The time was approaching eight-thirty. With curfew on the horizon, nobody had made an attempt to get off the street on this night. As it had been in previous years, the citizens of London had chosen to defy the curfew order. This was the one day that they truly stuck their collective middle finger up at the Government.
*
Gerick’s army of doomed clones had been freed from their cryogenic tubes, and were awaiting their release into the open by the Parliamentary guards. They remained still and silent until that time came, faces expressionless and lacking all emotion. A few minutes passed by, before the doors to Gerick’s old lab swung open with a sense of urgency. Without being prompted, the clones marched out of the Parliament buildings and into the streets in regimental style, causing mayhem as soon as they hit the fresh air. They didn’t care who they killed; indeed, they didn’t know whom they were really targeting. They were simply ordered to kill on sight. Even the patrols weren’t safe from the clones.
The other operatives on the outside had their guns at the ready, levers cocked, ready for the first sign of trouble once the clones reached the edge of Parliament Square. If Gerick had done his job properly, they shouldn’t be needed. Gerick estimated that the ricin would take effect within twenty minutes of the clones being exposed to the oxygenated atmosphere. They had been set to explode their blue residue at eleven o’clock, a full hour before the main event. There would be a certain degree of fighting as the army of clones would have reached Parliament Square long before eleven, forcing Myron’s untried troops to put their newfound skills into practise in an epic baptism of fire.
The gathering crowds, who were waiting with giddy anticipation for the revelry to begin, suddenly fell silent as they listened to the rhythmic thud of jackboots on concrete. The clone army advanced with stoic menace, levelling their rifles and cocking the levers. Bedlam erupted as the panicked revellers ran for their lives. The Independent Mind operatives on the outside were poised to attack as the clones drew ever nearer.
*
Meanwhile, Myron and Jen (with Oscar in hand) had nearly reached the old House of Lords via the dimly lit corridors, eerily devoid of the usual bustle of guards and personnel. No sooner had the guards let the clone army go than they, too, left the confines of the Medical Wing, leaving Myron and Jen to get on with their business.
Disturbing thoughts ran through Jen’s mind as they made their way through the Medical Wing: she thought of Besson and his torturous ways, his skin-crawlingly odious claim of being her biological father. Myron noticed a change in her demeanour and her body language; the look on her face was a mixture of terror and anger.
‘Shake a leg, you sluggard!’ Jen barked, as she quickened her pace. ‘This place gives me the creeps. The sooner we get this done, and get the hell out of here, the better!’
Myron matched her pace as they almost ran through the Medical Wing to get to the old House of Lords. Once there, Myron took the dynamite waistcoat from under his coat and placed it over the top of the jumper that he had put on Oscar, and Jen took back the scarf that she had placed round his neck to hide the fact that his head was half-way detached from his body.
‘If all goes as planned, Oscar’s name will be on everyone’s lips by morning!’ said Myron.
Myron laced his fingers together. ‘I’ll boost you, come on!’ he said. ‘Send the spring-loaded staircase down after you, and I will start pushing Oscar up to you. You just grab his hands and pull him.’
‘OK, sure,’ Jen replied.
Myron boosted Jen up to the mezzanine, and she promptly released the staircase. Myron grabbed Oscar’s limp, lifeless body and began to heave him up towards Jen. She hooked her feet into one of the rafters, ready to pull with all her strength.
Using the duct tape, they strapped Oscar to one of the beams. They left him in an appropriately symbolic pose, reminiscent of Christ on the cross. Myron carefully trailed the lengthy fuse behind him, making sure it didn’t hit a snag. The fuse was plenty long enough to reach the outside, and it would take a good ten minutes for it to hit the dynamite once it was lit.
Myron and Jen made their way through the Medical Wing, passing the interrogation rooms again. They heard a door close a bit further down the corridor, and quickened their pace again to catch up with whoever was leaving.
Besson had left his quarters and began to head towards the exit. Jen took the lead and ran towards the slow footsteps, coming to a standstill on seeing her despised nemesis.
‘Besson!’ she whispered. ‘Let’s get him! Give me that!’ Before Myron could protest, she grabbed the pistol that he had brought along for protection.
She crept up behind the unsuspecting Besson and hit him on the back of the head with the butt of Myron’s pistol. She now had him where she wanted him, at her mercy in a vulnerable position. Presently, Besson began to stir.
‘Myron! Sit on him, will you!’ Jen ordered. ‘Tape his hands together.’ Myron took the duct tape from his coat and clasped Besson’s hand together behind his back and expertly bound them. Jen squatted down and stuck her knee in Besson’s neck as he woke. ‘Quickly, Myron!’ she barked. ‘Stand him up!’
‘You won’t get away with this!’ Besson sneered groggily. ‘Mark my words! I will make you suffer once I’m freed!’
Jen gestured to Myron to pass her the tape. ‘No more talking!’ Jen began to wrap what was left of the tape round his filthy mouth, rendering him incapable of saying anything hurtful.
