The prisoner was stood up, untied and freed from his gag. The soldiers frog-marched him to the edge of the encampment for the beginning of his journey. The prisoner moved tentatively away from his captors, who stood and watched as he stumbled his way through the fog and out of sight, into the forest.
Still writhing in agony after his ordeal, the prisoner had a hard time keeping his bearings through the forest. Despite his miscalculations, he was able to keep on track, much to Sergeant Mason’s displeasure. He had had an itchy trigger finger from the get-go, and was almost salivating at the thought of activating the tracking device’s murderous blades.
*
Myron had been keeping an eye on the surroundings with the viewing glass.
‘There’s someone coming this way—looks like an injured soldier,’ Myron said to Jen, who was lying on a mattress close by.
Myron wished he could warn the poor fool of Simon Besson and his two deviant colleagues, whom Myron had observed slinking through the forest only ten minutes earlier. If he were to shout out, he would leave Jen and himself susceptible to danger—especially Jen, whom Dr. Besson was most anxious to have in his clutches again.
The doctor was beside himself. How did that damnable girl slip through my fingers again? He wondered. It was bad enough that she had been under his nose in the encampment the whole time. To add insult to injury, she had somehow eluded him in the forest.
He decided to take his frustration out on the disoriented Scotsman in an English uniform blundering through the forest towards him and his minions.
‘Get him!’ Besson bellowed as the unwitting Scotsman came closer. ‘Bring him to me!’
The petrified soldier’s face was a study in terror as the two labour camp guards came closer, rifles cocked and loaded. The prisoner had no choice but to deviate from his path.
An ear-piercing screech let Sergeant Mason know the Scot had veered off track. Almost immediately, the blades deployed and severed the prisoner’s carotid arteries. He dropped to his knees with a blood-curdling yell, bleeding profusely.
Dr. Besson, a torture aficionado, relished the slow demise and the bloodbath that followed. The guards had no interest in the dramatic death scene, finding the doctor’s fascination and bloodlust too disturbing.
Besson walked over to the bleeding mess on the ground, grinning like the Grim Reaper himself, as the prisoner took his last dying breath. He noticed a fragment of the hidden message before the Scotsman’s body slumped forward.
‘Ah, what a delicious display of horror!’ the doctor said with an evil chortle. He whirled on the guards and commanded: ‘Burn the corpse!’
Sombrely, one of the guards set fire to the Scot’s clothing with a lighter he had on his person. Soon, the body was engulfed in flames.
‘I love the smell of roasting flesh, don’t you?’ said Besson, laughing his strange, high-pitched laugh. The guards only stared at him with hate and revulsion.
The message engraved on the Scotsman’s chest would remain a secret, but more devastatingly, it would remain undelivered. The English were desperately deluded to think the message would reach the armoury intact. The runners always detoured from their route in order to escape, forgetting the cruel device around their necks.
The Brigadier would have to find another way of getting his message across to the armoury, risking the lives of a handful of his inexperienced, but eager troops. He knew that he could ensure a victory if he could get the powers that be to send the only two bombers they had left by using the coordinates of the Scot’s encampment. The enemy had no defence for what would eventually come, and so would end years of bloodshed and oppression on both sides of the border. It was a historical fact that it would never really be over. It would just remain dormant until the next time they decided to challenge each other.
*
Silence fell. For some reason, the fighting had ceased. Maybe the Scots had admitted defeat and surrendered to the undermanned, but vastly more superior English Army. Given their resilience as a race, surrender was unlikely.
The silence didn’t bother Myron. All he cared about was avoiding Besson and his stooges, and getting to London. Unbeknownst to Myron, Besson had come to the conclusion Jen had already passed through the forest, and reluctantly admitted defeat. He and the guards had embarked on a trek back to what remained of the labour camps.
