by Craig Zerf
There were groups of people walking along the embankment next to the river. Some groups as small as two or three. Other groups, or gangs more likely, as large as thirty, maybe forty people strong. Some people glanced at him but the combat gear and SAW light machine gun caused their eyes to keep moving so as to avoid confrontation.
As he continued he passed the Lister private hospital. A man in a white coat stood on the steps, smoking. Deep bruises of fatigue under his eyes. Face pale. Unshaven.
‘Hey,’ he called out. ‘Soldier.’
Hogan walked towards him. ‘Sir.’
‘Where are the rest of you?’ The doctor asked.
‘There is no rest of us, sir,’ replied Hogan. ‘I am an American marine gunnery sergeant seconded to the embassy. I’m doing a recon.’
‘Have you got any idea what’s going on?’
Hogan shook his head. ‘Huge power outage, sir. Probably an EMP. Are you all right? How are things going in there?’ Hogan pointed to the hospital.
The doctor shrugged. ‘Not good. Thank Christ that we’re so small. Two operating theatres. Lost both patients when the power went and the backup generators didn’t kick in. But we don’t have anyone on life support so small mercies.’ He took a pack out and offered.
Hogan shook his head. ‘Gotta go, sir. But if I were you, I’d batten down the hatches. Lock the doors and windows. Things are going to get ugly soon and any place with drugs is going to be fair game for the criminal elements.’
The doctor nodded his understanding.
Hogan turned and carried on walking. Not looking back.
As he approached Sloane Square he started to see more people on the streets, mostly walking aimlessly. Like car crash survivors or seriously hung over party goers. Most of the shop windows were broken and the convenience stores had been totally emptied as people stripped them for drinks and food. Drugstores had been similarly denuded, the thin veneer of middle class civilization peeling back in less than forty-eight hours to reveal the savage survivor lurking beneath.
He saw the first dead body lying on the road outside the Sloane Club. Older man, business suit, glasses. Hands clutched to his chest in the classic heart attack position. A mere twenty yards on, another body. This time a teenage male. Body twisted and broken. Obviously the victim of a severe beating. Blood lay pooled around his head. Dark. Already drying to a crust.
Hogan took a right turn and double-timed it through Belgravia. He paused every now and then to get his bearings, amazed at how few people were on the street in an area that was normally shoulder-to-shoulder. He assumed that they were hiding in their apartments, waiting to be told what to do. He ran into Eaton place and turned right, heading towards the Belgravia police station in Buckingham Palace road.
He went past the Budget rent-a-car and noted that the windows had been smashed in, the offices trashed. He wondered dimly what anyone had expected to find there worth looting. Rental agreements? Car freshener?
The police station loomed up on his left and he jogged around to the front.
Two young constables stood in front of the building, standing at the bottom of the steps. They were both carrying the new upgrade of the L85. As Hogan appeared around the corner they both whipped their rifles up and drew a bead on him.
‘Halt!’ Shouted the one. ‘Put your hands above your head.’
Hogan stopped in front of them. He didn’t raise his hands.
‘Hands up,’ screeched the youngster.
‘Settle, son,’ said Hogan. ‘No need to overreact. My name is Nathaniel Hogan, marine Master Gunnery Sergeant American Embassy.’
‘Get down on your knees,’ continued the constable.
Hogan shook his head, ‘Do me a favor, son. Fetch your inspector. I’d like a quick chat.’
‘Knees!’
‘In your dreams, boy,’ replied Hogan. ‘Marines kneel for no one.’ He swiveled his M249 to bear on the two constables. ‘Your inspector. Now, constable, before I lose my sense of humor and decide to play rat-a-tat on your ass.’
The constable who had not yet spoken turned on his heel and sprinted into the building.
Hogan stood facing the remaining constable. Relaxed. Weapon brought to bear. A slight sardonic smile on his face.
Within a minute the other constable returned followed closely by a man in an inspector’s uniform. He was much older than the young guards. His hair cropped short, gray at the temples. A moustache, small gold rimmed round spectacles. He carried a Heckler & Koch MP5.
