But he didn’t have a choice. Die up here or down there? Giving up wasn’t a choice at all. So he jumped.
IV. Riot
26
Another day of crazy shit in the city. According to the latest news, the meteor had split, and the smaller piece looked like it was headed for Europe, the larger, Russia. So, people were panicking, behaving like animals. Crimes of every stripe were through the roof. All sane people talked about was the meteors. The crazy people were talking with fists and boots, knives and pint glasses and whatever else might be at hand. Paul Deacon wondered if it really was the end of the world. But even if it was, you’d think people would be a bit more…British…about it.
But I’m going to do my job, either way, thought Detective Inspector Paul Deacon.
Even if it did mean looking like a ridiculous tit in his old police constables’ uniform blues. He had a gut now he hadn’t had back then. Less hair. Skinny legs and a potbelly. Couldn’t run more than maybe a hundred yards without getting a stitch, feeling like he was dying. He wasn’t obese and he wasn’t a smoker. He was just out of shape and a long way past his prime.
But, yeah. He’d do his job. He’d do it because it was his job, and he didn’t shirk his duties. He never had.
In this insane new London he didn’t recognize at all, he and his colleagues—the blue line—were the only ones standing in the way of complete meltdown, the only barrier before utter chaos broke upon the city. The army were being drafted in, as were the territorial army. Too little, too late, Paul figured. The worst of the damage was done. People were either terrified or insane, it seemed, with little middle ground left for the police to defend. Riots were commonplace. Violent crimes were so far off the charts they were barely even bothering with the chart at all. Paperwork, the bane of the policeman’s existence, was forgotten.
Everyone was being drafted. Old coppers, young idiots with no fear, specials, and even detectives. Paul had earned his stripes…now he was just another policeman, anonymous, on the blue line, hiding behind a shield. He pulled on his old uniform and headed out past the other fat guys struggling with buttons, or giving up on buttons altogether, through the yard to the storeroom.
There wasn’t much gear left. London wasn’t equipped to deal with fifty percent of the population turning into crazies with whatever fever it was that had grabbed people by the short hairs.
“Get you out of bed, did they?” said a man behind a cage.
Paul thought he was probably being snide, but he didn’t have the energy. The man looked like a knob. Wispy beard and an inflated sense of self-importance. Sitting in a cage, doling out riot gear, so fat, tired coppers (like Deacon) could go do some real work.
“Just need to get kitted out,” said Paul, staring the man down. The prick gave it a good go, but caved after about ten seconds.
“Don’t have much left,” he said. “Couple of shields and some old helmets. Mesh visors, not plastic. Still, better than a brick in the teeth…”
“I’ll take what I can get,” said Paul. He waited while the man left his chair to get the gear. Ready to sign it out, he leaned forward and picked up a biro. The man’s ass, he noted, had left a sizable dent in the foam on the chair.
At least I’m not him, thought Paul. Not yet.
“Here.”
Paul took a shield and helmet. “Cheers,” he said. Signed his name and left for another day of dodging bricks and telling people it was all going to be fine…fine…fine…
But he knew it wasn’t. The kind of shit he’d seen in London the last few weeks? Control was gone. Even if the rock hit France rather than England, there wasn’t any way back from this. And yesterday?
That was the day London, England, slipped over the precipice. Maybe other people hadn’t seen it, or felt it, but Paul had. He’d felt the crash in his bones and in his soul, in that place people who live on the edge feel.
London, Paul knew, wasn’t coming back.
27
There wasn’t a policeman in the city, probably the country, that hadn’t seen the footage of the killings. Paul himself had seen some pretty disturbing things. Fresh coppers didn’t have the same depth to their eyes as the older guys, like Paul. Not quite jaded enough to shrug off the first shocker, the first sprawling crime scene.
The CCTV footage of the attack on Bethnal Green station was by far the most disturbing thing Paul had seen, hands down.
A guy entered the station at a little after ten a.m. The time meant that to get there, he’d have had to travel through the city in daylight, dressed in a plain black robe of sackcloth. If he’d come far, it would have meant walking through the work crowds. People would have, should have, noticed him.
His clothing must have been uncomfortable, like he was a monk performing some kind of act of penance. On his head was a crude crown fashioned from barbed wire, though, and blood (in black and white—the CCTV footage was only black and white, the blood was black).
The man, white and middle-aged, was sobbing.
Terrified, obviously. In pain. In fear for his life, maybe the lives of his family? No one knew yet. Paul didn’t think they’d be finding out anytime soon, because at the end there wasn’t enough left of the man to piece together much but DNA and bits you could fit in a bucket.
The duty desk officer came forward. He was just doing what anyone, copper or civilian, would have done: try to help.
The man in the black robe pulled a large blade, like a machete, but with a heavy curve—maybe even some kind of scimitar or cutlass kind of thing. It looked, on the screen, almost long enough to be a sword, rather than a knife.
With no warning, no preamble, the man in the cloth robe stepped forward and laid into the duty officer, hacking inexpertly, perhaps, but with real gusto. A frenzied and untutored attack, insane and barbaric.
The brutality didn’t last long.
It was then, with the duty officer in pieces, that the killer began to eat the policeman’s flesh.
