Walker crept quietly to his left, pinning himself up against the fence. He could hear the other man breathing.
Back to the right a little.
Footsteps approached. Walker sensed hesitation in the man’s movement.
He readied the axe.
The soldier was now standing directly on the other side of the fence from Walker. Nothing happened. Was the other man being cautious? Or perhaps he was waiting for his colleague to catch up with him. But then again, the longer he waited the more chance there was that the two targets would get away. And that couldn’t happen. Walker was counting on the soldier thinking like that. The only real chance Walker and Barboza had was to take them on one at a time. The soldiers were young – he’d noticed that when the commanding officer had been barking out the orders. He’d seen their keen eyes, eager to please the man they admired so much. Glory seekers hopefully, which would make them impatient and reckless.
Walker held his breath. He looked up at the fence.
A pale hand appeared, gripping the top of the fence. The soldier was seconds away from vaulting over and landing in the garden beside them.
It was now or never.
Walker didn’t hesitate. From a crouching position, he sprang upwards and swung the axe with everything he had – every ounce of speed and power went into that single blow. He brought the blade down precisely upon the knuckles of the soldier’s hand.
There was a horrific scream that seemed to come from the sky. It wasn’t a clean cut. All five fingers remained on the man’s hand – at least for now. Walker had to pull the blade out of the shattered fingers to get the axe back and when he did so, the soldier fell back over the fence and landed in Walker’s garden with a thud, screaming in agony.
Walker looked at Barboza. Her eyes were wide with horror, but she tightened her grip on the knife handle and gave him a nod. Despite looking like she needed to throw up, she seemed ready to make a stand.
“Billy!” the other soldier screamed from afar. “Are you alright? What’s going on? Talk to me mate.” He was close now – one or two gardens away at most.
Billy’s gargled screaming, coming from Walker’s garden, was the only answer.
“Jesus Christ! Billy! I’m coming.”
Walker heard the other soldier jump over the last fence and land in the garden. He rushed over to his fallen comrade. As he ran, Walker heard him gasp with shock, intermingled with the sound of heavy breathing.
“You’re alright mate. Look at me Billy!”
Walker and Barboza sat with their backs against the fence. They listened to the soldier trying desperately to comfort the other man. Walker caught onto the fact that the second soldier sounded even younger than he looked – no more than a boy. Younger than Walker, that was for sure. And they were both terrified. It was if the situation had been reversed. Walker and Barboza were no longer the hunted. It was becoming clear that these two boys, who had been left behind to finish the job that an entire platoon had turned up at first to do, were not up to the task.
“Billy,” the young soldier said. “Are they in the house mate? I thought I heard something. They’re in the house, yeah?”
Billy squealed in agony, unable to find the words.
“I’ve gotta go in and take ‘em out,” the soldier said. “Just hang on Billy, just hang on yeah? I’ll get ’em for you mate and then I’ll come straight back. I promise.”
Walker listened as Billy tried to say something – no doubt trying to reveal the actual location of the two targets, which wasn’t in the house as the other soldier presumed. But the wounded man was unable to form a coherent sentence. He was in agony and perhaps in shock too. All he could manage was one word:
‘No!’
Walker and Barboza heard the other soldier get to his feet. They listened as urgent footsteps hurried towards the back door, stomping over the smashed glass that lingered around the doorstep.
“You motherfuckers!” he yelled.
The footsteps receded further into the house. All they could hear now was Billy over the fence, groaning in pain.
Walker leaned closer to Barboza. There was no time to lose and they had only one possible course of action if they wanted a clean getaway. But he knew that if he went through with it, his life would never be the same again. In the back of his mind, he heard a faint voice – the voice of his sixteen years old self, trying to talk him out of what he was considering. This was Mack’s voice – little Mack Walker from Edinburgh, who back in 2011 had gone to Piccadilly Circus with so many other people in search of something better.
Walker ignored the voice of little Mack. He grabbed Barboza’s forearm, which was burning hot to touch.
“I’ve got to go in there after him,” he said. “We’re not getting out of here unless they’re both out of the picture. Do you understand?”
Barboza nodded. But the blank look in her eyes suggested otherwise.
“As soon as I jump over the fence and run towards the house the other one’s going to start screaming to his friend,” Walker said. He paused. “That’s why I need you to take him out. Can you do that?”
Walker spoke in a cold, dispassionate tone. He might as well have been talking about removing an infestation of ants from the carpet.
Barboza’s face turned grey. Now she understood for sure what he was asking her to do. He was asking her to commit murder, or at least that’s what it would be considered by the people who lived beyond the two walls of London.
She closed her eyes and swallowed the cold reality of their situation. Kill or be killed.
“Are you with me?” he said.
“Walker,” she whispered. “I’m with you. But I don’t know if I can…”
“Think of it this way,” he said. “I need the tough girl back. I need you to play the character for a little while longer. You’re Barboza – the girl who fought off four rogues for two days and nights. Remember? The Brazilian ninja who can break through doors with capoeira kicks. Barboza. The badass. I need her back.”
“It’s just a part Walker,” she said. “A fictional character.”
