And here, on Waterloo Bridge – which, because it sat right at the bend in the river, used to have perhaps the best views of London anywhere – a whole shanty town had sprung up, seemingly housing hundreds of people. Tiny shacks made of cardboard, wooden planks, or sheet metal lined both sides of the bridge. Even the abandoned cars had been turned into homes, their broken windows covered with filthy sheets of plastic. And every fifty feet or so, a large bin or barrel sat in the middle of the road, burning some kind of scavenged fuel, in an attempt to warm those lost souls huddled around it.
The Ainsleys and the Tunnelers finally began moving again, threading through the throngs of the destitute and desperate, with Hackworth and Colley in the lead once more. Rebecca made sure to keep up, shielding herself and her boys in the middle of the huddle, holding tightly to her sons’ hands, her thoughts returning constantly to the loaded gun in her bag. People only a few yards away eyed the group with a naked hunger that made Rebecca wonder if they were half zombie already. It was a ridiculous notion, she knew, but the people watching them obviously wanted something.
Many of the Tunnelers carried backpacks, which Rebecca presumed held supplies, food, tools, or weapons. Whatever they had hung on to, whatever had allowed them to survive this far into the end of the world. And that had to be what these people wanted, as they peered out from the dark interiors of ruined cars, or from underneath makeshift canopies, or just stood in the open in the middle of the road, watching them shamelessly.
These people had become feral, Rebecca realized – and she felt sure they would also do, or take, whatever would allow them to survive.
A few times, as they crossed the bridge, Colley or one of the others was forced to push aside someone blocking their way, and each time Rebecca wondered what would happen if a fight broke out. Would many of the others in this great mob of homeless join in? The thought terrified her, and she pulled her boys in closer, hunkered down, and just tried to concentrate on moving forward, and getting off this bridge of the damned, before the light faded completely.
As they passed the middle of the span, skirting countless shacks and tiny nooks used as living spaces, Rebecca glanced back and down along the edge of the water, and shook her head. The bridge wasn’t the only place where people had made makeshift homes. These had been obscured from view until now, but as the group moved further on, she could also see thick ranks of boats moored at the river’s edge.
There were hundreds of them.
She frowned, wondering where so many had come from. Then, as she stared, she finally realized the entire Embankment on both sides of the river was rammed with the things. Barges, canal boats, even luxury yachts – though even these were dirty and weathered now – all tethered to the granite edges of the ancient river. And from what she could see, they were mostly lashed together, creating a bizarre bankside flotilla.
And then there were the wrecks. Eventually, from the middle of the bridge, she could make out ghostlike shapes wavering in the water, grounded and sunk at the bottom of the Thames. Rebecca wondered if a vessel of any size could even navigate the river now without scraping against the hulks, or colliding with some other debris.
Her attention snapped back up to the bridge, and to the stretch that remained, when she heard a shout up ahead. A man staggered away from the leaders, swearing and spitting and holding the side of his head while he waved something in his other hand. A sliver of metal reflected the setting sun and she realized the man – an old guy, maybe in his sixties, dressed in layers of torn and scruffy rags – was waving a knife around. Nearby, and bearing down on him, was Colley. The huge man was pointing past the intruder, and telling him to back off, while lifting his axe with his other hand.
Evidently, this combination was compelling, because the knife-wielding man stumbled off, disappearing into the crowd in the failing light. Rebecca felt her sons move even closer to her, huddling against her side, as she lost sight of this threat.
She had a terrible feeling there would be plenty more.
* * *
Thirty minutes earlier, just before they set out, Hackworth had asked her: “Okay. So where is this CentCom headquarters?”
“It’s the old Wandsworth Prison,” Rebecca had answered. “And most of Wandsworth Common.”
“The park?” Hackworth asked, looking surprised.
“Damn, I used to love that park,” another of the group said – a short and stocky man in his fifties, with a gray beard that curled up at the ends. “Used to go there as a boy. Beautiful place.”
Rebecca shook her head. “Not anymore. It’s a military airfield now. My husband says the place is one big dirt patch.”
“Okay,” Hackworth said, “So we need the best route on foot.”
The bearded guy had said, “From here… probably head to Westminster, down Millbank, and then over Vauxhall Bridge.”
“We can’t go that way,” said Rebecca.
“Why not?”
“Because of the Government Zone. It’s all sealed off. From Charing Cross, Whitehall, Westminster – all the way down to the Tate and Vauxhall Bridge. It’s all walled off and guarded.”
“No shit? Then I guess we go over Waterloo Bridge and along the South Bank. We can pick up Wandsworth Road just past Vauxhall.”
No one had argued with this, and Rebecca hadn’t been able to think of any reason to question it at the time. But now, as the last light faded with the setting sun, and as they reached the other end of the bridge, finally emerging from the makeshift shanty town, she looked down along the Embankment – and she wondered if they had made a terrible mistake.
