“You’ll regret this. You won’t be able to show you face on the entire fucking estate! I’ll have you fucking shot, blud, you get me? I’ll have you buried in Max Roach Park.”
“You ain’t the one with the gun, blud.” Vamps took a step closer, showing he wasn’t afraid. “I should plug you right now and be done with it. I’m tired of your fucking noise.”
Sirens blared outside. The possible sound of an explosion across the Thames.
Pusher was panting. However tough he was acting, part of him must have expected Vamps to pull the trigger. Vamps had never pulled the trigger before—and he didn’t want to now—but this was Brixton. Shit happened in Brixton.
Mass tossed the room, shoving aside sofa cushions and checking down the sides. Ginge and Ravy took his lead and started rooting around too.
Vamps headed to the chest of drawers that Scarface had been rifling through. “Step away. I wanna see what had you in such a panic.”
Pusher’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t do this, blud. Last warning.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Vamps pulled open one of the drawers far enough that it almost fell out of the unit. Inside was mostly junk letters, but at the bottom was a white envelope—a fat envelope. “Looky what we have here.”
Pusher had stopped talking—probably realised it was doing him no good—and only stood and glared at Vamps now as he opened the envelope and peered inside at the cash. There must have been a few grand, easy.
Mass had stopped searching the sofa and looked up to see what Vamps had found. “Nice! Guess we call that interest.”
“The fuck you do,” said Pusher. “You take your five-hundred and piss off!”
Vamps grinned. “No need to be sore. Just business, blud. Way of the street, innit?”
“Daddy? What’s happening outside?”
A little boy entered the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. When Pusher saw him, his face dropped in horror. He looked at Vamps, almost pleadingly. “Everything’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s just talking to his friends about something.”
Vamps lowered his gun. It might have been foolish, but seeing a child made him do so instinctively. The streets were tough, but there were still rules. He moved the pistol behind his thigh where the little boy wouldn’t see it. “Hey, little man. My name is Vamps. I’m a friend of your daddy’s.”
The little boy looked like his father—same dark brown eyes and shaved head. When he looked at Vamps, he didn’t seem afraid—a Brixton boy in the making. “Why is your name that?”
“Because of my teeth. See?” Vamps bared his golden fangs—an upgrade required after a couple of Angell town boys had smashed his head against a curb.
The little boy giggled. “Cool.”
“Come on, man,” said Mass. “Let’s take the envelope and bounce. We done here.”
Vamps nodded, eyeballed Pusher. “Yeah, man, we done.”
“Can we all go and get ice cream, Daddy?” the little boy asked. “I want to see what’s happening outside.”
Pusher smiled at his son. “Yeah, sweetheart, but just you and me. These guys are leaving.” He nodded at Vamps and whispered, “Just go, man.”
Vamps remained rooted to the spot for a moment. His guts churned with what he supposed might be guilt.
Ah, for fuck sake.
He dug into the envelope and thumbed at the cash inside. He pulled out five-hundred quid in twenties and threw the rest down on the chest of drawers. “Let’s bounce.”
Mass frowned at him. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously. Move it.”
They got out of there. Mass gave one of the meat heads outside a swift kick to the ribs as they passed back towards the stairwell. On the way down, he struggled to understand what Vamps had done. “What the fuck, man? Why did you leave the cash?”
“Because we didn’t need it. We got what we were owed. I ain’t taking nothing from a father looking after his kid. Don’t matter how much a piece of shit he is.”
“He won’t leave things there,” said Ravy. “He’ll want payback.”
Vamps shrugged. “If he wants to come take a shot at us in our own manor, he’s welcome to try. Right now, though, we got bigger things to worry about.”
They took a moment to pause on the stairwell and look out of the windows.
The streets of Brixton had erupted.
Richard Honeywell
The chaos erupted with a lone gunshot, like the start of a marathon. Only, people did not break in the same direction towards a common goal. The rampage spread in every direction—people behaving more like startled deer than rational citizens.
As a police officer, Richard Honeywell’s biggest concern was where that gunshot had come from—and who had fired it—but any chance of finding answers quickly eroded as the crowd broke into panic.
The reason so many of them gathered in Slough’s Queensmere Shopping Centre was because of the giant television screen hanging from the rafters. Its purpose was to advertise products and televise sports, but for the last three hours, it had displayed nothing but news.
The news was not good.
The Thames Valley Police were on high alert, ready to assist the Metropolitan Police the moment anything happened on Oxford Street. Nobody could say what the stones were, or where they had come from, so they prepared for the worst. The problem was, the Thames Valley Police had their hands full on their own doorstep, without having to be on call for London. People in Richard’s patch of Slough, for instance, had been on the cusp of panic since dawn, and by noon, they were all but ready to blow. That was why the gunshot had set them off like runners on the blocks.
It happened fifteen minutes ago—the attack on Oxford Street. The news was running a studio report where an authority on ‘Terrorism Countermeasures’ had been considering the possibility of a worldwide conspiracy regarding the stones. He dismissed it as impossible. Then the studio report cut abruptly to a view of Oxford Street. The stone in the middle of the road began pulsing and glowing, projecting a large net of colourful light into the air. Richard sensed it was a gate immediately. To him, it resembled the plastic loops children blew bubbles with, and those swirling, multicoloured suds were exactly the same as the net of light above the stone now. Yes, he had known it was some kind of gate.
