you can’t get no distance now you’re getting ass, but whatever.’ Switch rolled his good eye at Simon and went over to the platform edge.

  Simon glanced back at Marta and gave her his best don’t worry smile. She felt instantly relaxed. Simon was tall and thin with an androgynous face straight from an anime cartoon, all angular and smooth. He didn’t even seem to shave, his face clear of any stubble shadow. He was beautiful rather than handsome, a pretty boy that seemed more out of place than any of them, but he had a way about him that was calming, peaceful. He was a polar opposite of Switch, who was a ratty little man who’d never win any prizes for charm. Switch was a shameless asshole. He prided himself on it, wore it like a badge around his scrawny neck. But he was loyal. Switch would take your back in a street fight without hesitation, whether you were up against some stumbling drunk with a broken bottle or an armed unit of the DCA.

  Marta broke into a jog along the platform. She reached Paul’s side as he was helping Dan to his feet. Paul was huffing like an old man trying to start a car, sweat standing out on his brow. For an instant she recalled just how little she knew about any of them. They congregated here whenever they could but they all had separate lives which they rarely talked about. No one knew what Switch did. Simon said he worked in a market, and Paul claimed to be a pickpocket. Overweight since he’d stopped riding, balding and with no obvious muscle, she found it difficult to imagine someone as slow and cumbersome had much sleight of hand. She knew what people did around Piccadilly at night and had her suspicions, but here you were as anonymous as the trains that roared past every eight minutes, if you chose to be.

  Dan had been introduced to them as Paul’s friend. He had greasy black hair, and thick brows which pushed his eyes into a permanent frown to make him look nervous, suspicious. He had a deep authoritative voice that suggested he preferred to give orders rather than take them. He’d only hung out with them a few times, and Marta had harboured doubts from the start.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked him.

  Dan looked up and shrugged. He rubbed his hip and winced. ‘I don’t think anything’s broken . . . the fall just winded me. Shit, I can’t believe I missed the hook. I thought I had it.’ He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, one hand rubbing his forehead. ‘I almost died there, didn’t I?’

  Marta looked away and said nothing. You didn’t tell someone new that if you messed up you could end up unidentifiable, a mangled, bloody chunk of meat which the next twenty trains would wipe away. She closed her eyes, and the image that appeared was of Clive, as always, his eyes desperate, his hands scrabbling uselessly against the broken tiles of the platform as he was dragged down into the gap between the platform edge and the train. There had been others too, but that one, that one was the worst. That they’d been dating at the time too . . . it was the closest she’d ever come to turning her back on the trains for good. The nightmares still haunted her.

  He’s done, she thought. That’s it.
No one who cares much about life lasts long.

  Paul patted him on the shoulder, trying to be reassuring. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t ride the commuters for a while,’ he said. ‘Get some practice on the late night freights. They’re a lot slower.’

  Dan shoved his arm away. ‘Don’t touch me. I’m all right.’ He squared up to Paul, who stumbled back out of his range. Dan glowered at them, his eyes flicking back and forth from one to the other. ‘I’m no chicken. I just missed it, that’s all. I was unlucky.’

  ‘Dan, it’s all right,’ Marta said, putting herself between them. ‘Are you sure you’re not hurt?’

  He turned away. ‘Leave me alone. I’ll be fine.’

  Switch and Simon reached them. Marta glanced at Switch, the little man swaggering like a gunslinger after a kill. She gave him a little shake of her head, trying to steady his mouth.

  He didn’t notice, or if he did, he ignored her. ‘Unlucky, man,’ he said to Dan, flashing a wild grin. ‘What did you score? Two hundred and twenty feet?’

  Dan’s eyes blazed, fists coming up. He had wide shoulders and thick arms, and was at least double Switch’s weight. He probably thought he had a chance.

  ‘You want some, you crippled prick –’

  ‘Guys!’ Paul shouted, but too late.

  Dan threw a sharp left at Switch, who backed into Simon as he tried to get out of the way. His fist would have missed but thanks to Simon’s intervention Switch was trapped and Dan’s blow slammed into Switch’s cheek, knocking him sideways. As Switch stumbled and tried to recover his balance, Dan nailed him again in the stomach. Switch doubled over, coughing, and Dan moved in closer to finish him off.

  ‘Help me stop them!’ Marta shouted.

  Paul was no fighter, and even Marta outweighed Simon. Knowing there was little chance of any help, she tried to push herself between them, but Dan shoved her aside. He threw another punch but Switch, having recovered his balance, ducked away this time. His thin lips curled back, anger and excitement in his face. His bad eye flickered like an old movie reel.