Not a single street light illuminated the path on the South Bank, and the whole area was littered with rubbish and debris. She could also hear voices below, arguing, and leaned out to look down over the edge. Farther along the path she could see a group of men standing near what might once have been a news-stand, but now was a bare and broken wreck, the panels torn away and revealing a rusted skeleton underneath. The half-dozen men there all carried sticks or bats, and stood watching either way along the Embankment.
To Rebecca, the men looked more dangerous than any of those on the bridge, even the knife wielder, and she hoped the size of the group she traveled with would discourage them. But that wasn’t what worried her most. Because lying not far from that group, motionless and sprawled out near a pile of rubbish bags, was a body.
“Be ready,” came the voice of Hackworth nearby, causing Rebecca to flinch.
She turned to face the leader of the Tunnelers, and saw he wasn’t talking to her, but to Colley and several others. Colley slapped the blunt side of his axe against his hand and grinned.
“We’re ready,” he said.
Hackworth glanced at Rebecca and nodded, and she thought she could see recognition of her fear in his eyes.
“Then let’s do this,” he said, turning to cross the street and starting off toward the steps that led down to the riverside.
Before climbing down off the bridge, Rebecca spared one last look back across the river, where she could just see the very last light glinting on Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament.
And she wondered if this might truly be the sun finally setting on the British Empire.
Seriously - Never Go South of the River
London - The South Bank
Though he had worked hard not to show it, Waterloo Bridge had put fear into Hackworth’s heart – because of the sheer chaos, the sense of menace, and the number of desperate people crammed into the sprawling shanty town. Now, as the group started making its way down the steps and out onto the South Bank, his fear changed in character without going away.
They had seemed to see and hear peril coming from all directions as they crossed the bridge – but the South Bank was eerily quiet. Hackworth could still hear the bustle up above and behind them. But the noises dropped away rapidly as they made their way along the paved walkway that had once been so busy and rich with arts, culture, and richly divergent humanity.
Now the streets running off the Embankment were quiet and empty, almost completely deserted, and Hackworth felt a rising unease about their situation.
Why wasn’t this area overcrowded? he wondered. What was down here that people were avoiding?
But it was right in front of him. Hackworth glanced at the gang of youths loitering near the wreck of the news-stand. Just six of them. That shouldn’t be enough to scare away all those folks on the bridge. But then there was the body. Whoever had done that was definitely to be avoided – and Hackworth wondered if this group of toughs were so bold that they could do such a thing and then just stick around.
But the young men left the Tunnelers alone as they moved past, and Hackworth was glad that he had the likes of Colley and the others up front, glaring at the youths as they walked by. Intimidation was the game being played here, and although his group of ragtag survivors included a number of smaller individuals, every one of them was ready to resort to violence if needed. They had to be, to have made it this far. Even Cherie, the kind and gentle retired lady from the north of Paris, who had initially struggled to get used to life in the ZA, had taken to carrying a baseball bat.
Now even she was someone not to be messed with.
The six young-looking men, dressed in jeans and hooded tops, eyed the group from their spot, but came no closer. And as the Tunnelers passed them by, Hackworth looked beyond the men, into the gloom of the undercroft of the huge building beyond. This place, he thought, had once been a skate park, a spot of vibrant artistry, the columns and walls covered everywhere with colorful graffiti, but now it was in ruins and filled with rubbish. He remembered visiting it several times in the past. But was that all that was in there? What else was lurking in the darkness out of sight?
As the group moved on, Hackworth held back, watching the gang. Two of them were leaning in close to each other, whispering, and then one of them nodded and ran off, disappearing into the tunnels near the bridge. Hackworth moved quickly back to the front of the group and caught up with Colley just as they passed the body on the pavement.
Hackworth grimaced as they walked by it. A pool of blood still spread slowly away from the unmoving figure, whose features none of them could see as it lay half covered by rubbish bags. His inherent decency surged up, telling him that he should at least try to help this person, but… there was so much blood. Whoever this was had to be dead. And Hackworth just couldn’t risk the entire group for the sake of a stranger who was almost certainly well beyond help.
But he hated this thought. It really had come to that, hadn’t it? Humanity had been pushed so far toward the brink that it was fast becoming every man for himself. At that moment, Hackworth wished they still had the troop of Marines with them – the ones who had helped them escape both the Channel Tunnel and Canterbury. Twenty or more armed men right now would have been very reassuring.
But they haven’t forgotten, he thought. Those Marines. They haven’t forgotten what’s important.
But then again, they were trained and armed, and here he was, in what was rapidly beginning to look like a no-go area, leading a bunch of civilians armed with bats and an axe. He made a mental note to help someone, at some point – anyone – just to try to counter the coarsening of the spirit caused by ignoring this poor soul who lay dead, or very close to death, on the ground behind them.
* * *
“We need to move faster,” Hackworth said, glancing back the way they had come.
“Because of those fools?” asked Colley.
Hackworth nodded. “I think they’ll come after us.”
“Not with just six of them, they won’t.”
“Maybe not. But one of them just ran off.”
Colley glanced behind, then picked up the pace a little, knowing the others would follow.
“You think they’ll be back with more?” he asked.