But he never expected what came through.
The first creature to emerge was horribly burned—so disfigured that a fellow police officer on the scene rushed over to assist. The injured man had grabbed the officer by the throat and snapped his neck with a single hand. His skull hitting the pavement echoed from large speakers hanging from the shopping centre’s rafters.
On screen, the City of London ignited.
In Oxford Street, what had been a rowdy, defiant mob now became a stampede of frantic animals. Reason and humanity deserted as men and women trampled the elderly and young to get away from the horrors at their back. In contrast, the people assembled in the Slough shopping centre had stood like statues, their necks craned upwards towards the television as if it were God speaking to them.
Then the gunshot had spurred them into action.
Richard’s ears told him it had come from the western corridor of the shopping centre, over by the Nandos restaurant, but the assembled crowd fanned out so quickly that the shooter was swallowed up by the mass of egressing people.
Richard was one of seven police officers designated to the shopping centre, and as soon as he had arrived, he knew it would not be enough if a riot started. Seven men could not control five hundred. That was patently clear now as Richard fell to the ground, barged aside by a large man not watching where he went, and then swiftly trodden on by a business woman in sharp heels. He cried out as the skin along his left shin shredded. No one stopped to help him.
Taking kicks in every part of his body, Richard dragged himself over to one of the vendor carts that dotted the main plaza. This one stocked cheap sunglasses made to look like designer shades. A hollow underneath where the stall holder might sit on a st
ool, provided Richard shelter and allowed him to wait for the worst to be over.
His radio chattered on his belt, and he unclasped it. Hunched over, he pressed the button and responded. “Honeywell, over.”
“Richard, you okay? It’s Saunders. I’m over at Waterstones, and a herd of people just came running by.”
Richard sighed. “Yep, that sounds about right. Some idiot fired a gun. I don’t know what we’re expected to do here.”
“Should we arrest people?” asked Saunders.
“For what? Being scared? I don’t blame them. I’m scared too. What the hell is happening in London?” A loud bang on the line followed by screaming. “Saunders, are you there?”
Silence for a moment, but then Saunders came back. “Sorry, a kid’s been hurt. I need to go. Let me know when you have orders.”
Richard was the most senior officer at the shopping centre—a sergeant—but that didn’t mean he was responsible for giving orders. Usually, he would be back at the precinct organising task forces or training new recruits. Now and then he led operations when Reading FC played against someone the fans detested. Truthfully, he didn’t know what to do. All he could think about was getting home. What he’d witnessed on television compressed his bones under the sheer weight of terror. The only reason he hadn’t panicked was because he coiled inwards instead of out, choosing to accept nothing rather than panic at the reality. He had a job to do.
He got on the radio and told the other officers nearby to rendezvous at his position. The crowd thinned enough for him to emerge from beneath the vendor cart and stand up. Visions of a video showing him cowering being posted on YouTube went through his mind, but what could he have done? Let his spine get trampled and spend the rest of his life having his poor wife wipe his arse and empty his bladder? No way. Jen had enough to deal with looking after their son, Dillon.
Small groups of people remained in the area, almost all of them sobbing and hurt. One woman clutched her arm which pointed the wrong way from the elbow. Another guy sported a lump on his forehead the size of a golf ball—the glaze in his eyes made it seem like he was daydreaming.
Moans filled the air, but only one caused Richard concern. He followed the high-pitched keening to a motorised scooter overturned outside a chemist. His eyes next fell upon a handbag, its contents scattered, but he didn’t see a body until he got close enough to peer over the scooter.
“Jesus!”
A frail old lady rested on her side, sobbing. The rubbery flesh around her wrist blackened from an obvious break, and a gash on her forehead dripped blood like a tap. Richard righted the scooter and shoved it away so he could lift the woman up and onto his lap. She whimpered, and it took several moments of gentle whispering to calm her. “You’re all right, love. I’ve got you.”
His colleague, Riaz, appeared then. When he saw the bloody old woman in Richard’s arms, he got right on the line to Dispatch to call an ambulance. “What happened to her?” he asked once aid was on its way.
Richard shook his head. “People turned into frightened animals. Nobody’s fault.”
“Like hell it isn’t. We should check CCTV.”
Richard disagreed. “People were running for their lives. Nobody meant to hurt anybody else. The only person who needs locking up is the idiot who fired a gun and started the stampede.”
“It wasn’t a gun,” said Riaz. “I spoke to the centre manager. Someone dropped a helium cylinder in the card shop, and a valve broke. No one got hurt, but it made a pretty hefty bang.”
Richard gave the old dear on his lap a gentle pat and tried not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “There’s an ambulance on its way, love. You have anyone we should call for you?”
The old dear gave no reply, only whimpered. Shock. At her age it didn’t take much. From the look of her tissue-paper skin she was probably north of eighty. Poor girl must be terrified.
