The Least Resistance

THE LEAST RESISTANCE

by

MARCUS FREESTONE

SMASHWORDS EDITION

COPYRIGHT MARCUS FREESTONE 2013

ISBN: 9781301117383

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ALSO AVAILABLE BY MARCUS FREESTONE FROM SMASHWORDS:

FICTION

The Memory Man: T14 Book 1

Random Target: T14 Book 2

Just Murder: T14 Book 3

Two Serial Killers, A Wedding And A Funeral: T14 Book 4

Never Kidnap A Serial Killer: T14 Book 5

Ethelbert's Sunday Morning (short stories)

What To Do If Trapped In A Lift With A Dentist (poetry)

NON FICTION

Positive Thinking and The Meaning of Life

101 Ways To Happiness

Tell Depression To #@%! Off

The Psychology Of Happiness: Unraveling Self Help Nonsense By Understanding Your Brain

Donald Trump and Brexit: Misguided Rebellion

101 Completely Made Up Untrue Facts

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

Sarah yawned and waited for the crash of the back door.

Bang.

She breathed a sigh of relief and threw off the duvet. Her tool of a brother had gone and she could get on with her day in peace.

Another ten minutes and the smell would also have gone.

Two years of home schooling had given her such a thirst for knowledge that she'd already been reading in bed for three hours and done all her allotted work for the day. Now she could get on with the interesting stuff.

Philosophy and science were her twin passions, along with the necessary rebuilding of her physical self. Study in the morning, exercise in the afternoon; that had been her routine since three days after the incident during the first week of High School when she'd nearly died.

Upon recovering sufficiently to be released from hospital she had begun a quest to rebuild herself, both mind and body. She needed to understand the world and her place within it, to face her fears and conquer them, to be able to go out into the world without feeling shame and terror. She needed, in short to become the sort of person who couldn't ever again be kicked half to death in a toilet.

Her progress had been phenomenal. She'd always loved books but now devoured knowledge at hyper speed. Her intellectual achievements were only outshone by her physical growth. From being a spindly, bony little girl she now cycled, swam, ran, lifted weights and had gained her first belt in judo.

Now when she went out of the house there was no longer any fear. She'd greatly enjoyed the few encounters with some of her lesser tormentors and transferred her fear onto them very efficiently. Nonetheless, she did not waste time brooding about her former persecutors, there was too much work to do in the here and now.

After a pleasant mornings reading, she went for a quick thirty mile bike ride, then a swim, and finally to the library, her second home.

Simon trudged onwards. Ten minutes until he entered yet another office for yet another pointless interview.

He chastised himself for being so negative. One of them was bound to pay off sooner or later. It would be too good to be true if it were this one; the money was so good it would allow him to move out of his crappy shared house and away from the living nightmare of people stealing his food and shagging on the stairs.

A bit of peace and quiet and a half decent job, not much to ask, he thought as he continued threading his way through the crowds of mid-morning shoppers.

At twenty five Simon hadn't achieved much in life, other than managing to stay alive, and now felt entitled to a smidgen of good fortune. This job would be ideal: he could easily afford a decent flat within walking distance, even build up some savings if he didn't blow all his wages on whisky.

He hoped they wouldn't bring up the subject of his hair. This was the twenty first century. He would tie it back for work but he refused to cut it short or stop dying it various colours.

If he'd believed in any sort of god he would have asked for a favour at that moment but instead he merely shrugged. If he got the job fine, if not something else would happen sooner or later.

Come on, he said to himself, new century new attitude. It was nearly March and he felt no less depressed about his future prospects. He forced himself to be positive. On the law of averages, if he kept up enough activity, something was bound to work out eventually.

An hour later, Simon had to resist punching the air as he walked through the reception area of the office block. He went straight to his bank and cancelled the direct debit for his rent.

I'll never get my bond back off that cowboy so fuck him - what's he going to do, evict me?

He then bought the two local papers and went to the pub to look for his first ever real home.

Eighteen months later Simon had still not been made redundant or had to leave his flat. In fact he was now only paying half the rent as his girlfriend had moved in eight months ago so he had, for the first time in his life, managed to build up some savings and a sense of security and well being.

Well, almost.

True, Caroline could be handful sometimes, in a slightly psychotic scary way but it was worth it for the sex. At least, it was providing she didn't become any more barmy.