Hackworth shrugged, looking around at the empty stretch of pavement that led away along the South Bank. “I don’t know. But they look like trouble. And I would bet that they killed whoever that was back there. And if they have the balls or arrogance to stay there after doing that, I don’t want anything to do with them. I also don’t think many people come along this way – and we may have just become a target.”
Colley nodded.
“And look how quiet it is here. This is not a good place to be. I say we pick up the pace, fast march it for another ten minutes, maybe twenty. Then we try to spot somewhere to hole up and get out of sight.”
“You don’t want to just keep moving, push on out of here?”
Hackworth shook his head.
“My guts tell me that gang will follow us, and wait for whoever else they just sent for, and then try it on. If they can’t find us, then they can’t attack us. Also, it’s getting dark fast. Damn it. We should have waited until morning.”
“Wait where? We had nowhere to wait,” said Colley.
“We could have stayed on the other side of the bridge. This was a foolish mistake.”
Hackworth glanced back toward the bridge, and saw that the five remaining gang members hadn’t moved, but still stood watching them.
“I think they’ll wait until we round this bend up here,” said Colley. “And then they’ll start to follow. Leave us thinking they aren’t bothering. Then, if you’re right and they do have friends, they’ll stay out of sight until their buddies turn up – and they can go for us.”
Hackworth eyed his friend. “What makes you think that?”
Colley looked back at him, his expression grave. “Let’s just say I know how that all works. And I’m not proud of that.”
Hackworth nodded, then turned around to give instructions to the others. Directly behind him he now found the woman, Rebecca, and her two small sons. All three looked like they were fighting a battle with their own terror – even more so than they had on the bridge. There was also something in the face of the woman that seemed to indict him. It said: If my family is hurt or killed here, this is all your fault.
Hackworth struggled to keep his own expression confident. “It’s going to be okay,” he said to the three of them, touching the boys on their heads. “Pass the word back. When I start jogging, everyone keeps up. And get ready to run if we have to.”
Rebecca’s eyes went wide. “Is something wrong?”
Hackworth shook his head. “I don’t know, but we’re not taking chances. Just be ready.”
* * *
Five minutes later, moving at a fast jog and urging her boys along, Rebecca did her best to keep up with the rest of the group as they hustled along the South Bank. The path, lined with endless empty buildings, now opened up into a large open park that she recognized. At the other end of it was the monolithic shape of the London Eye – the giant riverside Ferris wheel that she had always thought a bit of an eyesore, but which had amazed her two boys on the day she and Connor took them there.
But the boys were silent now as the group ran along the side of the park, staying on the path next to the river, with the motionless attraction looming ever bigger. But then the group slowed, and for a moment Rebecca wondered why. Then she looked up to see what Hackworth and Colley did – and wished that she hadn’t.
About a quarter of the way up the huge metal construction, hanging from one of the cabins, was a body. It looked long dead, from what she could see, and for a moment her heart lurched as she saw the pale gray skin, the dark eyes, and the blood-soaked clothing.
A zombie, she thought. Hanging right here in the middle of London. It can’t be. No one would…
But then she saw the sign hanging around the figure’s neck – it read Not Fucking Funny – and she looked back up at the face. There was something not right, something she was missing. She stopped walking as she realized she was now at the front of the group, standing next to Hackworth.
“That can’t be,” said Hackworth. ”Surely not right in the middle of the city. No one would be so stupid, would they?”
“Looks like one to me,” said C
olley, standing nearby and craning his neck to look up.
“It’s a costume,” Rebecca finally said, glancing down at her sons and now aware that she didn’t want them to see any more of this. First the bleeding body, and now someone hanged on the London Eye.
Hackworth turned to her. “A costume?”
“Yes,” she said looking back up at the dead figure, hanging from a six-foot rope tied to the pod. “This area was popular back… before, with street performers. That’s a mask. Look, can we move on?”
“A zombie mask?” Hackworth looked back up, considering this for a moment and ignoring Rebecca’s urgency. “Well, I guess that isn’t very funny.”
Then they were all ducking for cover as a distant gunshot rang out, ricocheting off the huge metal structure a few feet away from them.
* * *
Hackworth hit the ground and looked over the expanse of grass. Across the park, maybe two hundred yards away, was a large group of people, perhaps thirty or even forty, heading in their direction, and all riding bicycles – old BMXes, mountain bikes, and racing bikes. The lead figure was pointing at them… no, he was pointing a gun at them.
“Run!” Hackworth shouted, and got to his feet, pushing several others forward, urging them toward the cover of the nearby buildings. Everyone moved fast, hurrying down the path away from the London Eye, and picking up speed.
“We can’t outrun them,” shouted Colley, catching up with Hackworth. “They’re on bikes.”
“They have a fucking gun,” shouted Hackworth.
“I know,” said Colley, breathing heavily as they raced toward the foot of Westminster Bridge. Hackworth looked out over the bridge, and saw just what Rebecca had meant by locked down. At the other end of the bridge, before and beside the neo-Gothic Houses of Parliament, a wall that must have been fifteen feet high completely blocked the road.
Arisen, Book Eight - Empire of the Dead Page 3
