The Europa Hotel, Belfast
Fourteen Years Post
The night shift would be starting soon. He hadn't slept beforehand even though he was beyond tired. Tired was a distant memory. This was his fourth night shift in a row, if you could even call it a night shift. If you could call it a job. They tell you it's your duty to those left and to those that have fallen. For most people, that's true. For Jack, it was punishment, in more than one way. Most people do it for a year at most and then, if you're still alive, are called up again 2 years later. This was coming up on Jack's third year in a row. He wasn't one for violence, although that changed - had to change - once the sentence had passed, and even after all the things he'd witnessed, after all the death and destruction, some of it caused by…them, some of it caused by himself, he was worth it. Even if the night shift meant he didn't see him nearly enough, he was undeniably worth it.
He hauled himself out of his camp bed, already dressed in his work clothes from the previous night shift that he hadn't bothered changing out of, looked over at the woman sleeping in the cot next to him and thought about waking her up to say goodbye, but then thought better of it. She had likely only fallen asleep a short while ago, and he didn't want to incur her wrath needlessly. He'd hopefully see her for a few minutes once he came back after his shift and before her own started in the basement. He kissed her on the forehead and the little man she held in her arms as well. Undeniably worth it. He tiptoed around the rest of the people that littered the floor, their cots covering almost every inch of floor space, gave his workmate a kick in the ribs to wake him up and walked towards the lift.
His back ached from lying on a camp bed for the past month, but the thought of it being his turn - their turn - on the hotel bed next week kept him from complaining too much. There were six other families in the room with them, and they had devised a rota for sharing the king size bed. Jack felt a little guilty that when it came to his turn he only had to share with his wife and son, while others had to fit six people but those were the rules and they daren't break them. Every room was the same, it had been the only way they were able to fit as many people into the hotel as they could. It was fit to bursting now, but it could be much worse. There were families that they had to turn away, that were forced to live on the streets, out in the open. Jack knew this all too well. Sometimes he was the one who had to turn them away. Sometimes he had to do more than that.
"Morning Gerry," he said to hulking mass standing next to the lift. All he was missing was a green hue, as he was always angry.
Gerry just grunted in his direction, barked a command into his walkie, and starting pulling. As did all the other lift jockeys - sorry, elevation operators - on all the other floors. The lift jockeys hated the night shift workers, although it was hardly their fault they had to work nights. Maybe they were just annoyed that in the new world this was the only use for strong men and that all those years of steroid abuse were for naught. After a few minutes of creaking and groaning, mostly from Gerry, the lift eventually arrived on the twelfth floor. Jack prised apart the doors just as Brian, his workmate, shuffled around the corner, still in the middle of putting his boots on. They stepped into the lift.
"Ground floor please," said Brian, a little too cheerfully for Gerry (and Jack, if he were honest) who, true to form, grunted once more although in a somehow more disgruntled tone. Jack wondered if today might be the day he tells his fellow lift jockeys to just let go of the rope and watch us plummet to the ground. They stopped at the third floor to pick up the third member of tonight's shift, a man neither Jack nor Brian knew and who didn't introduce himself either. He was skinny, with sunken eyes and sallow features. Even his hair looked sad.
Death warmed up basically.
He carried himself with the weight of someone who had given up a long time ago. He also carried the backpack with the backup supplies they might need, but never had thus far, during the night. Brian tried to make some conversation but the man just kept his back to us and said nothing, and began to softly weep. Jack didn't blame him. If he was the one with the supplies it meant he'd been on this shift for at least six months already. This wasn't much of a life.
The lift started moving again.
They hit the ground floor a little harder than they were expecting, with a loud thumpf resonating around what was once the lobby of arguably Belfast's most famous hotel. It was still recognisably up market, albeit covered in dust and grime from the past decade and a half, and perhaps would have been a great place to stay back before they arrived fourteen years ago. Jack had never stayed there before the fall, but then he was 17 when it kicked off and rarely do teenagers stay in a hotel in their home city.
They trudged into the former train station via the link from the underground car park where several shanty town-like developments had been erected by those in charge, filled with people waiting for those ‘lucky' enough to live in the hotel proper to die before they would be able to apply for the vacant spot. They marched past ticket kiosks and vending machines long since looted and empty, past the once automatic doors leading to the bus stops that were now bricked up and relatively undisturbed ever since they were originally built and onto what was formerly the train line between Belfast and the rest of the country. They were on mounted turret duty tonight; twelve hours in a stationary post looking out into the darkness at an enemy that had never once broken through the eight other emplacements and blockades along the tracks before they would even reach them, the ‘last line of defence.' The bridge across the tracks that once held ____________ had been converted into three crow's nests on which the turrets now sat, with several foot soliders armed with automatic rifles standing on the former train platform. Jack climbed the centre ladder up to his own little 4x4 foot coffin for the night and slid his ID card in. Even in the midst of an invasion the bosses still made sure that everyone was exactly where they were supposed to be, when they were supposed to be there. Death, taxes and bureaucracy. This was the first time in about eight months he'd been on the turrets, and he could barely remember how to use it if in the unlikely event that he would have to. But proper refresher training was in short supply. Happily someone had put some handy instructions on this particular turret - POINT AWAY FROM FACE. They'd also spray painted Ol' Painless on the side. The reference made Jack smile, until he remembered that Ol' Painless was pretty useless and he'd probably be better caking himself in mud. Well, that and the fact that this amateur graffiti artist had likely been court-martialled and tossed out on his ear for defacing government property.