Jen wrapped the scarf round his neck and face to hide the duct tape and the small cut on the back of his head. She picked up the jacket that he had dropped and placed it over his shoulders. She pushed the pistol into the small of his back, and grabbed hold of his arm with her free hand before leading him back towards Gerick’s office and to the grate that led to the tunnel network.
‘I have plans for you, daddy dearest!’ Jen said maniacally. ‘I’ll make you pay for what you have put me through!’
Myron said and did nothing, as Jen had always expressed a wish to kill Besson herself. He deserved at least as much as death, more than even John Howard, and Myron wasn’t about to rob Jen of that distinct pleasure.
*
The Independent Mind operatives proved to be crack shots, disposing of the lethal but doomed clones in short order. Gerick’s clones disintegrated with every well-aimed shot, blasting the blue ichor that constituted their blood everywhere. After the commotion had died down, the people had come out of hiding and were in a celebratory mood again. The square was awash with the blue goo. People were dipping their hands in it and throwing it at each other. It was a most disturbing sight, but it was the people’s way of saying ‘Take that, you bastards!’ The patrols had been taken in hand and disposed of accordingly, all shot as a result of their barbarity. At last, the revelry could begin.
The dynamite was in place, and the lengthy fuses ready to light. Myron and Jen, and the reluctant Besson, joined the others in Parliament Square. Besson had resigned himself to his fate as he watched Myron and his operatives light their fuses, with ten minutes to spare until the stroke of midnight.
‘Watch your precious Medical Wing go up in smoke, you evil bastard!’ Jen hissed in Besson’s ear.
Besson’s eyes followed the ten fuses as they got shorter and shorter, disappearing out of sight. The first explosion came with the first stroke of midnight, followed by nine others, all twenty seconds apart. The night sky turned a brilliant white as the Parliament buildings tottered briefly like tenpins before crumbling into a colossal heap of smoke and ash. A thunderous hurrah split the night, as the people of London brave enough to still be out in the open revelled in the government’s final destruction.
As his world came tumbling down, there was nought Besson could do but hang his head.
*
John Howard was now dead, his body amongst the debris of the fallen Parliament buildings. As for Besson, his life was coming to its end in a different manner.
Jen marched the hapless doctor to the centre
of the square, and turned to face him, his eyes burning intensely into her one. A crowd, which included Myron and the others, quickly gathered to watch the show. Jen aimed the pistol she had hold of, at Besson’s genitals. His eyes widened in terror, as she cocked the lever. She paused, and then smirked at his obvious distress.
‘This is for my mother, you twisted bastard?’ Jen chortled, as she pulled the trigger.
Besson fell to his knees, trying desperately to push past the gag—to scream out in pain. He now knew what it was to feel the same pain he inflicted upon others. Jen stood over him, revelling in his discomfort, as he had done with her, not so long ago. Blood pouring from the wound, saturating his trousers, and showering the grass he knelt on.
‘Now you know what real pain feels like.’ she whispered in his ear maniacally. She turned her attention to Lonny, brandishing his clone cudgel. ‘Give me that!’
Lonny paused, ‘Why? What more do you intend to do?’
‘Just give it to me, Lonny!’ She snapped.
Lonny handed her the clone cudgel. Jen grasped it, double-fisted.
‘Are you familiar with the term, an eye for an eye, Besson?
Besson began to squirm, trying desperately to escape his bonds, but he was week. The blood loss was too great. Jen twisted the cudgel round to expose the deadliest nail, aiming it at Besson’s head—and with such precision, she swung the cudgel. The nail had pierced his eye, and entered the frontal lobe, causing a brain bleed. Jen pulled on the cudgel, and Besson’s eye followed, leaving a hollow where it used to sit. Besson’s breathing became shallow as he slumped forward.
Jen hadn’t quite finished with him yet, as she continued to swing the cudgel at his head, piercing his skull—once, twice, three times.
Myron had seen enough. He grabbed the cudgel from Jen, and threw it far out of reach.
‘Give me my pistol, Jen—now!’ He barked.
Jen was angry at Myron for stopping her. She pointed the pistol at him in a threatening manner at first, and then relinquished it. Myron grabbed it from her trembling hand, and pointed it at the back of Besson’s head, firing a single shot to finish him. Blood and brain sprayed over anyone unfortunate enough to be in the way.
‘Good riddance, you arsehole.’ Jen screamed angrily, unable to contain her emotions any longer. Myron took hold of her, in a forgiving fashion, forgetting that she intended to use the pistol on him only moments earlier.
‘It’s over now, Jen!’ He said softly in her ear, calming her senses.
Everything they had set out to do had been accomplished. After gruelling months of planning, it was over in a matter of minutes.