He nodded at Hogan. ‘Master sergeant.’
‘Inspector,’ replied Hogan.
‘How can we help?’
‘I’m attached to the American Embassy, inspector. Simply doing a recce and thought that I should run by and see if you have any idea what’s happening.’
The inspector took his spectacles off and rubbed the lenses on his shirtsleeve. ‘No idea, sergeant. Our chaps think that it may be a nuclear strike of some sort. No communication, no power. Frankly, we’re in the dark, both literally and figuratively.’ He replaced his specs. ‘What about you chaps?’
‘Same old, inspector. But one thing I know for sure, it’s going to get worse. Much worse. Well, I better be going. Got an embassy to take care of.’
‘Hold on, old chap,’ said the inspector. ‘Afraid that we can’t have you running around London with a machine gun. We may be in the throes of some sort of disaster but that type of thing is illegal, don’t you know? Hand your weapons over and you can continue.’ The inspector pointed his sub machine gun at the marine and the two constables followed suit.
Hogan simply smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m going back to the embassy. Don’t be an asshole, inspector. The time for certain laws has come and gone. And any law that says you gotta try to take the weapon off a marine has long since passed its sell-by date.’
The sergeant walked backwards, slowly and then turned and jogged off. Back towards the embassy, heading down Pimlico road. About half way down the road he ran into a group of around thirty teenagers. All male, around fourteen to sixteen. Most of them were pushing supermarket trolleys piled high with looted electronic equipment. Laptops, tablets, televisions and projectors. State of the art gear reduced to the level of inefficient paperweights by the pulse. A lesson in stupidity.
He slowed to a fast walk and they parted before him like a shoal of baitfish before a shark. One of the braver ones flicked a mocking salute at him. Hogan grinned.
‘Been shopping, boys?’ He asked.
‘Fo shore, military man,’ quipped the saluter. ‘We’s been getting ourselves some end-of-the-world discounts. Figure that when this is all over we’s gonna set up shop, make some serious money.’
The marine raised an eyebrow. Said nothing. What was the point? He gave a small wave and started jogging again. Within ten minutes he was once again crossing the Chelsea Bridge. When he looked down at the Thames he could see many more people than before. Thousands lined the banks with buckets and bottles, seeking water because the pipes were now completely dry. There were around nine million people in London and approximately fifty miles of river frontage. This means that, if everyone went to the river to claim some water there would be ninety-four people per every yard of water frontage. It won’t be long, thought Hogan, before fights are going to break out. Serious fights.
He double-timed it back to the embassy and his men let him in.
A group of embassy employees were gathered at the bottom of the steps. Talking in hushed tones as if at a funeral. They were obviously waiting for him.
‘Sitrep, Sergeant,’ said Liz.
Hogan thought for a few seconds before he spoke. He needed to get his message across without causing a panic.
‘Things are on the verge of meltdown, ma’am. Water supplies throughout the city have been depleted. All of the food shops are empty. Looting has taken place on a grand scale. The police seem more intent on protecting themselves than laying down the law and, to be honest, there’s not much that they c
an do. I guess that full-scale riots will start in the next couple of days as water becomes critical and people converge on the river. Days after that people will be fighting over what food is left. And then medication. People will kill for insulin for their children, antibiotics, pain relief. I reckon that people will start trying to get into the embassy over the next couple of days. Especially if they see that we are inside and alive, they will assume that we have supplies of food, water and drugs. We do, but as you know, not much. The London embassy was never designed for a siege. If we were in Iraq or such, things would be different. But we aren’t. And that’s about it, ma’am.’
‘So what do you advise, gunney?’
‘We move out, ma’am. There’s twenty-seven of us including my boys. We need to get into the country or to the coast. The city is going to become a living hell over the next few days. My marines can protect everyone but we won’t be able to provide food. There simply isn’t any left. Out in the countryside we have a better chance. Not much, but better.’