Sick as fuck, but it wasn’t the worst thing, maybe. The hardest part to watch was the man’s tears. Crying the whole time, sometimes puking morsels down his robe and among the carnage. He feasted until more policemen came at him, which was when he blew himself to pieces, taking the responding officers to whatever hell he’d seen right along with him.
The world’s gone nuts, thought Paul. Nuts.
Something like that would have made the news at any other time.
Not now.
Because it wasn’t the only one. People were calling them many names. Rumors, like urban folklore…but largely with an element of truth.
Some kind of cult? A gang thing? End-of-days lunacy? No one knew. All they knew was that the crying men and women in bloodied crowns always, always meant death.
What could scare humans so badly to turn them into monsters? Monsters that begat monsters.
Paul shook his head clear of the image he wished he could unsee. With effort, he managed to get his head and his thoughts back to the present.
Three riot vans waited. He boarded the first, into the rear, where he put his head back against the cool glass and closed his eyes. Only three hours since his last shift. Surrounded by tired, frightened coppers. The old ones, like Paul, put their heads back, too. Some snored, some twitched and jerked awake, scared to let sleep take them.
The younger guys, he saw, had the look already. That look coppers, soldiers, medics…own.
Too soon for the youngsters. Too late for us old men, old women.
Back to the riots, the zone.
We’re not supposed to be fucking soldiers, he thought.
But there wasn’t anyone else. Just the blue line.
28
The road became bumpy a long way before the riot van even hit the zone. The usual potholes, plus rubble, bricks, debris from small meteor strikes. The van was equipped with anti-puncture tires, but the ride was rough enough to jar Deacon’s teeth.
The zone was the West End. The entire area had become a no-go zone f
or all but protesters, rioters and emergency services. Police, mainly, but ambulances and fire engines, the occasional helicopter lift. Rioter’s had plenty of tricks to crush policemen’s skulls, or paramedics—they weren’t discriminating. Britain had seen its fair share of riots through the ages, but this was far beyond anything Paul had experienced in person, or heard about over the years. Rioters mostly went for property. This time they were going for people. It wasn’t like punching a bystander in the face. They were actively trying to hurt people.
Fuck, thought Paul. Truth be told, it wasn’t about hurting. Not anymore. It was about killing.
It wasn’t a riot. It was war without guns.
Deacon’d never thought he’d see such sights. Burned-out cars outside theaters, gangs in hoods and masks. Peaceful protesters with placards proclaiming everything from gay rights to the end of the world. But, mostly, violence.
Deacon stared out at the carnage of a city in meltdown until a rock struck the mesh over the window. He jumped, like a rookie, then swore. More at himself than the rioters.
“Don’t know why we don’t just fucking leave ‘em. They’re like animals.” This came from a copper Deacon had seen kick a young girl in the face only the day before.
“And where the fuck are the army? This is nuts.” On that point, Paul agreed.
Something hard and heavy hit the roof of the van. Heavier than a rock. Like a fire extinguisher or a television or something. Looting wasn’t even the issue anymore. Electricity had been cut off to the entire West End two days ago—it wasn’t like the rioters were going to be watching television.
It was ridiculous, thought Deacon. The police force wasn’t as large as the army, and scenes like this were being repeated all across the country. They couldn’t contain it. The best they could do was stop the city from burning. The hospitals were overrun with walking wounded, and if you were seriously injured, your chances were slim at this point. The rioters were attacking anything and everyone, not just in the zone, but across the city. Not just London, but in Birmingham, Leeds, Manchester, Liverpool.
Paul kind of wished he’d never been a copper, never got into this mess. Wished he lived somewhere nice and quiet, out in the country. Somewhere he could smoke a pipe and watch the world collapse on an old television set in a shed surrounded by runner beans. Something like that, anyway. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but now.
“We’re here,” said the driver. Anyone asleep, woke. You couldn’t sleep heavy in a jouncing police van pelted by rocks and other things.
Thank fuck people didn’t have guns.
The back of the van opened onto the new world; the world under the shadow of the rock. Someone shouted, like a warning, but it wasn’t soon enough, and they were right there, van door open.
“Hog roast!” shouted someone else. Someone outside the van. It took Paul a while to figure out what they meant, but around then the missile landed. It hit the step at the back of the van doors and shattered, sending fuel and flames splashing through the van.
Hog roast…shitfire…
His shoes and the lower portion of his legs, his shins and calves, were alight. There was no time to look for further threats, to think about his shield or helmet, even to look behind him to see who was screaming in the van. He threw himself to the tarmac outside. His legs were already scorched, his shoes (leather, not plastic, thank God) were ablaze.
Roll, fuck it, roll.
He rolled, slapped, rolled, slapped. He saw his colleagues and comrades burning in the back of the van, screaming, when a second petrol bomb shattered.
His hands and trousers were on fire, but he had to get the flames out, quickly, before his skin melted like his cheap uniform. He had no choice but to ignore the chance of another missile and strip his trousers before they stuck completely to his legs. Before the fire engulfed him entirely and killed him.
Panic settled over him, cloying and dark.