Myron took one more look through the viewing glass, swinging it wildly in all directions to make sure that the forest was clear before deciding to wake Jen from her uneasy slumber. She had only been resting for a few hours, but it could prove to be a costly delay. It was a long way to London, and he’d only allocated two days to get there. They needed to get on the move, and soon.
Myron deemed it safe to set out. He walked over to the mattress on which Jen slept and prodded her gently on the arm.
‘W-what is it?’ Jen murmured.
‘Sorry, Jen, but we need to get moving,’ Myron said softly but firmly.
‘Hmmm, in a minute,’ Jen replied groggily and buried her head in the blanket.
Myron was beginning to lose patience. He tugged hard at the blanket, but Jen gripped it as tightly as she could. If it was a fight Myron wanted, a fight he would get, as she had no intention of relinquishing the tatty woollen blanket.
‘I mean it, Jen, get the hell up!’ he barked irritably.
Jen sat up abruptly and looked daggers at him. ‘You said we were stopping overnight!’ she spat.
‘I said no such thing. I said that we would rest a couple of hours before moving out. We covered half a mile in half an hour, and that isn’t good enough. I want to cover at least ten miles today. One last time—get your lazy arse up!’
Jen bristled at the very idea of having to walk ten miles; then a sudden thought came to mind. ‘You said something about a transport when you found me down here, before we were picked up.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t know if it’d still be there. Do you want to risk going back for it?’
‘Hell, yes, if it means not having to walk ten soddin’ miles!’
She shot up from the mattress, which caused a sudden rush of blood to the head; she teetered a little before steadying herself.
‘Take it easy, Jen,’ said Myron. ‘We’ll do it your way, but I can almost guarantee it won’t be there.’
They made a hasty retreat towards the bunker’s exit and entered the vastness of the forest, but not before Myron scanned the immediate area to make doubly sure that it was safe for them to leave.
‘Come on, it’s safe!’ he whispered.
They exited hand in hand and headed in the direction of labour camp five.
*
Camp five loomed in the distance, and Myron’s suspicions were confirmed: the transport was not there. He expected that it had been taken by the Army, which routinely commandeered vehicles for the cause. The only vehicles in site were of the Army. Cars, trains, airplanes, et cetera, were melted down and used to make tanks, bombs, and other weapons, which had been stockpiled at the armoury after transport was abolished. You couldn’t even find a bicycle.
Myron turned to Jen, who had frozen at the sight of the camp, her face terror-stricken as her mind flashed back to the torture and the uncertainty.
Myron tried to shake her out of it, but she was in a cataleptic state. He didn’t want to have to do it, but it looked like he had no choice. He walked around to face her, and with one swift movement struck her left cheek.
Jen reeled as her head snapped to the side. The look of terror was replaced with one of disbelief, and not anger, as Myron expected.
‘Sorry, Jen, I had to do it,’ he apologised.
‘I’m glad you did!’ she cried, seizing him in a bear hug and nearly squeezing the life out of him. ‘Those memories are too horrible to relive!’
Myron was enjoying the closeness of Jen’s body, but he was afraid he’d turn blue. He wrenched her hands away so he could get his breath.
‘Come on, we need to go,’ he gasped. ‘We have
a long journey ahead.’
Glancing back at the deserted camp, he couldn’t help but wonder: what had happened to Oscar Saracen? Was he picked up by the border patrols, or had he escaped?
Myron hoped it was the latter, as he and Jen joined hands and walked away.
Chapter Eleven
Myron and Jen made it to the centre of London after two days of travelling. They were footsore, and their empty bellies were grumbling. Their priority was to find food, and then to find another place to stay. The old school offered no refuge. They passed it and saw it had been reduced to rubble in yet another unexpected missile attack on the capital. Hyde Park was in reach, and beyond that, Knightsbridge. After finding food, Myron expressed a wish to show Jen his family home from a distance. He had no wish to confront his father, as thoughts of killing him had entered his mind on more than one occasion.