“Sharon won’t make it in London,” Walker said. “This place will fuck you up bad. Hell it’ll fuck you up anyway but it’ll be a lot worse if you choose to be Sharon.”
“I’m not like you Walker,” she said.
She was about to say something else but stopped. Then she nodded slowly, as if accepting that there was no other way.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“We need to move now,” Walker said.
Barboza looked at him. “I’m with you.”
Walker got back to his feet. Then he climbed the fence and peered over into the garden at the back of his house. Billy was lying on his stomach, his face buried in a large circle of grass that was stained red with blood. He was clutching onto his bloody hand with his good one, trying to hold the fingers in place. And although his screams had diminished, he was still writhing around in the tall grass like a wounded snake.
Walker felt a twinge of sympathy for the fallen man. But any thoughts of Billy’s mother, father, or the possibility of a wife and children waiting at home were banished into the dark corners of his mind. There was only Billy the enemy who had come to kill him.
“Now,” Walker said, signalling to Barboza.
He was worried that Barboza would freeze at the last minute. That she would be unable to go through with it. But it was quite the opposite. Upon his signal, she sprang into action, readying her knife with one hand as she climbed up and jumped over the other side of the fence. She landed on the grass as softly as a bird. Then, without stopping, she approached Billy with the knife outstretched in her hand. His face was still buried in the dirt and he didn’t see her coming.
She was like a machine, emotionless upon the surface, programmed to carry out a set of actions.
Barboza dropped to her knees, pulled Billy’s head back and exposed his throat to the carving knife in her hand. There was time for one last gasp from
the soldier. Then she ran the blade across his throat.
Walker turned away at that moment. Not because he couldn’t bear to look, but rather he had his own grisly task to complete. He jumped down from the fence and landed in the garden, paying little attention to the gurgling sound coming from the dying man behind him. He was aware that Billy’s assault rifle was back there, lying on the grass. But he didn’t bother going back for it. The axe was all he would need.
He trod gently over a thousand fragments of broken glass. The tip of the axe was stained with fresh blood and it pointed forwards, hungry for more.
Walker stood perfectly still, a dark silhouette framed within the doorway of his former sanctuary. The heat of the afternoon sun came wafting in behind him.
From upstairs, he could hear the soldier moving violently from room to room. He heard doors slamming shut.
“Where are you?” the soldier said, yelling at the top of his voice. “I know you’re in here. Just come out and I won’t shoot. I’ll take you both in, yeah? Come out and let’s talk about this.”
Walker smiled. The man upstairs was falling to pieces. Walker could hear it in his voice, even as the soldier tried to sound commanding. The soldier was upstairs, pleading with phantoms that weren’t even there. Begging, not for the sake of Walker and Barboza’s lives, but his own.
Walker crept quietly through the kitchen. He saw the living room door lying flat at the end of the hallway where Billy the soldier had caved it in.
“I hear you!” cried the soldier upstairs. “I hear you walking! I know you’re in here!”
Walker stopped at the foot of the stairs. He lowered the axe and looked up, waiting for the soldier to come to him. He breathed slowly, in and out. He felt completely relaxed as the young soldier continued his rampage upstairs, knocking things off shelves, breaking mirrors in the bedrooms and bathroom. The soldier continued to call out to Walker and Barboza, assuring them that enough blood had been spilled already and that they could talk through this.
All the while, Walker waited at the bottom of the stairs.
Eventually, the soldier appeared on the upstairs hallway. At the sight of Walker, he shrieked and in a flash of instinctive movement, pointed the assault rifle downstairs. His arms were shaking. His aim wavered. His eyes darted back and forth between Walker’s and the bloody tip of the axe, freshly coated with his comrade’s blood.
Walker stood there. He might as well have been made of stone. His calm, silent demeanour was confusing the young man. Walker knew that this soldier was weak, that he was incapable of pulling the trigger. He was just a boy. He was a rabbit caught in the headlights of something much bigger than a car.
The young soldier stood at the top of the stairs. He looked up from the barrel of the rifle, lowering the weapon slightly as he did so.
“You’re Mr Apocalypse,” he said. His voice was shaking. “Ain’t ya? You’re Mr Apocalypse.”
A manic grin appeared on the young man’s face.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve seen you on the telly. I watch you on the telly every day. Me and my girlfriend, eh? Bloody hell, it’s really you. You’re Mr Apocalypse.”
Walker didn’t answer.
There was an enthusiastic gleam in the man’s eyes. He began to descend the staircase, with all the enthusiasm of a young child walking up to meet Mickey Mouse at Disneyland.
“You’re Mr Apocalypse.”
He said it again and again. All the while, grinning like a starstruck maniac.
The soldier stopped two stairs from the bottom. Almost within touching distance. He stared blankly at Walker, as if expecting the man he called Mr Apocalypse to do something, to entertain him, to launch into a song and dance routine or to blow a jaw-dropping fireworks display out of his arse.
After all, this was the Mr Apocalypse.
