by Craig Zerf
Things had gone far enough and the marine’s inherent hatred of mobs rose up within him.
He filled his lungs and, in his best parade ground voice bellowed out.
‘Stop. Desist what you are doing and step away from the gates.’
The crowd turned as one to stare. And the sight of him was enough to silence them.
Six foot four of fully armed, well pissed off, marine master sergeant. Body armor, helmet, massive machine gun and Colt 45.
But the crowd hadn’t eaten for three days. And the only water that they had found had been brackish and muddy. In short, they were dying. And dying people scare less easy than those who are full of life.
‘Stuff you, yank,’ said the longhaired man. ‘Go home to yank land, you tosser.’
Hogan smiled. ‘Wish I could, my friend. But, as that’s not going to happen, why don’t you all make like sheep and flock off.’
Someone at the back of the crowd threw a rock. It whipped overhead and hit Hogan on the helmet. Immediately a barrage of sticks and stones hailed down on the marine. He dodged most, reaction speed in the uncanny range. But many missiles struck. And they hurt.
Then, without warning, the crowd charged.
The marine didn’t even contemplate bringing his SAW to bear. These were civilians. Starving, desperate for food and water. Instead he used the butt of the machine gun to protect himself. Smashing left and right in a blurred frenzy of movement. Ten, twelve, fifteen, twenty-five people went down under his blows.
And then it felt like someone had hit him in the chest with a sledgehammer. He glanced down to see two tines of a steel garden fork sticking up through his neck and into his jaw. The longhaired man had stabbed him under his left arm and from behind, slipping past the body armor, smashing his top two ribs, shattering his collarbone and severing his subclavian vein.
Hogan had seen people who had been stabbed there before. It was what the marines called, ‘A career ending wound,’ in that, when you got one, you died. End of career.
But if years of training alongside some of the hardest men in the world had taught Nathaniel Hogan one thing, it was never say die.
He drew his colt 45 and started firing as fast as he could. The crowd turned and ran. Except for longhaired man who took two rounds to the face.
Hogan fell to his knees.
Black…
Chapter 9
Liz Tutor, the Deputy Chief of Mission United States Embassy, took a deep breath, held it, let it escape. A slow ragged exhalation that broadcast her fear on all channels. Fortunately she was alone.
. It was a few days after the pulse and no one had contacted the embassy.
No Black Hawk helicopters had swooped in to take them home. No convoys of marines, no couriers, no communication. Nothing.
They were low on food and had already run out of water. She had asked two of the marines to take a trolley from the embassy workshop, load it with a couple of plastic drums, and go down to the Thames to collect water.
Manson and Ronaldo had kitted up and she watched them, through her office window, as they pulled the trolley out of the gates and set off down the road.
‘Damn,’ said Ronaldo. ‘I feel like I’m back at basic training, humping drums of water for the man.’
‘Someone’s gotta do it,’ countered Manson.
They continued pushing, down the road, around the corner. The road was almost empty. They were far from residential areas and the embassy had so far attracted little attention from the scavenging gangs of post pulse London.
They headed down Queenstown road towards the river and, as they passed the Millennium Arena they found the road blocked. Two cars had been pushed across it and, on each side, a barricade of furniture. Office desks, chairs, refrigerators. Standing on top of the cars and crowded behind them was a group of men numbering around two hundred plus. Most of them were dressed in the bright blue and yellow striped boiler suits that the government had recently introduced to all prisons holding category A offenders.
Some were holding shotguns, others swords, knives and clubs. A few even had sidearms. Mainly 22 target pistols although there was also the odd 38 in evidence.
The marines slowed down and stopped in front of the barricade. Safety catches off. Rifles held ready.
A large man, his shaven head tattooed with a swastika, pointed at them. ‘What you want here, soldier boys?’
‘Water,’ answered Manson. ‘For the people at the embassy. We’re not looking for trouble, so just let us through. We’ll fill up our drums and be on our way.’