“It will all be okay,” Richard reassured her again. He looked up at Riaz. “Regroup with the others and then check outside. The crowd all ran for it, but God knows where they’ll end up.”
“All right, Sarge. I’ll be on the radio.”
Richard watched Riaz hurry away, then went back to soothing the old woman on his lap. The other injured people in the shopping centre gradually snapped back into reality, which led them to moan about their pain. From what Richard saw, they were fine. Only the old dear on his lap was in a truly bad way—and perhaps the woman with the broken arm who now fell unconscious.
Richard tried to wipe the blood off the old woman’s face, but it was so thin that it crusted. The smell was like copper pennies. She whimpered still, but now closed her eyes.
“Where’s that sodding ambulance?” he hissed.
Richard grabbed his radio and called Dispatch, surprised when no one answered. Never in his twelve years on the job had Dispatch failed to answer a call. He persevered for five minutes straight, and was just about to give up, when somebody finally replied.
“Dispatch.”
“Yes, it’s Sergeant Honeywell at Queensmeade Shopping centre, what the hell is going on there?”
“It’s all gone to hell,” said a welsh accent he didn’t recognise. “I’m not even supposed to be answering calls, but everyone is busy.”
“Who are you, then?”
“I’m Nancy. I’m just an office temp. Heard your call going on for five minutes and couldn’t take the noise anymore.”
“Where are all the dispatchers?”
“Here,” she said, “but they have call after call after call coming in. London’s under attack. So is everywhere else.”
“Everywhere else?” said Richard, but then decided he couldn’t deal with any more information right now. “I need an ambulance sent to my location. An old lady is hurt.”
“I’ll see what I can do for you, but I’m not gunna lie, there isn’t going to be much chance of getting you one anytime soon. The entire region is calling in for help. They’re assembling the Army to go into the city.”
“The Army?” It made sense, but Richard struggled to imagine the Army stomping down Oxford Street. “What does Command want us to do?”
“I have no idea, love. Just look after yourself. I have to go.”
“No, wait. I need—”
The line went dead.
Richard looked at the old woman on his lap and felt himself shake. The moans in the shopping centre beat at his skull. The stench of blood made him want to gag. He needed to get out of there. Needed to do something.
A crash, and Richard looked around to see a group of young men kicking in the door to the video game store. The staff had all left, and the security guards, to Richard’s astonishment, looked the other way. So much blood and panic must have turned their stomachs and sapped their will.
The gang of youths spilled into the store and started their rampage, kicking over display stands and grabbing anything they desired. One lad, in a white baseball cap, stood up front while his pals loaded him up with games, consoles, and other expensive hardware.
Then one of the looters spotted Richard kneeling outside with the old lady—realised he was a police officer.
“Fuck, there’s a plod!”
They stopped what they were doing mid-rampage. The lad with the armful of game consoles peered over the top of the pile with wide eyes. They all made for the door at once.
Richard tried to get up, but couldn’t get the old lady off of him quickly enough without hurting her. She moaned. “P-Please…”
The looters edged out of the doorway and hurried towards the exit, where they would hit the streets and disappear with their haul. It was now or never if he was going to stop them. Richard might be a forty-year old man, but he was good in a sprint. He only needed to catch one of them—and the lad with the armful of consoles would be sluggish.
The gang bolted.
Richard jolted, but didn’t move from his knees. Ruefully, he watched them race out through the exit.
There had been no choice but
to let them go.
The old lady needed Richard more.
“I got you,” he said. “Someone will be here soon.”
“T-Thank you.”
Richard stroked her brittle, grey hair while trying not to think too hard about what was happening. He had a feeling things would get very busy in the hours ahead.
What the hell was happening in London?
And how long before it reached here?
The ambulance took over an hour, and only one paramedic arrived instead of the normal two. Richard helped the medic load the old dear onto the gurney and secure her in the back of the vehicle. The woman with the broken arm was ushered inside also. She had woken up enough to take a seat up front. Before the paramedic got going, Richard pulled him aside.
“Will she be okay?”
The paramedic was a tall gent with shaved red hair. He looked dog-tired, and when he spoke, it was obvious his vocal chords had strained. “Honestly, I’m not sure if anyone will be okay today. She has a concussion, which is bad for someone her age, but she’s lucky compared to some.” He took a moment to rub at his eyes as if he was holding back tears. “It’s been the worst day of my life; I can tell you. This is my fourth call-out in the last two hours. I didn’t know people could act this way. I had to take a six year old to the hospital because someone pushed him in front of a bus while they were trying to steal a bike. I don’t think the boy has a chance of pulling through.”
Richard grunted. “People are afraid. It magnifies the bad behaviour. It’s men like you who have to look after the innocent at times like this. People like this old lady were doing nothing except going about their day.”
“Men like me and you,” the paramedic corrected.
Richard frowned. “Sorry?”
“It’s men like me and you who need to look after the innocent. It was good of you to care for this old lady. I haven’t seen a police officer all day. What are you all doing? Things are completely out of control. No offence.”
Legion: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel (Hell on Earth Book 2) Page 4
