The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London)

by Mark Gillespie

  He ran towards the fountain, dodging all those around him, most of who were now running to join the counter-charge against the London Liberation Army.

  Mack heard an ungodly roar behind him, but he didn’t stop to look back.

  Hatchet stood perfectly still at the base of the steps. He took a look around, surveying his handiwork, and a satisfied smile broke out on his face.

  Hatchet saw Mack coming towards him. As Mack approached, Hatchet pointed at the carnage in Piccadilly Circus, like an artist presenting his masterpiece.

  “What did I tell you?” Hatchet yelled, his voice perfectly at ease amongst the racket. “CHAOS,” he said. “I did that.”

  Mack took a step towards him, and now they were almost face to face. The monstrous din continued all around them – gunshots, helicopters, and screaming – always the screaming.

  “Why?” Mack said.

  Hatchet shook his head. “That’s the future right there,” he said. “My kind of future. There’s no coming back from this, eh?”

  “You evil twisted fuck!” Mack yelled. “Children are dying out there. Screaming! Sumo Dave and Tegz are out there too, dead for all we know. You don’t give a fuck, do you?”

  Hatchet smiled and reached into the fold at his waist. Slowly, he pulled out the black pistol and pointed it at Mack.

  “Just one more thing to do now,” he said.

  Mack realised what was about to happen. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for a way out. But his legs were paralysed with fear and couldn’t or wouldn’t move.

  Hatchet took a step towards him. He was still grinning.

  Why is he grinning?

  “I’m going to enjoy this,” Hatchet said.

  In that moment, Mack’s thoughts drifted away from Piccadilly Circus – dreamlike, like particles of smoke rising above a burning building. This was it. He was about to die and yet somehow, he was calm. How could that be? He was only sixteen and yet he felt ready to let go, to surrender to his fate. Maybe it was time to turn down the noise, to go somewhere quiet. Into nothingness. To go to a place where he’d never have to think about Jon Rossi or Edinburgh again. Where he wouldn’t have to feel the hot and sticky sensation of warm blood on his hands every night. Where innocent people weren’t beaten and dragged down alleys by rioters in a murderous rage.

  The last conversation he’d had with his mother popped into his head.

  “God Mack, you really know how to pick them don’t you?”

  Yes Mum.

  Hatchet took a final step forward. Now they were face to face, and Hatchet was standing at point blank range, with the gun still on Mack.

  It was then that, out of the corner of his eye, Mack saw the blur of someone familiar running towards them. It was Michael King. His clothes were covered in dark blood, and he was hurling himself down the fountain steps, charging like a champion sprinter. He was yelling something. But Mack couldn’t hear what he was saying over the noise.

  But it was too late to be rescued. He’d never make it over there in time.

  And so there it was. There was only one thing left for Mack to do in that moment - the one power left to him that was guaranteed to wipe the smug grin off Hatchet’s face.

  He stood tall, staring down the barrel of the gun. Then slowly, he raised his middle finger.

  “Fuck you Harold,” he said.

  Hatchet’s loathsome grin faded. And then he pulled the trigger.

  The End

  Mr Apocalypse (Book 2)

  For Sandra and Walter

  (aka Mum and Dad)

  The Future of London

  ‘The Future of London’

  February 1st 2020

  A man and woman are standing next to one another in a blacked out room. They look directly at the camera while two spotlights shine ominously from above, drenching their sober expressions in a shower of vivid white. The light spills onto their upper bodies, cutting out at the waist and giving the viewer the eerie impression of two otherworldly beings half-bathed in light, half in darkness.

  Aileen Ure, the third female Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, is standing on the left. The tall, elderly man standing next to her is Rudyard Campbell, an American and the world’s most powerful media tycoon. Amongst many other global companies, Campbell holds significant stakes in the SKAM and FIXX Television networks, as well as the majority of the world’s digital newspapers. Both are conservatively dressed – Ure, who bears an uncanny resemblance to one of her predecessors, Margaret Thatcher – is wearing a blue fitted dress, while Campbell is sporting a bespoke navy suit.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: Good morning and welcome to you all on this very special day.

  AILEEN URE: Good morning everyone.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: We’re talking to you live from our studios here in Birmingham, capital city of the United Kingdom. It is a momentous occasion for us here in the SKAM family and we’ve been waiting a long time for this historic launch to happen. What you’re about to witness – what the world is about to witness is not only unprecedented in the history of our television network, but in the history of television itself.

  AILEEN URE: We’re here today to launch The Future of London. As you undoubtedly know, TFL – as it’s better known, is SKAM’s new and exclusive twenty-four hour television channel that will take you inside the old city from the comfort of your living room. It’s an incredible achievement on SKAM’s part, but before we launch TFL, Rudyard and I want to address the concerns we’ve heard about this new television channel.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: (Showing his hands, palms out in an appeasement gesture) We’re well aware of the controversy that has surrounded this new channel ever since the planning stages were announced almost eight years ago. We’ve listened to your concerns and now here we are.

  AILEEN URE: (Nodding sincerely) What happened in London in 2011 was shocking.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: Terrible.