The big man laughed. ‘Can’t do, soldier boy. You see, we own this part of the river now. You want water, then you pay us, the Belmarsh boys.’
‘What point is there in charging for water?’ Asked Manson. ‘Money ain’t worth crap at the moment.’
‘Screw money,’ retaliated the big man. ‘Food. Weapons. Your sweet ass.’ He thrust his hips towards the marines and the men around him burst into gales of laughter. Some whistled and clapped. ‘Trade with us, soldier. Trade or piss off cause we’s busy.’
‘Damn you, crap-for-brains,’ shouted Ronaldo as he brought his rifle to shoulder. ‘Nobody talks to the marines like that and gets away with it.’
He shot the big man twice in the chest. The high velocity rounds punched through him and exited out of his back in a spray of red mist. His body slumped slowly to the car roof. His face a mask of surprise.
Normally this sort of reaction would cause a crowd to scatter as they ran for cover. But these were ex-inmates of one of Britain’s most infamous prisons. Psychopathically hard men made harder by a system of punishment as opposed to reformation. Men who did not react in the same way as any other normally functioning member of society.
There was perhaps a second of stunned silence and then everyone with a weapon fired back. Shotguns boomed, 22 pistols cracked. Spears and knives and house bricks flew. Even though the marines were wearing full combat armor, the level of firepower was simply too great. A spear lanced into Ronaldo’s throat, smashing his esophagus and slicing his jugular before exiting from the back of his neck. A shotgun blast took him full in the face, blinding him and shredding his flesh from the bone. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Manson slipped his fire selector to full auto.
‘Oorah!’ He shouted as he pulled the trigger and swung the barrel. The thirty round magazine emptied in under four seconds, the supersonic rounds chewing through at least six people before the rifle clicked empty. The crowd of criminals surged forward like a wave of human violence, swarming around the marine, knocking him to the ground, kicking and hitting until his body was merely an inanimate flesh sack full of broken bone.
For a moment the gang of thugs milled around. Purposeless. And then it found its natural level. The hierarchy of the prison system clicked in and the next rung on the ladder stepped up to lead.
Almost a carbon copy of the recently deceased big man except that the new leader’s swastika was tattooed on his face.
He jumped onto the roof of one of the cars. ‘They killed ours,’ he shouted. ‘Now we go get theirs. American embassy. Let’s go.’
He jumped off the roof and started running. The pack ran after him, ululating, screaming. Laughing. A mobile mass of concentrated vileness acquiescing to the lowest human denominator.
It took them less than fifteen minutes to get to the gates of the embassy and when they did they did not stop. As one they threw themselves at the gates, climbing over one another to gain the top of the steel barricade and jump over.
Years of prison brutality pouring from them like pus from a ruptured boil.
The two marines at the gate were caught completely by surprise but their training slammed home in seconds and they brought their weapons to bear. They only managed to get off a few shots each before they were cut down.
Someone threw a Molotov at the embassy entrance and it exploded on the front doors, burning fuel spreading into the lobby.
The four r
emaining marines who were off duty and asleep, grabbed their weapons and ran for the entrance. Already there were around fifty armed prisoners inside the building. Male members of staff were mercifully executed on sight. Female staff members were punched to the ground and queues immediately formed.
The four marines sprinted into the entrance lobby, firing from the hip. The Belmarsh boys flipped over desks for cover and fired back. Another Molotov exploded against the wall, spraying the one marine with burning fuel. He rolled on the floor in an attempt to smother the flames but they were too strong. He jumped up and ran in an aimless circle, screaming in mortal agony.
One of the prisoners found this to be so amusing that he collapsed on the floor in a paroxysm of laughter.
Eventually the burning man fell to his knees and died. Hands curled up in front of his chest. An emolliated sacrifice to the Belmarsh boys.