Bearing in mind his own history Simon was normally the last person to cast aspersions on anyone's mental health, but Caroline was so unpredictable it sometimes genuinely frightened him. She would now and then spontaneously (or so it seemed to him) walk into traffic without looking, deliberately (or so it seemed to him) have a car crash and indulge in other such worrying behaviour.

Simon knew all about depression and had a degree and MSc in Psychology but Caroline never seemed depressed or manic or to fit any known pattern, she just used to go off on one at random intervals. The scariest part for Simon was that she never herself referred to these incidents. Did she even know what she was doing at these times, or remember them afterwards?

For some months now Simon, who never drove himself, had refused to get in a car with her. Every time she wanted to drive somewhere she would become angry, always in a manner which suggested that she had no idea why he was so reluctant to join her.

He did wonder whether she had a personality disorder but it wasn't the sort of subject you could casually slip into a post-coital chat.

He was pondering all this, wondering where the fuck his life was going and settling back into work after a late lunch. The tiny, low resolution clock in the bottom right corner of his screen swam in and out of focus. 2.10pm Tuesday Sept 11th.

Before he could think about what he could possibly do to spin out the usual meagre amount of work until five o'clock without looking too much like he was slacking, the door burst open and in bounded Roger Williams.

Quick, you've got to see this, somebody's blown up the Pentagon!

Without waiting for a response Roger had run back out of the room, doubtless making his way to everyone else on the floor with his usual asthmatic wheeze.

Simon stood up and logged off his computer. This was an unexpected bonus, like a fire drill but without being able to smoke – with a bit of luck he'd get at least an hour out of this. If it looked like everyone was losing interest he would come up with some spurious bullshit about the companies' American connections and get the managers worked up into a frenzy.

Especially Hughes.

Oh, this should be good, he thought. He'll be pontificating his arse off and spouting all sorts of ill-informed bollocks. Brilliant!

Switching off the monitor he left his office and followed the increasing crowd of people who seemed to know where they were going. Probably the conference room on the next floor, that had a television.

A couple of minutes later he arrived in the conference room to discover that people were taking as much notice of the no smoking signs as he himself did of the dress code.

Hughes always smoked cigars in his office but nobody ever said anything because it was infinitely preferable to keep his mouth occupied for as long as possible. Besides, when he was in his office he was out of everyone's way, which was also infinitely preferable.

Now, Hughes was pacing up and down puffing on a ridiculously Freudian cigar, and four or five other people were smoking cigarettes.

Simon shrugged. He already flouted the dress code and never bothered tieing his hair back, he may as well commit the twenty first century's most horrific crime and smoke indoors. He remembered that he'd left his jacket in his office and was about to return when he saw someone he'd been to the pub with a few times.

Hey Fred, can I pinch a fag off you?

What? Yeah, sure.

He pointed to a packet and lighter on top of a nearby filing cabinet.

Thanks.

Simon took one and lit up.

So, what the fuck's going...

He was interrupted by a gasp.

Looking up at the television he saw a large plane flying into an even larger tower block.

I thought it was the Pentagon? What... is that the World Trade centre?

Yes, that's the second plane.

Simon stared at the screen in disbelief.

No, no, this is awfully bad form!

Everyone turned to stare at Hughes in equal disbelief.

"Flying planes into perfectly good offices – it's just not the done thing. Johnny Foreigner has gone too far this time."

People shook their heads and turned back to the screen.

Simon was torn between wanting to enjoy Hughes' moronic pronouncements and concentrating on the high quality entertainment coming from the telly. This was miles better than any Hollywood film. Generally he took no interest in news or politics but this was really interesting. He made a mental note to video all the news tonight.

A news reader made a reference to six planes being unaccounted for.

Six? said Simon.

Yes, said Fred, one flew into the Pentagon, one's crashed in a field, they don't know where the other two are.

Wow! said Simon, wondering how long it would be before America's inherent jingoism took over and they started making heart warming documentaries about this.

Another thought struck him.

I know this sounds like a mad conspiracy theory but this could be an inside job.

A few people glanced at him as if to imply that he definitely was mad.

The C.I.A. killed their own president, I don't think this would be at all beyond them. Just think; whoever Bush declares to be responsible for this will be invaded within six weeks and nobody will bat an eyelid. It gives them carte blanche to do whatever they fucking like.

Come on, said Fred, even Bush wouldn't do that.

Towel heads, said Hughes authoritatively, it'll definitely be the towel heads. He strode around the office like a concussed bee trying to negotiate an assault course. He was beginning to make people feel dizzy.