  AILEEN URE: In the immediate aftermath of the tragedy that unfolded at Piccadilly Circus, important decisions had to be made. As the violence got worse, there was real concern that it would spread beyond the capital, creating a situation too terrible to comprehend. That’s why the decision was made to temporarily seal London off from the rest of the country. It wasn’t an easy decision to make and as we all recall, it was a tough one to put into practice. Hundreds of thousands of volunteers assisted the military in erecting the initial barriers around the city. Those barriers eventually became the two orbital walls that now encircle Greater London. We called them the M25 because like the old motorway, they surround the city – and they’ve kept us safe ever since.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: Of course, nobody was happy about cutting London off from the rest of the UK. Innocent people were trapped behind those initial barriers. But the truth is that sacrifices had to be made in order to preserve the safety of the rest of the UK.

  AILEEN URE: And of course, we understand the suffering. Many people, perhaps your loved ones were still in London at the time it was sealed off. In the initial aftermath of Chester George’s death, we lost our Prime Minister, the vast majority of our MPs and the Houses of Parliament were destroyed. A new government had to be built almost from scratch here in Birmingham. But it had to be done. We simply couldn’t risk the violence spilling out beyond London and into other parts of the country. And I know that most of the British people out there understood the difficult decision that was made at the time.

  Rudyard nods.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: I’m guessing there’s one question you get asked a lot about London Aileen – am I right?

  AILEEN URE: Yes Rudyard, there sure is. People always ask me why don’t we go back into London. It’s been nine years, they’ll say. Why don’t we just pull our resources together, send in the army and reclaim what’s left of the city. Save whoever’s left.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: Sounds like a plan.

  AILEEN URE: Yes but unfortunately it’s not that easy. London has become an extremely dangerous territory over the last nine
years. It’s not the London we know anymore, that’s for sure. It’s become a very violent, lawless place with organised gangs running amok and there’s no sense of order whatsoever. There are rumours of cannibalism within the city, although these are unconfirmed.

  Campbell shakes his head in disgust.

  AILEEN URE: There are good people trapped in London. We know that. That’s why over the last nine years, we’ve maintained our food and supply drops over the city. That’s why we continue to send crack teams in for periodical maintenance duties, so we can supply the area with electricity, hot water and other everyday essentials. We are trying to keep the people in there as comfortable as possible until full order is resumed.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: But don’t despair. If your loved ones were – are – trapped behind the M25, they might still be alive. And that’s where TFL can help.

  AILEEN URE: TFL can help you find your loved ones. And whenever possible, when a legitimate individual who is not a threat is located, we will do everything we can to bring them home. Recovery is not impossible, but of course, you’ll have to be watching to spot friends and family, won’t you?

  She smiles at Campbell.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: Now there have been a few complaints about the one hundred-pounds monthly subscription fee. This is understandable.

  AILEEN URE: Unfortunately, all things considering, it’s necessary for SKAM to charge a high price for TFL subscription.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: Thank you Aileen. Here at SKAM, we want to offer you an insight into London – as it is today in 2020. Covering the entire city has been a monumental task. As you can imagine, this is an extremely high-tech production and the SKAM teams, along with government-sponsored supervision, have installed the very best in miniature surveillance cameras and microphones in literally millions of locations across the old city, from north to south, east to west.

  Aileen nods in agreement.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: This, along with our fleet of SKAM Heli-Cams in the sky will give you the viewer, complete access to what’s going on behind the M25, all day every day. And trust me – I’ve seen the early footage – it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. But as you can imagine, the cost of keeping all these surveillance operations is substantial. That’s why we’ve had to introduce the monthly subscription fee.

  As Campbell speaks, subscription details appear at the bottom of the page under the heading – ‘WAYS TO PAY’. These include a telephone number, website details and information about which coloured buttons to press on the remote control that will allow the viewer to add ‘TFL’ to their monthly SKAM TV bill.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: Now, with all that said – what do you think Aileen? Are we ready to launch TFL?

  AILEEN URE: (Grinning) I can’t wait Rudyard.

  Ure giggles. Campbell turns back to the camera.

  RUDYARD CAMPBELL: Are you ready to go back to London? It’s been nine years since our last glimpse of this once great city. Maybe your friends and family are still in there. But how can you be sure? Subscribe to TFL today. Do it for them.

  The screen fades to black.

  When it lights up again, we’re looking through the lens of a SKAM Heli-Cam. The helicopter is gliding at a leisurely pace, moving over a large area of dark green fields – a pleasant stretch of land ornamented by hedges and trees, something that appears unmoving and eternal, like a landscape painting.

  Something else comes into view.

  The camera zooms in on a section of two gigantic walls of reinforced concrete. This is the infamous M25 – often called the ‘Superwalls’. Standing close to the abandoned motorway from which it derived its name, the inner wall is just over twenty feet tall. The outer wall, built a few hundred feet behind its inner counterpart, is fifty feet high.

  The Heli-Cam descends closer to the two walls.