The marines were members of one of the paramount fighting forces in the known world. But they were few and the enemy were many. Too many. The marines took their toll as they killed and killed again. In total they sent eighteen Belmarsh boys to hell before the force of numbers overwhelmed them.
Now the only sound was the crackling of flames and the whimpering and screaming of the women as they were repeatedly raped.
And on the top floor of the embassy, Liz Tutor, the Deputy Chief of Mission United States Embassy, opened the access door to the heliport on the roof of the building and slipped out, closing it behind her. Her face was slick with tears and her body jerked at every scream, every whimper from below.
Why hadn’t they come to rescue them?
Where were the troops?
Where were the helicopters?
The fifth fleet?
Sobbing, she undid the lanyard and pulled the Stars and Stripes down from the flagpole. She unclipped it and wrapped it around her like a shawl.
Behind her the door burst open and a gaggle of lunatics scurried in.
‘Oho,’ one shouted. ‘Fresh pussy.’
Liz walked calmly to the edge of the roof and then turned to face the men, the stars and stripes clad her in its glory.
‘And this be our motto,’ she said. ‘In God is our trust.’
She raised a finger at them.
‘Damn you all to hell.’
For a short while she flew before her life was crushed from her as she struck the ground.
And the shrieks and whimpers continued.
And the embassy burned.
And old glory slowly turned red with her blood.
Chapter 10
Black…
And then a pinprick of light.
Smell of wood smoke.
Sound of flames.
He blinked.
More light.
He sat up.
Alive!
The room swam into focus. Stone walls. Tall mullioned windows. A fireplace, with fire. And standing at the end of the bed a young woman. Pale skin, deep red hair. Hint of a smile. Before he could say anything she turned and left the room at a fast walk.
On a small table next to the bed he saw a glass of water. He picked it up, two handed, and took a sip. It tasted like fine wine. Heady. Invigorating.
Alive!
The girl walked back into the room followed by an older man. Hogan recognized him. The man who had stood above the gate. The man who had turned the outsiders away.
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Hogan, the girl stood next to him. ‘Greetings, young man,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’m alive.’
The man chuckled. ‘It would appear so.’
‘How?’
‘Lucky, I suppose.’
Hogan shook his head. ‘No one’s that lucky. I was dead for sure.’
‘Obviously not.’
Hogan started to talk again but the older man flashed him a look and then glanced at the girl. Later, the look said. Not now.
‘Can I get you something to eat, sir?’ The girl asked.
Hogan nodded. ‘That would be much appreciated. How long have I been out?’
‘Not long. Only the one night,’ answered the man as the girl set off to get Hogan some sustenance. ‘After your…altercation with the crowd, they dispersed and we opened the gates and dragged you in.’
‘So then, where am I?’ Asked the marine.
‘You are a guest at Biggleswich Independent coeducational boarding school, set in the grounds of the fortified Abbey of Lilysworth.’
The girl reappeared with a tray. On it was a bowl of porridge, a glass of milk and small bowl of sugar.
‘Just a snack,’ said the girl. ‘It’s almost dinner time, you can have a proper meal then.’
Hogan thanked her and tucked in. It had been years since he had last tasted porridge and it was exactly as he remembered it. Hot, stodgy and sugary. He took a sip of the milk. It tasted odd. Not off, just weird. The older man noticed his expression.
‘It’s goats milk,’ he said. ‘We have a few goats on campus. Apparently it’s very good for you.’
Hogan shrugged and downed the rest of it and burped mightily. The girl hid a smile behind her hand.
‘Are you up for a walk?’ Asked the older man.
Hogan nodded, flung back the bedclothes and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Only then did he notice that he was totally naked except for the bandage around his neck and shoulder. The girl gave a squeak and rushed from the room, her long copper hair streaming behind her like a cape of virtue.
The older man chuckled. ‘Your kit is there,’ he pointed at a chair in the corner of the room. Hogan’s camos were neatly pressed and folded. His helmet, combat armor and weapons lay on the floor next to the chair.
