The Sons of Liberty

by James Tow

scenery is possibly worse on this side of Thames. As we got closer to the Shard I could see it wasn’t an exception. It had visible broken panes of glass, several holes blown through in several spots, graffiti along the base, and the destroyed surrounding buildings gave it a perfect finishing touch.

  “Where are we going anyways?” Paul asked.

  “Gatwick,” I said flatly.

  “I know that,” Paul retaliated. “I mean, how are we going to get there? I know we can’t walk and make it there before they leave.”

  “Well we’re on A23 already. All we have to do now is find any kind of transport.”

  “A23?” Paul asked.

  “It’s how they label their ‘interstate,’” I reply thoughtfully. “Gatwick is on A23. So all we need to do is follow this road further south.”

  Unfortunately, there aren’t any vehicles in sight. Any sort of vehicle found on the road is as rare. Almost as if cars were just invented. We don’t see too many 1967 Shelby GT 350’s around or Chevy Cavaliers for that matter. Doesn’t bother us, we get around just fine. Some might call Paul and me ‘crabs.’

  A crab is someone who takes a ‘pinch,’ or share, out of other peoples’ belongings, and they can ultimately survive from a large amount of these ‘pinches.’ So calling me, Paul, or anybody in this day and age a crab is absurd. It’s absurd because nobody owns anything anymore. Nothing. Not even the beating heart you were born with.

  We were now walking next to the Shard. “Beautiful building, isn’t it?” I ask Paul with my head tilted backward, admiring the architecture. Paul slowly walked toward the building, placing his hands against the glass structure once he reached it.

  “What is it?” I ask curiously. I follow his gaze to inside the building. All I saw was a wooden paneled wall which made up the center of the base floor—it’s much like a solid wooden square inside larger glass square—metallic furniture, with various cushions that didn’t look too comfortable, and more glass. Paul un-holstered his pistol and fired five shots into the glass. He kicked it and the glass shards came crashing down.

  “We could have used the front door, but your way is much cooler. I’m proud of you,” I tell him sarcastically. He ran through the hole he created and ran to a Coca-Cola vending machine that I missed. From the memories I have in London—I don’t remember seeing a single Coke machine. We were in luck.

  He dragged and pushed the machine feet away from the wall. When he was done with that he walked to the front of the machine and started front kicking it. I just stood outside, amused at the sight of this inanimate object kicking Paul’s ass. He threw a few shoulder butts into it followed by a series of sidekicks. I walk through the hole, take the bolo blade with my free hand, and stab the tip of it through the plastic casing. Paul stops and looks at me and I wave my hand toward the machine, “Please, continue,” I tell him with amusement. He took the handle of the blade and tried tearing the machine in half, but was unsuccessful. He then pulled the blade out of the machine and began to mindlessly hack away.

  I start to laugh and Paul turns to me with furious eyes, “What? Not thirsty anymore?”

  “I can live,” I tell him.

  “If I get this thing open I’m not going to let you have any,” he said.

  A close, ground-shaking, explosion forces Paul and I to lose our footing. Glass panes in the immediate area shatter and fall to the ground as we do. Trucks and yelling soldiers can be heard just outside the building. Instinctively, I remove the M4 from around my shoulder and replace it with the heavy duffle bag. I tuck the assault rifle into my shoulder and slowly move backward toward the empty hallway. Paul is just standing next to the vending machine, still holding the blade, with wide eyes and a dropped jaw—frozen. I kick him hard in his left hamstring and he snaps out of it. I take my blade back, out from his hand, and slide it through my belt.

  “Let’s go!” I growl at him. My back ran into the wooden wall and I looked to my left to see I had about ten feet of this wall left before it was open space. Paul just put the duffle bag around his shoulders, G36 at-the-ready, and was running toward me when they came into sight. And when he first came into sight. The bastard, Vergil, was sitting passenger in the leading Humvee. Both he and the driver were intensely fixated on the battle behind them. My stomach dropped when he stepped out of the vehicle. I got a good look at his gray dress uniform with the infamous red band and black swastika across his right bicep. More soldiers came into view, crowding around Vergil—if that is his name. Two more Humvees came into view, but these had heavy machine guns mounted on top.