The Deputy Chief of Mission shook her head. Sighed. ‘Really, gunney. I must say, you are a disappointment. Firstly, they are not your marines, sergeant. They are the United States’ Marines. And, secondly, your only advice is to run away? We are Americans, sergeant. We do not run away from problems, we stay and we fix them. Now, this is what I want; put together a plan on how we can sort this out. Put together a foraging team and send them out to find food. Buy it if necessary. Start stockpiling water from whatever source we can. I am sure that our government will be sending help soon. This is an interim problem, sergeant, not the end of the world.’ She smirked at him, her face a mask of scorn. ‘Carry on, sergeant.’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Hogan. ‘I don’t think so. If anything I have understated the situation. We have over eight million people in less than six hundred square miles. The roads will be packed with people streaming from the city. Think Moscow, second world war. No sanitation, armed gangs, Looney tunes with no more access to their Valium. Total chaos. The sooner we all leave the easier it will be.’
‘Mountains out of molehills, gunney. Now, are you going to do as I say?’
‘With all due respect, ma’am. You are out of your bloody mind. We need to put this to the vote. I know that, technically, you outrank me, but things have changed. Ma’am, things are all messed up. We are drowning in crap and all that you can do is complain about the smell.’ Hogan raised his voice. ‘Listen up, people. As you know, I have just completed a recce of the surrounds and I can tell you that this city is fast turning to crud in a basket. I recommend that we skedaddle out of here ASAP, head for the countryside. It’s gonna be tough but to stay here is to die. I will be leaving in half an hour. Those who wish to come are welcome. Those who want to stay, may God protect you.’
The marine sergeant pushed his way through the crowd and into the embassy. Two of his men met him inside, Manson and Sculley. He gave them a quick rundown of the situation. Neither reacted in the way that he thought they would. They avoided eye contact. Uncomfortable.
‘Speak, Manson. What’s the problem?’
‘No problem, gunney. It’s just that, well, sir, don’t you think that command will send someone to sort everything out? I mean, the fleet or something? If we watch our rations we could have enough for a couple of weeks and by then the brass will have sent backup.’
Hogan shook his head. ‘Manson, I don’t want to sound like some sort of disaster-monger, but what if there is no fleet? What if this EMP has affected everyone. Then there’s no help. Not now, not ever. And by the time that you realize it things will be too late. You’ll all be screwed. Trust me, we gotta get out of the city.’
But Hogan could see that he’d lost them. The enormity of the situation had caused a general shutdown. A lifetime of relying on “them” to take control meant that their perceived best course of action was to wait for “them” to bring help. Hogan didn’t say anything else. There was nothing else to say.
The master sergeant went to the small armory, grabbed a USMC equipment pack. He loaded it with an entrenching tool, sunglasses, a selection of canteens, two Strider SMF knives, extra water purification tablets, matches, two more first aid kits, two extra mags for his 45, three belts of ammo for his main weapon and another one hundred rounds for the Colt. Finally a pack of five First-Strike meals and a handful of the new Soldier Fuel energy bars and a carton of cigarettes.
He strapped the pack on and left the building.
No one spoke as he walked out. The two marines on the gate saluted him as they allowed him through.
He did not look back so he did not see the smirk on Liz Tutor’s face as she shook her head in displeasure. Confident in her decision to stay. Confident in the power of the United States of America. And confident that soon the world would return to being the civilized, electrically powered marvel that it should be.
Marine master sergeant Nathaniel Hogan turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
Overhead the sky still glistened with multicolor lights in an unprecedented orgy of gamma radiation.
Chapter 5
The first day of Hogan’s journey had been the worst. Unlike before, London was now choked with people as they realized that to stay in the city was to die. There were people looting, people searching for water and drugs, people simply milling around in groups, their faces blank with dull incomprehension.
Fights and gunshots were a constant thing and one couldn’t travel more than a city block without coming across some form of violence.