The marine stood up, walked over and got dressed. He left the armor, battle gear and weapons where they were, except for the pistol that he tucked into his belt.
The older man stood up and held out his hand. ‘My name is Jonathan Holt. Most call me, Professor or Prof. I’m easy with all or any.’
Hogan shook the Professor’s hand.
‘Marine Master gunnery sergeant Nathaniel Hogan, American Embassy. Pleased to meet you, Prof.’
Hogan followed the Prof through the tall stone corridors of the school. As they walked the older man gave him the run down.
Although the school was situated in buildings that were in excess of five hundred years old, it was a model of the modern private school or, as the English called it, a public school. The Prof explained that they were the leading charitable school in the country and, as such, had a broad range of students who were chosen from the best and brightest as opposed to the ones with the wealthiest parents.
Unlike the usual English public school, Biggleswich promoted freethinking and a more modern approach to discipline. Scholars were entrusted with their own vegetable allotments on which they grew beans, potatoes and other sundry vegetables. Some ran chickens. The Professor had a small herd of six goats. All produce was harvested by the scholars and handed to the kitchens. The scholars were then paid in privileges, television time, gaming.
Academic achievement also gained privileges as well as accolades such as special items of clothing, different neckties, scarves and badges. In the center of the school was a well with a non-working electric pump. There was, however, an ancient hand pump that was capable of drawing water up and into a small water tower.
The Prof explained that, as it was school holidays, there were very few scholars at the school. The only ones there were the older students who had stayed on for a few days in order to cram for their forthcoming exams. Now, of course, there was no way that they could leave.
Thirty scholars. Twelve girls and eighteen boys. There were also eight staff that lived on the premises. The Professor, the school nurse, the caretaker and five other teachers.
The Prof also showed Hogan the school armory. Ten 22 target rifles and six air rifles. As well as the weapons, they had a full case of 22LR ammunition. Five thousand five hundred rounds.
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br /> They were, to all intents and purposes, a completely self-sustaining community.
‘Very impressive, Prof,’ said Hogan. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing, though. Those people who tried to get in here are going to come back. If not them then someone else. And next time they won’t take no for an answer. You don’t know what it’s like out there. It’s the nine circles of hell.’
‘We have a high wall. A dry moat.’
Hogan shook his head. ‘Not good enough. Ladders negate walls. Your gate is a weak point. A good volley of Molotovs and you’d be hard pressed.’
‘Well then, master sergeant,’ replied the Prof. ‘Help us.’
Hogan nodded and they walked for a while in silence. He felt for a pack of cigarettes and was pleased to find them still in his trouser pocket. He took them out, opened, took his Zippo from the half empty pack and offered. The Prof shook his head.
‘I’m a pipe man myself,’ he said. ‘Won’t be that for much longer though. Not much baccy here, I’m afraid.’
The marine lit up. Drew. Exhaled.
‘Professor Jonathan Holt,’ he said in a thoughtful voice.
‘At your service, good man.’
‘Why is that name so familiar?’
The Prof shrugged.
Hogan took another greedy hit of nicotine and then stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette for a while. ‘Didn’t you win the Nobel Prize? Genetics? Biology or something?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ admitted the Professor. ‘2016. Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine.’
‘Didn’t you cure cancer?’
The Professor laughed. ‘No, sergeant. We still have no sure-fire cancer killer. I merely helped pave the way to many of the cures that we use today. I discovered that the FoxO gene, present in vast quantities in the common Hydra, was what we now call, the longevity gene. However, people with a surplus of this gene sometimes lived longer but, more often than not it caused their cells to reproduce at a rate that was far too rapid, causing tumors and, ultimately, cancer. I developed a serum that helps to control the FoxO gene. Oddly enough, I wasn’t looking to cure cancer; I was looking for the fountain of youth. Still, all’s well etcetera.’