Both men stared into each other’s eyes in complete silence. That silence was only interrupted by a sudden noise at the top of the stairs. Something moved in a hurry, a white blur, running downstairs to brush itself up against the legs of the soldier. The soldier yelped in terror. Then he snapped out of his daze, as if somebody had poked a large dose of smelling salts up his nose.
The soldier raised the rifle, but it was too late. Before his finger could reach the trigger, Walker came forward, raising the axe at speed and slamming the blade down into the young man’s neck. The soldier didn’t make a sound as the axe embedded itself into his white flesh. The rifle fell out of his hand and dropped onto the floor. The soldier kept his eyes on Walker. Then he dropped onto the staircase, his body toppling down the remaining stairs until he came to a halt on the hallway floor. Blood was streaming from a deep gash in his neck.
His eyes were open, still staring at Mr Apocalypse.
With one swift pull, Walker wrenched the axe out of the wound. Then he glanced behind him and saw what he was looking for. Alba was sitting on the hallway carpet, close to where the front door had been smashed in.
“Couldn’t have timed it better,” he said, throwing her a wink.
The little cat stared at him. Then in one fluid motion, Alba hopped over the fallen door and trotted out the open entrance towards the street. Walker watched her go, unable to tear his eyes away from the only thing he loved in the world. But Alba didn’t look back. She made her way down the garden path, disappearing into the secret gaps in between the bright rays of sunshine and beyond.
Walker turned back to the house. Barboza was standing at the kitchen door. She was looking at the dead soldier sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs, next to Walker’s feet.
“What have we done?” she whispered. “Walker?”
Walker looked at the fresh corpse at his feet. The young man’s dead eyes continued to stare into the empty space where Mr Apocalypse had been.
“What we had to,” he said. “Would you rather it was us?”
“But they were just boys,” Barboza said. “They were just boys following orders, weren’t they? And we killed them.”
Walker took a step towards her.
“It gets easier,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You know, about ten years ago I stabbed someone in Edinburgh. It was self-defence, but it used to haunt me every day and every night. What I did. I used to dream about it all the time. It’s why my parents brought me to London in the first place – to escape the past. Now I don’t think about it at all. If anything, I was right to do what I did back then – it was him or me. Just like this. You’ll learn to live with it Barboza. I promise. This place, that’s what it does to you.”
She shook her head, not daring to believe him. “We need to go Walker,” she said.
Walker nodded. This time there would be no argument.
Chapter 26
Transcript of a video uploaded to Immersion 9 - posted on July 12th 2020
* * *
She sits quietly for a moment.
She sits alone.
In silence.
Two black holes masquerade as eyes upon the mask that she’s wearing. But upon closer inspection, her real eyes are visible too – a dual hint of blue or green – a speck of light buried deep beneath the dark netting that covers the eyeholes of the infamous skull hoodie.
She speaks:
‘Do not grieve for those who are lost. Do not grieve especially for those who are innocent. The Good and Honest Citizens will light the way. We will always tell you the truth about what is going on in the world. When you hear them call us murderers tomorrow and you find yourself tempted to believe them, remember what am I about to show you. Remember that The Good and Honest Citizens told you the truth.’
The camera fades to black.
July 12th 2020. Location: M25, London.
The footage is shaky.
Someone is wearing a portable camera strapped to their head or upper body. Glimpses of the surroundings come thick and fast. The ground is covered in thousands of steel table knives and plastic buckets, many of which have been tipped on their side.
A large c
rowd of young people are sitting down, looking around in bewilderment, often directly at the camera. There is confusion in their eyes but above all, fear. Many of them are in tears. Others are rooted to the spot, unable to move. Their eyes are vacant and lost, as if unable to comprehend why no one has been able to help them. The occasional scream is heard, although this seems to be coming from somewhere else in the background, far away from the crowd.
The camera does a lap of the large seating area. People wearing explosive belts surround the KBC participants. They pay little attention to the camera as it passes by. The people wearing the belts encircle the multitude of young hostages and keep them on the inside. Amongst these hostages are several familiar faces from the TFL television crew, including Georgia Perkins and Johnny Castle. Johnny is weeping on his co-presenter’s shoulder.
A voice yells out.
“How long have they been gone?”
“Nearly half an hour,” someone replies.
“It’s over!” a young man wearing an explosive belt yells at the camera as it passes him by. His face is distorted with anger and he brings it right up to the screen. “It’s over! You sick fucking animals! No more TFL. No more human zoos. What a shame! I hope you…”
The young man stops talking. He steps back, looking over the shoulder of the person wearing the camera. His eyes are alert, as if he’s seen something in the distance.
For a moment, nobody speaks – there are a few seconds of complete silence at the M25.
“What’s that?” somebody says, breaking the silence. “Can you see it? Is that smoke in the distance?”
The camera turns in the opposite direction. The footage is still shaky but it’s clear that there is a large plume of smoke rising in the distance. But what’s even more apparent is that something is approaching the M25 on the green horizon. Multiple armoured vehicles are hurtling towards them. The sound of the engines grows louder with every passing second. At the same time, several helicopters can be seen in the sky, descending upon the hostage scene in what looks like slow motion.
The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London) Page 38