He set up his gear for the night; a two litre bottle of recycled water and a few protein bars that said they were strawberry flavoured (hazy as his memory was he was pretty sure strawberries never tasted of wet cardboard) and a little camping seat, that he could use on the one break that he would get around six hours into the shift. It had become a sad world that sitting in almost total darkness save for a dim red warning light, on an uncomfortable canvas seat that was likely to break under his weight any day now was the thing he was looking forward to. He gripped the handles of the turret, and ran through the routine checks you had to carry out every hour despite the person he relieved just doing them ten minutes ago when their shift ended. He pushed on the handles, where the triggers also were and the mini-gun whirred into motion heating up the barrel so that some red hot lead could (but wouldn't) fire out of it more easily. Bringing the gun to the brink of release and then stopping just shy of it. It was almost cruel to deny it that. He put on his night vision goggles, flicked a few switches on the side then rested them on top of his head rather than actually wear them, and finally shot a look across at Brian who mockingly saluted, and then to the other man who was just peering out into the black before turning around and doing the same.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Hours passed without incident.
The pall cast over the group by the earlier lift encounter had not lifted and even the usually jovial and talkative (God, was he ever talkative?) Brian said nothing. The third man just continued staring. Jack wasn't entirely sure he'd moved these last few hours. He wouldn't have been surprised if someone told him that he hadn't blinked either. Brian was just coming off his fifteen minutes break during which he disappeared below the sides of his box so that you could only see the top of his head. Jack had heard a lot of stories about what some of the men (because only men were chosen for turret duty) did during their downtime, but he tried not to think about it as he was currently standing in such a box. He whistled at Brian to tell him his fifteen minutes were up. Brian popped his head up and nodded. It was Jack's turn for a break next on the rota but in an effort to extend some kindness the strangers' way, he shouted across,
"Hey buddy. I'm alright over here if you want to take your quarter now."
The man managed a half hearted ‘thank you' smile and then he too disappeared behind the sides on his turret casing. Jack splashed his face with some of his recycled water, having long since gotten over what it was recycled from, and chowed down on a protein bar. It wasn't long before Brian piped up, the mere fact that the other man was behind two inches of lead lined armour apparently enough to remove the barrier to conversation thus far.
"Jackie, how's the wee man doing these days then?"
"Aye, alright, I think. For all I see of him. He sleeps well." was the reply. He tried to keep things light, but the truth was he only saw little Logan in those short moments between getting back from the night shift and falling asleep himself. He tried to not let it bother him but in the back of his mind he worried that his son wouldn't be able to pick his own dad out of a line up. He was only two and thanks to the sentencing only saw his father very rarely; the chances were he could think any one of the men they shared the hotel room with was his father.
"He's a good wee lad. Never shuts up, like, but sure you know that yourself."
Jack laughed, but crumpled inside.
He didn't know that himself.
"How's your two?" he asked of Brian, before he starting weeping.
"Doing grand, yeah. Jessica is starting to get to that age' he said, as if Jack knew what he meant, ‘and then Byron is going to be 16 in a couple of weeks.'
He tried to hide the fear in his voice at that, but Jack knew what turning 16 meant. Everyone did. There might be a father and son team up here on the turrets before too long.
"We'll have to have a party. I'm sure Charlotte could whip you up a cake made of protein bars. She's good at those wifely thi…" The words were out of his mouth before he realised who he was talking to. "Sorry, mate. I didn't mean…"
Brian held up his hand. Don't worry about it, is what is signified.
They returned to silence after that.
A few minutes passed before anyone spoke again.
"Jackie, what time is it?"
"5.51."
"Hey pal, your quarter's up. It was up six minutes ago. Chop chop. It's Jackie's turn."
No reply.
Brian whistled a ‘get the hell up' whistle.
Nothing.
Brian signalled to one of the bodies on the platform below to blow his actual whistle. He did.
"Okay okay" a voice said from inside the man's box.
He rose slowly to his feet. Even in the darkness you could see that he'd been crying, his eyes were red and his shoulders still shaking. He stood up and straightened himself.
Only he didn't stop there. He continued climbing onto the edges of the emplacement, over the huge minigun and within seconds he was on the other side of the metal box. One of the footsoldiers raised his gun and yelled up at him.
"Don't do anything stupid, now. This isn't high enough to kill yourself, and if you only break your legs it'll be even worse. They'll just bandage you up and throw you out for dereliction of duty. Don't do it."
But the solider couldn't see what Jack saw.
The noose around the man's neck.
He crossed himself, and only then did the soldier see.
Brian must have as well because I heard him shout ‘Nooooooo' from behind me as I watched.
The man stepped off the turret.
The rope went tight.
Just another day on the grind.