Hyde Park was uncharacteristically deserted. It was only midday, and it wasn’t the weekend. Where was everybody? Even the ever-present patrols were nowhere to be seen.
Myron turned to Jen. ‘Something’s not right,’ he said with concern.
Jen had a strange expression on her face as she stared out across the park. She had a wild urge to vent her anger and frustration like she used to before everything changed. The eerie stillness and quiet only strengthened her resolve.
Jen wrenched her hand away from Myron’s and ran as fast as she could towards the centre of the park. Myron gave chase but there was no stopping her. Upon reaching the centre, Jen let out one of the loudest screams Myron had ever heard. He knew she was letting out all the tension of recent events and tried to comfort her with a hug.
‘Myron, please! Can you just leave me for a few minutes?’ Jen begged frantically, rebuffing his advances.
Myron respected Jen’s wishes and walked away from her as she began to wail like a banshee again. He concentrated his efforts on finding the food they both so desperately needed.
For a full fifteen minutes, Jen wailed and screamed until her throat was sore. In the meantime, Myron had found enough scraps for them to feast on in the bins that lined the perimeter. The morsels had been neatly wrapped before being thrown away, so they were free from dirt.
Myron made his way back over to Jen, who had worn herself out, both vocally and physically, and had slumped to the ground with her head in her hands. She was quite subdued. He emptied out the scraps of food onto the grass beside her, and sat down himself.
‘Come on, Jen, you need to eat something.’ Myron pushed half of the scraps towards her.
‘Give me a minute!’ she snapped back.
Myron didn’t utter another word. He began to unravel a half-eaten, rock-hard pork pie. The meat filling looked and smelled a tad rancid, but Myron threw caution to the wind and ate it anyway, the risk of food poisoning be damned.
Jen blindly reached over for her share of the victuals. Myron watched as she nibbled on the corners of a stale sandwich and thought to himself: why has it come to this, subsisting off of other people’s scraps? We’ve become nothing but animals, and it’s the bloody government’s fault!
‘I’m fed up with living like this!’ he lamented to the heavens. ‘Maybe we should have stayed put, you in your caravan and me at the academy. At least we would’ve had cooked food and not this disgusting rubbish.’
‘Yeah, you would have, you child of privilege,’ Jen observed, ‘but I never knew where my next meal was coming from.’
Myron ignored her dig at his higher status and said, ‘What we need is work.’
‘Are you daft? Where the hell are we going to find work? London isn’t exactly thriving these days, is it?’
An uneasy silence ensued. Regardless of whether they wanted to or not, they continued to eat the scraps, grimacing with every mouthful.
*
The screaming of the time sirens in the distance told them five minutes remained before curfew began.
‘Shake a leg, Jen,’ Myron cried, ‘we need to find shelter!’
Jen didn’t need to be told twice; she didn’t particularly want to end up in a labour camp again. Myron had spotted a couple of people heading in the direction of the old underground station.
Ever since the trains had stopped running, the underground network had become home to thousands of Londoners—escaping the decimation that the war had left in its wake. Jen scurried behind Myron, trying to keep up as he jogged in the direction of the others.
‘Wait for me, will you!’ she shouted.
Myron turned quickly to face her. ‘Will you hurry up? We have five minutes to get out of sight!’
Jen picked up her pace to try and match Myron’s, who seemed to have no intention of slowing down. Soon, the partially boarded-up entrance of Hyde Park Underground station was in their sights. Myron spotted a pair of legs disappearing into the void.
‘Come on! We’re nearly there!’ Myron said excitedly.
*
Hyde Park station was bustling and overcrowded. Myron doubted that he or Jen would get much sleep that night, amidst the deafening noise around them. Conversation centred on the illegal rallies that had taken place all over London. Planned executions had been posted on every noticeboard, pillar box, lamppost, and wall as far as the eye could see. No names were mentioned on the postings, just dates of when they would occur.