"Well, well, the towel heads have really gone too far this time. Very bad form. Flying planes into buildings? I wouldn't tolerate that on my watch!"

Everyone else was keeping quiet and trying to watch the news but Hughes ploughed on like a twat in a china shop.

This sort of thing wouldn't happen in England.

No, said Simon dryly, our buildings aren't tall enough. He foolishly hoped that would be an end to the conversation.

Good point, beamed Hughes. "May be worth putting that in a memo to head office in case they're considering building a really tall building."

Simon and several others tried to tune out Hughes' inanity. No reason why it should be possible today though.

Why didn't they just bring down the planes with laser guns? About time they proved that Star Wars thingy was worth all the money. Do we have any business partners in America?

Simon decided that he wasn't required to spin out the situation and also didn't want to encourage Hughes any further. He was, for once, finding him irritating rather than entertaining.

No, he said impatiently.

Oh, that's okay then.

Hughes seemed to almost physically deflate, so quickly did he lose interest in the television pictures. He wandered absent-mindedly towards the window and, for reasons known only to himself and whoever was inside his head operating the strings, stared out of it intently like a sentry on duty.

Roger turned away from the screen and spoke to Simon in a voice quiet enough not to attract Hughes' attention.

I've never seen anything like it.

No, replied Simon redundantly. He then wondered whether Roger had meant Hughes or the TV coverage, not that it affected his answer.

His phone beeped to indicate an incoming text message.

Bugger, I thought I'd switched that off.

He took out his phone and opened the message.

You don't know anyone in America do you? asked Roger nervously.

No, it's a friend in London. Apparently it has gone totally mental. All public transport ground to a halt, people wandering around not knowing what to do. He's stuck in the city trying to find a taxi. He lives in Brighton, reckons he's looking at having to stay the night somewhere.

Roger swallowed nervously.

"You don't think anything is going to happen here do you?"

Simon paused.

I'd not really considered that possibility. I suppose it would make sense to attack other countries as well at staggered intervals, cause world wide panic.

Hughes snapped to attention like a man who had suddenly found that his scrotum was caught in a bear trap.

Right, at ease chaps, I'll deal with this. This is a job for Elsie.

He strode purposefully out of the room before either of them could even be bothered to wonder what the hell he was talking about.

Simon shrugged and turned back to the television.

Hughes went into his office and locked the door behind him. He searched on his overcrowded keyring for two keys. With one he opened the bottom drawer in his desk, with the other he opened a large cash tin style metal box.

From the box he produced a .44 Magnum and a box of ammunition. He picked up a pipe cleaner and began to clean the barrel as he muttered to himself.

I may not technically be in the forces any longer, and maybe I should've declared that psychiatric nonsense to the police when I renewed my licence, but dammit I'm not going to let this office go down with the sinking ship.

As he continued checking the revolver he fell to pondering his dismissal from the army. Ever since that day, he had been determined to redeem himself with a public act of patriotism and bravery. Something he could be proud of, possibly resulting in a medal he could proudly show to his wife. He swivelled around in his chair and looked eagerly out of the window, half hoping to see signs of panic that he could intervene in and take control of. Nothing.

Finally satisfied that it was clean enough, he held the gun out in front of him and squinted down the barrel, lining up the sight with the keyhole on one of his filing cabinets.

If the towel heads try anything here, Elsie and I'll be ready for them. Nobody pisses about on my watch.

CHAPTER TWO

Neil sat nervously in the reception area. It wasn't the prospect of his first day in the new job that was making him nervous – it was the thought of how he was going to cope with his new boss when he returned from holiday next week. He could still scarcely believe that...

No, there was no point going over it again, he needed this job or he'd have to move back in with his parents. That was a fate worse than... anything he could possibly imagine.

His long overcoat sat awkwardly on his lap like a yawning cat. It was warm enough in here but outside the late autumn wind was biting. Glancing at most of the people filing past him he noticed that many seemed casually dressed. They obviously all worked for some of the other companies that rented space in this vast 15 story building.

Neil?

Yes?

I'm Simon, you'll be working with me.

They shook hands and walked over to the lift.

How long have you worked here?

Three years. Simon looked at Neil's three piece suit. You're a tad over dressed, nobody but management bother with all that shit here.

Neil shuffled nervously.

Well, you know, first day and all that.

I understand, just don't do it again or you'll remind people that there was a dress code for all of us once upon a time.

"Did