  Armoured vehicles and soldiers are stationed at regular intervals beside both the inner and outer wall. There are also elevated structures located along the top of the two walls. These observation platforms look out towards Central London, located about twenty miles away, and are scattered throughout the wall’s circumference, and are manned twenty-four hours a day.

  The Heli-Cam ascends once more and glides beyond the M25. A few moments later, something else is visible – a dark blur at first, no more than a shadow sitting on the vast horizon. The helicopter flies closer and something slowly emerges out of this great nothingness – a skyline. Familiar shapes and patterns appear – once towering buildings, now just empty shells. On the silent streets below, a vast network of roads is empty except for the occasional glimpse of a burned out car or some other vehicle.

  The camera ascends swiftly, twisting and turning in a north-westerly direction. The River Thames comes into view up ahead, its familiar muddy brown complexion unchanged over the years. The same can’t be said about the Houses of Parliament. The Heli-Cam swoops down upon the steeply pitched iron roofs of the old building, which is now a ghastly, decaying black colour. Its shape and structure – the skyline and Gothic scheme – are familiar, but the exterior has been badly damaged by fire and left to ruin.

  The helicopter retreats and as it does, it takes in the shape of Tower Bridge in the distance. The two large towers at either end of the bridge, linked by two walkways, are a brief reminder of the glory days of the city’s past when it was one of the most revered and visited places in the world.

  A narrator speaks – a deep male voice, calm and reassuring:

  NARRATOR: Come with us. Travel back to the great city of London. Subscribe to SKAM TV’s newest channel – ‘The Future of London’ – for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week access to the streets of the forgotten city. Our high-tech cameras will work day and night to catch a glimpse of your loved ones. Come with us. We’re going to bring them back to you.

  Chapter 1

  Six months later.

  * * *

  He woke with a start. She was still screaming, the child, somewhere in the back of his head. How quickly those terrible screams had morphed from the cries of a little girl into that of a man – his cries. Then everything would fade and memories would drop like lead balloons into the bottomless pit of his mind. And there they would remain, at least until the next time he dared to close his eyes.

  This particular nightmare was a regular bedtime companion. He’d be running through the streets of the city, searching for a way to get home and trying not to partake in the madness that was floating in the air. All around him, people attacked one another and even the children were getting in on the violence, as if they were possessed by some foul demon. He could smell fear and hate in every molecule. He could taste it in the breath of the city. It was the great sickness – the urge to hurt and kill your brother and sister for no discernible reason.

  And oh God, the screaming.

  In the dream he always ran harder. But his feet barely touched the ground and despite the effort he invested in his getaway, there was no feeling of fatigue in his lungs and no sensation of weakness spreading throughout his limbs. The only thing he felt was a sense of impending terror – it was in his flesh, blood, bones and spirit. Everything was fear.

  The buildings of London were on fire all around him. Some of them exploded at the moment he ran past them. Out of the corner of his eye he would see them go up in a giant ball of flames and then freeze in mid-explosion, as if everything that was happening was no more than a climactic scene in a high-budget action movie and somebody watching in another realm had pressed the pause button.

  Then he saw her.

  The little girl with the tiger paint on her face. She was screaming and crying and calling out for her mummy and daddy to come and help her. Somehow he could hear her voice crystal clear over the earth-shattering sound of the exploding buildings beside him. And then the flames took her – not flames from the explosions, but a fire that sprang up in the middle of her body, as if she was one of the buildings and there were thousands of gremlins with matches and gasoline plotting to r
uin her from within. Quickly the flames spread upon the girl, moving up and down, covering her arms, legs and her face until she was smothered in the scalding grip.

  As she burned, he could see the tiger paint on her face. Its pattern remained intact throughout the ordeal, a reminder that the day had started so differently, so full of hope.

  She kept screaming, even when she no longer had a mouth to scream out of. Although he tried to get away, he felt himself being pulled closer to the flames until the heat snapped at his face like a set of sharp teeth. The fire grew, wrapping around him like an Anaconda. Every time he tried to exhale, the flames would squeeze tighter, crushing his lungs and internal organs and preventing him from getting his breath back.

  It was over.

  Finally he screamed. Despite the fact that he was being strangled, he was still able to scream. And that’s when he’d wake up. He’d find himself sitting up straight in bed, looking around the familiar sights of his bedroom. There was no exploding city, no madness or bloodlust, and no girl on fire.

  He was alone.

  A gentle thudding noise made him look down. Droplets of sweat trickled from his upper torso in a neat, unbroken rhythm and landed on the old bed sheets that he lay on top of.

  It always took him a few moments to adjust to the aftermath of waking up. It was so real every time. Waking up didn’t necessarily douse the great fire that had existed just moments earlier.

  With a sigh he fell back onto the bed. He felt his body floating on top of the warm, sweat-soaked sheets. It was always the same in summer – the nights were so hot that he slept on top of the covers, his legs poking out of the fabric and grasping for something cool to soothe his skin. But there was little he could do about it. He certainly wasn’t going to leave a window open overnight.

  It was morning. He knew that much. Looking to his right, he saw a few specks of daylight creeping through the tightly pulled curtains.