There were also large swathes of the city that were on fire, primarily due to the huge number of airplanes that had come crashing down and the inability of any firefighters to do anything about it.
But people avoided confrontation with the marine. The SAW, the Colt 45, the webbing and body armor, all wrapped around a six foot four, two forty pound plus delivery vehicle, added up to something worth avoiding. There were easier targets. More vulnerable targets. And in this case, that more vulnerable group pretty much included anyone else in the greater London area.
Hogan only got involved in two scuffles. The first one involved a middle-aged woman, a shopping trolley and three young men. It was your basic hi-jack. They wanted her trolley full of goods and she didn’t want to give it to them. Hogan had decided the issue by smacking the three men in the head with the butt of his SAW and knocking them unconscious. The middle-aged woman had then told him off for being both American and violent. The marine contemplated slapping the stupid woman in the face but instead he simply shrugged and walked off.
The second event was far more harrowing. A group of teenagers had gathered around an old man and his ancient dog, a black Labrador, and they were stoning the dog to death. Its limp form already lay under a pile of rocks and half bricks. The old man was trying to cover the hound with his own body but the teenagers would kick him aside and then continue their stoning.
Hogan stepped in front of the dog and held his hand up.
‘Stop,’ he yelled. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Piss off, soldier,’ yelled the one boy as he threw a rock at the marine.
Hogan took a step forward and whipped out a straight-arm punch into the hoodlums face. His nose broke with a crunch and his two front teeth snapped off at the roots. He went down like a rag doll.
The rest of the group pulled back.
‘Hey,’ shouted a girl. ‘That’s not right, you bastard. The dog bit me. It should be put down.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Asked Hogan. ‘Where’d it bite you?’
She held up her hand. There was a vaguely discernable red mark on the back of it. A scratch. Maybe a bump. Probably nothing.
In the background he could hear the old man crying as he stroked his dying dog.
It took all of the marine’s willpower to stop opening up on the group of teenagers.
‘Get out of here,’ he said. His voice little above a harsh whisper. ‘Go now, before I kill you.’
The teenagers fell over each
other in their haste to escape the gaze of the massive armed warrior in front of them. As soon as they were at a safe distance they turned and shouted a few cuss words. Then they disappeared.
Hogan knelt down next to the old man. ‘Are you all right?’
The man looked up at the marine with red-rimmed eyes. ‘They killed Monty,’ he said. His voice barely a croak. ‘He licked the girls hand and so they killed him. They said he was a smelly old dog and they threw stones at him.’
Hogan put his hand on the dog’s neck to feel for a pulse but his master was correct. Monty had drawn his last breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Hogan. But the old man did not respond. He simply sat next to his dead companion. Tears rolled slowly down his face, zigzagging through the wrinkles and lines on his skin.
The marine stood up and walked away. When he reached the corner and glanced back, the old man was still stroking the dog.
And weeping.
That night the marine slept in a hedgerow behind a house. Hidden and out of the way.
Chapter 6
The next day he found himself walking through an area where the houses were further and further apart. The fences and gates got larger and higher with more gold paint. Some had hi-tech guardhouses attached to them.
He stopped outside one house that sported a particularly garish set of gates complete with a massive golden coat of arms. For some reason the gates looked familiar and then Hogan remembered why. He had seen these gates on the television some three or four weeks before. They belonged to an American movie star and producer who had married an English girl and moved to the United Kingdom.
He had been interviewed in front of his mansion where he gave a speech, full of his trademark humble Southern expressions and down-home attitudes. He told of how he loved the unique smallness of the country, the essential ‘realness’ of the people. Then he had proceeded to purchase a house in the never-never land of footballers, PRO gurus and media moguls. Parents who gave their children monikers like Reignbeau or Jermajesty or Moonunit. People who had sold their souls to the devil to garner their ten minutes of fame. People who had no idea that, in the post pulse dark age that had now come upon them, they had traded all to the father of lies merely to become someone who used to be somebody before the world had gone to crap.