Two old women, avid gossipmongers, were engaged in lively discussion. ‘Apparently they’re executing a load of collaborators and traitors over the next few weeks,’ one of them opined. ‘And it’s all happening in Hyde Park.’
Jen overheard this and immediately thought of her mother, and the day she was taken. Maybe she would be among those selected for execution as part of the government’s extreme cleansing policy.
The theories flying around were extremely unnerving. It seemed that things had changed while Myron and Jen were having their little adventure. The government’s hold over the people had tightened to point where people were too frightened to breathe for fear of retribution. Myron was in no frame of mind to do anything about it at that moment, but if he had had power—like his feckless father did—he would soon have put an end to the wanton oppression.
Jen was tired of everything, and just wanted to take her head out of the game. She made her way over to the most secluded area of the underground station. Myron was oblivious to the fact that Jen had left his side. He appeared entranced by the voices and words spiralling around inside his troubled head.
Suddenly, the voices stopped; curfew had begun. Despite being in the relative safety of Hyde Park Underground, the inhabitants were mindful of the way they conducted themselves with the patrols sniffing around Hyde Park itself.
Myron had only just noticed that Jen had disappeared from his side. Frantically, he darted around the station trying to find out where she had gone, asking people if they had seen a pretty, auburn-haired female wearing a patch over her left eye. Only one person paid him any attention.
‘Yeah, couldn’t mistake her—she went that way,’ the man said, pointing towards the turnstiles that led to the platforms.
‘Thank you!’ Myron gushed. ‘Thank you so very much.’
Myron ran towards the turnstiles and launched himself over them, almost falling in the process after catching his trailing foot. He regained his composure and ran down the out-of-order escalator towards the platforms. But which one had Jen taken to go down? Myron took a chance and chose the Piccadilly northbound over the Piccadilly southbound. He twisted and turned his way through the corners to reach the platform, only to find no one there. Myron hadn’t even considered going down the tracks, and had Jen not coughed, he would have been none the wiser.
Myron hopped down onto the tracks, drew a flashlight from his coat pocket, and followed through until he came across Jen. She had managed to find a cosy little cubbyhole, away from the track, down one of the many side turnings.
‘Hi, Myron, sorry I left you—the noise was too much,’ she said drowsily.
Myron sat down next to her, a
nd put his arm round her shoulders. Her head fell on his chest, and the sound of his heartbeat sent her into a soothing sleep. It wasn’t long before Myron joined Jen, snoring like a buzz saw. It was one of the best nights of sleep that she had ever had; and what made it even better was the fact that she wouldn’t wake up fearing for her life the next day.
*
Morning had come around far too quickly for Jen’s liking. If she had the choice, she would have slept all day, but Myron had other ideas. He pushed Jen’s head off of his chest, forcing her to wake from her perfect sleep. He stood himself up and brushed himself down, leaving her in a daze. Jen wiped her right eye clear of the residue that had formed overnight.
‘Come on, Jen, we need to leave.’
Myron began to walk back towards the platform, as Jen watched.
‘Myron, wait!’ Jen shouted after him.
Myron waited, as Jen rose slowly to her feet and gingerly made her way over to him. For days, the boots that she had been wearing had rubbed the skin off the backs of her heels, causing her feet to bleed and become sore again. There was nothing she could use to cover them and she hadn’t told Myron, so she only had herself to blame for her discomfort. Myron had noticed that Jen was struggling, but he thought it was due to her recent travails. Rather than mollycoddle her, he decided tough love was in order.
‘Come on Jen—we haven’t got all day!’ Myron barked.
Jen grimaced at the thought of having to take another step.
‘My feet are bleeding, and they have been for the last couple of days!’ she snapped. ‘So, I apologise if I’m not walking quick enough for you, your Royal Highness!’
‘I knew there was something up—I knew it! Wait until we reach Knightsbridge, and then I will sort you out. OK!’
Jen nodded, hobbling her way towards Myron. They made their way up the escalator and towards the exit.
Going Underground Page 14