  Paul was still running toward me when he yelled, “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Just loud enough for Vergil and his troops to hear. I watch them snap their heads to our direction. Vergil and I finally make eye contact and I let him know that I will kill him. Don’t play with the devil.

  I drop to a crouch and open silenced fire on the German soldiers, providing cover for Paul as he rounded the corner behind the wooden center. I easily take out two before they jump for cover, and I turn to follow Paul. The bullets of their return fire come close as I round the corner. The surroundings are a blur as Paul and I sprint to a pair of escalators about fifty yards in front of us. Miraculously, the left side is running—hopefully we’ll run into a working elevator. Our adrenaline pushes our legs beyond a burn and carries us up the escalator within seconds. We took a U-turn and repeat the process—running up another set of escalators.

  This new floor was cluttered with metallic desks, with dusty computers resting on them, and more furniture against the glass perimeter. The floor was littered with loose pieces of paper. About forty yards away, set inside the wooden center to our right, was an elevator. With haste, we make our way to the elevator and hit the ‘up’ button. To my hopes and dreams the button lights up.

  Making a last line of defense, I drag the closest desk and throw it on its side. Feet in front of the first desk I throw another desk on its side for extra reinforcement. It took an extra effort to move our shields around due to their immense weight. These heavy-duty desks should do. I jump behind the second desk in line and Paul follows suit. I take off the duffle bag and set my M4 on top of the desk, ready to blast the first soldiers to show themselves into the next life. Paul is resting his back against the desk—obviously not ready.

  The first couple of soldiers, in full gear, come to view. They examine their immediate area—unfocused on our fortified area. I open fire on the nearest soldier. Within three quiet shots, he hits the deck. The other target frantically searches and spots me within seconds, but it’s too late. Before he can aim and fire I put two quick shots in his head.

  More explosions, from the ground, can be heard and felt. The faction holding this area must be putting up a good fight.

  Five more soldiers show their faces and we open fire on each other. I kill one and drop another by shooting out his knees. Their firepower is overwhelming and I have to take cover.

  “Why the hell can’t they make elevators that instantly show up?!” I yell. I look over to Paul and he’s still holding his cover.

  “Help would be nice!” I scream in his ear. He takes his G36, sticking it over his left shoulder, creating blind fire. What the hell is wrong with him? I can’t stand this—it’s either him or them. If he wants to cower down in a corner, then it’s his life. I side roll to the left and take out the one exposed soldier. A loud ‘ding’ signals the elevator has arrived. I throw the duffle bag through the open elevator doors. Then I take Paul by his shoulders and shove him toward the elevator.

  “Get your ass inside.” I get to my feet in a low crouch. Their barrage of fire seems endless. I take a quick leap for the elevator and hit a random button on the panel. That button happened to be ’79.’ As the doors were closing, I quickly grab a grenade, rip the pin out, and toss it to the left. A muffled explosion and screams tell me I hit my target.

  Paul was sitting in a corner with the back of his head lying against the wall. Instant heat to my face blinded my em
otions. I grabbed Paul’s vest and forced him to his feet. We made eye contact. I reared-back my left hand and landed a bone crunching punch on his right cheek. His back slammed against the metal railings, lining the interior walls, severely rattling the elevator.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” I yell in his face as I continue to bash him against the elevator wall.

  “Does it not bother you their bullets have the potential to end your life? You want to end up like mom or dad? Mary?” he looked at me with fierce eyes. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but times have changed. You have to get used to the fact that pulling the trigger,” I hold my gun up to his face, “gets you around in this life.”

  Paul straightens his stature, “It’s hard to live with the fact that I take the lives of…” he started but I didn’t let him finish.

  “OPEN YOUR EYES!” I yell at him from across the tiny box. “That would be fine years ago when people walked around worrying if their next paycheck would buy them their fix of weed, but it’s not going to fly now! Mother fuckers walk around with Glocks in their shorts, and they can shoot you in the face if they feel like it. And you’re worried about shooting this new age Nazi scum who’re clearly trying to kill you? Sort your shit out.”

  “I see where