His hands were charred and numb anyway, so he pulled his flaming shoes free and dragged himself out of his burning trousers. He thought maybe he was shouting, but panic was making him blind and deaf to all but the fire. It surrounded him, fire and smoke and (people screams and people smells) coming from the van.
His lower legs, feet, hands were all blistered. Some of his trousers had fused with his skin.
I need a hospital, he thought. Or…what the fuck was good for burns?
He didn’t know how serious his injuries were, but it was nothing compared to what the men in the van were going through. They were burning alive. A couple of men looked dead already. Some could still scream. The windows had melted onto a dead policeman’s face, glowing, like he had an orange Halloween skull.
Thankfully, Paul didn’t see anything else. The fuel tank erupted. The blast blew him from sitting to flat in a second. His head cracked against the road, knocking him out cold.
When he came around, he could barely move. He thought he could still hear them screaming. His colleagues, screaming and burning and dying. But they were already dead.
It wasn’t screaming he heard. It was cheering.
The rioters were cheering.
He cried then, listening to their animal joy as he lay in the middle of a smoldering wreck, with the flames still burning all around him and the bodies sizzling and curling in on themselves.
Over the sound of the cheers and the crackling (hog roast hog roast, his mind threw up at him) he heard footsteps, coming from behind.
He managed to turn his head, his neck grating and sending bolts of agony to his brain and his shoulders, right into his hands.
A big man and a young girl. The big man was huge, like a bodybuilder. The girl, pretty, petite, happy-looking. Nice face. Dark eyes.
They wound their way through the rubble toward Paul.
“Help?” he said, his voice weak with smoke and exhaustion.
The big man didn’t say anything. He knelt beside Paul and looked him over.
“You’re okay, looks like. You were lucky.”
“I’m alive?” asked Paul, because he wasn’t entirely sure.
“For now,” said the big man with a wide, cheerful grin on his broad and pockmarked face, before he grabbed a handful of Paul’s hair in one hand, his collar in the other, and began dragging Paul across the hot tarmac like he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes.
Dragged him through the wreck, over rubble and debris. Away from the stench and eventually, down into the dark. Paul shouted, cried out, fought back. The whole way. Maybe five minutes, being dragged, his wounds and his scalp in agony, panic deep, throbbing with sickening pain.
“Going to have a little fun, piggy,” said the big man, somewhere along the way.
The pretty girl with dark eyes laughed.
“Don’t make me laugh, sis. Fucker’s heavy,” said the man. Paul kicked, struggled, tore at the hands holding him. The guy was like stone. He didn’t even flinch.
I’m dead, thought Paul.
But the big man was right. He wasn’t dead. Not yet.
29
The man—Sid, Paul figured from listening from his captors—pulled Paul roughly down the concrete steps to the tube station. The rioters owned the underground almost entirely, apart from the East End and the docks. The police managed to keep a hold on the Central line, but even then, it was ineffective. They just didn’t have the man power to hold London against the insanity.
Paul’s bottom and his burned, bare legs scraped over the steps, sometimes taking some of his blistered skin away. It was agony, but his fear was worse. His struggles were useless, as were his cries for help, his pleas… Nothing seemed to touch the man or his sister…if she really was his sister.
“Can we make him watch?” she said as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
“What, fucking?”
“Yeah, can we? I’d so get off on it.”
“Nah,” said Sid. “Too good for pigs. Don’t want him coming all down his scrawny little legs. Filthy wanker’d probably enjoy it.”
<
br /> “Can I cut him?”
“Got a better idea…”
“He’s listening.”
“Let him. Don’t matter,” said Sid.
It got darker the farther from the entrance they went. Paul was tired, bleeding, burned, terrified. He felt himself beginning to slip unconscious. At first, just a second. Then a little longer.
Don’t fucking pass out. Don’t. Don’t.
He slipped under, again, despite his efforts. His hair, throat, hands, legs, spine, arse…almost every part of him hurt. This time, when he came around again, it was completely dark. No visual input at all. Pain, voices, the stench of damp and dust and urine, his own sweat, the feel of the black instant coffee he’d had earlier on his breath.
“What you going to do?”
“You’ll see…”
Paul slipped under reality again for a second, into that floating netherworld of the unconscious. He missed some of their idle chat.
When he came to again, he saw nothing, but he was still moving. Thankfully his legs were numbing up, or dead. He could barely tell.
“Fuck, he’s heavy,” said Sid, but he continued to lug Paul like he was nothing more than a bag of air.
Sid wasn’t even out of breath. His voice was steady as his grip.
Paul tried to lift his hands again to tear at Sid, scratch or pinch or something. He couldn’t even move his hands.
You’re in deep shit, Deacon. Shit so deep you’re going to drown.
At some point the agony became too much, overwhelming his fear and adrenaline. He passed out again. When he woke, he was still. Bound, but the pressure on his hair and throat and the rest of his body was gone.
He opened his eyes, but couldn’t see anything. All he could feel was pain, complete and utter…and pleasure. A revolting kind of pleasure, because she (Silvia, he figured by this time) was stroking his cock, spitting on her palm, stroking, spitting…he was hard and there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it.
Left to Darkness Page 8