Jen grabbed hold of the scarf that was wrapped round Besson’s neck and began to drag his body across the square, back in the direction of Leicester Square. It was a six-minute journey unless you were dragging a lifeless body behind you, in which case it would take a further five minutes. Everybody followed Jen, wondering what she had in mind when she reached her destination.
They had reached the centre of Leicester Square, which had a series of streetlights easily tall enough to hang a body. Jen took the scarf from around Besson’s neck and retied it in a stronger knot, making sure it didn’t unravel for its intended purpose.
‘Someone help me!’ she cried. ‘I need someone to lift him high, so I can throw the scarf over that lamppost.’
Lonny was the strongest person by far, and he had no qualms about helping her. He lifted the corpse, and Jen affixed the makeshift noose to the lamppost. Lonny let go of Besson’s bloody body, and let it drop. Thankfully the knot held, leaving Besson to swing in the stiff breeze.
‘Let the soddin’ crows have him!’ Jen cried. ‘This will be a reminder for the people that the tyranny is over.’
*
The Independent Mind made their way back to the warmth of the bar at Ryker’s. An expectant Jonah, who knew straight away that everything had gone to plan, greeted them heartily.
Myron headed to the back room, closely watched by Jen. He had no intention of killing Jane. Rather, he had decided to let her go, albeit banishing her from London.
‘You will leave here now, and never again set foot in London so long as you live!’ he ordered. ‘If I ever see you again, I will kill you, is that clear?’
Jane nodded and took her leave of Myron. On her way out, she threw Jen a rather smug look, which incensed her no end. She then glanced over at Louise and Gerick with a sense of guilt.
Incredulous, Jen watched the door swing shut behind the traitor. She stalked into the back room to confront Myron.
‘What are you doing?’ Jen snapped. ‘Why are you letting the bitch go?’
‘Relax, Jen, what’s she going to do? She has no one to run to now!’
Myron had a point. The government was a shambles and the one person most interested in her findings was hanging from a lamppost in the middle of Leicester Square, his eyes gouged out by crows.
‘Well! Now that we have completed our business for good, we can start celebrating!’ Myron said gleefully, and was met with a satisfying roar from his followers. ‘Jonah! Get pulling those pints, boy.’
Jen smiled and joined him, placing her arm around his waist. ‘We did it, didn’t we?’ she whispered, glad that it was finally over. ‘No more hiding?’
‘No more hiding,’ Myron echoed. He pulled her closer and kissed her long and well. A light kindled in their eyes. The light of love.
‘Wow! I needed that,’ said Jen.
‘Come on,’ said Myron, ‘let’s join the others, and celebrate the end of our adventure!’
Myron and Jen made their way over to the rest of the group, which had wasted no time drinking themselves into oblivion. Myron raised his glass. ‘To absent friends!’ he toasted. ‘Rest in peace, Oscar!’
*
Jane Meyer had been staring up at her lover’s hanging body for hours, her face a blank, emotionless canvas. Others had started gathering around her, looking up at the once most-feared man in London, drunk with happiness and revelling in his demise. Jane moved away quickly upon seeing the winter sun trying to poke its way through the thick smoke that still filled the crimson sky.
Most of the people of London had stayed to watch the Parliament buildings smouldering, dreaming of a new and happier future, anxious to discover the architect of their newfound hope. Yes, they knew it was The Independent Mind, but the radical group’s membership remained a mystery. They longed to thank them individually for freeing them from the Government’s iron grip.
Instead of joining Myron and the others, Lawrence had remained with the revellers as instructed. Once the fires had died down, he went about his task in the mission to make Oscar a martyr. Finding Oscar’s body in one piece was unrealistic, of course, but dog tags would identify him as the one—at least symbolically—who had destroyed the regime.
A few hours had passed. The embers were dying, and it was safe for Lawrence to start searching. He knew finding Oscar’s dog tags in the rubble would be like searching for a needle in a haystack, as his body would have been blown to kingdom come. He had almost given up hope when a beam of sunlight played upon their shiny surface like a beacon from God, almost blinding him. Lawrence grabbed at them, wincing as they burnt into his flesh, and held them aloft.
‘I think I’ve found our saviour!’ he shouted. ‘Oscar Saracen! Look!’ he held the dog tags aloft.
The revellers rushed over to see his find, and looked upon the dog tags in awe. The man who had warned them of what the Government had been doing was the man who had brought about its ignominious end!
*
Oscar Saracen would forevermore be known as the man who single-handedly brought down the tyrannical regime, leaving the other Mind operatives to live out their lives in peace. They were safe from the constant nuisance of celebrity, which none of them coveted. They didn’t do it for the adulation; they did it for the people of the British Isles, leaving them to rebuild their lives and move on to a better existence.
M
yron and Jen would make a life together; The Independent Mind would disband and go their separate ways. The non-pure bloods and minorities could move freely, going back to their roots. There was nothing stopping them: no more clones, no more menacing patrols, and eventually, no more war.
Going Underground Page 36