Going Underground

by Denison, L. N

  ‘Have you heard what people are saying? The first edition of The Voice of the People is a smash!’ Oscar whispered.

  Both Myron and Jen got up quickly and followed Oscar to witness the bustle for themselves, making their way towards the entrance of the station. They beheld a scene of pandemonium. Everywhere they turned, there were people animatedly discussing the contents of the newsletter; some people were not to be swayed by it, but others had had their suspicions confirmed. So, why didn’t they believe it when I tried to warn them months ago? Oscar fumed. Why had it taken a piece of paper with a few words on it to convince them otherwise? It infuriated Oscar, but he couldn’t grumble, as people were certainly taking notice now.

  ‘Oscar, if it’s like this now, I can’t even think what it will be like after a month of distribution. This is amazing.’ Myron whispered close to Oscar’s ear.

  ‘I know! It makes me want to go back to Northwood and start the next instalment,’ Oscar whispered back. ‘The only thing is, why did nobody believe it before when I tried to tell them what was going on? It doesn’t compute!’

  ‘I think I know why. Before, there was no mention of cloning, and the fact that so many people have been killed in the tunnel networks has made people think about what you had said,’ Myron said logically.

  ‘Oh, I see what you’re saying: I wasn’t credible! I was just a kook!’ Oscar snapped, as he stalked away from them.

  Jen and Myron stared at each other in disbelief.

  ‘Moody git!’ said Jen.

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s understandable I suppose,’ Myron replied. ‘He was right all along, but who was going to believe a pompous little ass like him?’

  *

  Prime Minister Edward Myosin called an emergency cabinet meeting, with Brigadier John Howard asked to join the proceedings.

  ‘The people responsible for this abomination must be apprehended!’ Myosin stormed, waving a copy of the incriminating newsletter in his hand. ‘We have to send out a message—weed out the remaining rebel cells, find out who’s doing this, and stop this nonsense once and for all!

  ‘I don’t care how it’s done, but we need to have the people responsible in custody before the elections begin! Material like this could ruin my chances of being reelected!’

  The truth of the matter was that the elections were a smokescreen for the bigger picture. Rumours had been circulating about a governmental coup for months; the Prime Minister had decided to call an election to stop it and see who would dare go against him in the polls. Plans had already been made to eradicate anyone foolish enough to try and take the reins of power away from the presiding government. The victims of the Prime Minister’s brutal retaliation wouldn’t be known until the time came for each candidate to put their arguments forward. There were those who thought themselves immune from harm, but they would discover otherwise during the polling period.

  Thankfully, there was a silver lining in the dark cloud of the government’s diabolical machinations: everything that the government did from now on would be well documented within the newsletter.

  ‘Do we know who is running in opposition to me?’ Myosin asked as he scoured the grand oblong table where his most loyal and trusted cabinet members sat.

  His brain trust shook its collective heads. Brigadier John Howard had designs on taking power away from the Prime Minister, but only he knew the lengths he was willing to go to. The brigadier had been brought in to orchestrate the murders of the opposition, but Myosin didn’t realise that he, too, would be among the brigadier’s victims. John Howard was not alone; he had several allies around the table who would do anything to see the brigadier sitting at the head—but for now, Myosin was oblivious to the conspiracy against him.

  *

  Nearly a week had passed, and the effects of the first newsletter were still apparent everywhere that Myron, Jen, and Oscar dared to venture. Another visit to Northwood to publish fresh ink was in order.

  ‘We will go back tonight, I think,’ Oscar mused. ‘We need to get the second newsletter ready for the weekend—we don’t want interest to wane!’

  Myron and Jen were in full agreement.

  ‘I think we should go now!’ Myron suggested.

  ‘Yeah, let’s go now!’ Jen piped up. ‘I don’t really want to have to make the journey through a sea of bodies again.’

  ‘OK, we’ll go now,’ Oscar agreed.

  They made their way back to the station entrance and retrieved the empty sacks.

  ‘We’ll need to conceal these under our jackets! We don’t want overly snoopy people asking questions,’ Oscar whispered as he passed Myron and Jen a sack each. They made their way out into the open again to make the journey to Northwood, relying heavily on Oscar’s memory.

  It was easy going through the tunnel network, but every muscle in Oscar’s brain would be taxed by trying to remember how he had gotten to Hyde Park in the first place, almost three weeks ago. The previous journey to Northwood had been made through the tunnel networks, with the aid of Arthur’s crudely drawn map.

  The trip that Oscar had made from the encampment to find Myron and Jen was carried out under pressure. He hadn’t really paid that much attention to retracing his footsteps if the necessity ever arose. Foggy memories of the journey on the outside came slowly flooding back.

  ‘I think we need to go this way,’ said Oscar, but he appeared unsure.

  Myron and Jen followed him apprehensively. The last thing they needed was to get caught in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to hide when curfew came around.

  ‘I hope you’re sure about this Oscar—I don’t want to end up as another government statistic!’ Myron sniped.

  ‘Trust me!’ Oscar replied with as much ferocity.

  He carried on walking ahead of Myron and Jen, who were slowly separating themselves from him.

  ‘I think I’ve changed my mind—I would rather take my chances with the rotting corpses than do this.’ Jen whispered in Myron’s ear. ‘I can’t handle spending time in another labour camp! You don’t know what they do to people in there, but I do!’

  Myron could only imagine what Jen had been through; she never really talked about her experience at the hands of the camp’s sadistic doctor, or how she lost her eye. The only person that would be able to tell him was Oscar, but he hadn’t pushed the issue after they left the forest.

  ‘Where is he going now?’ Jen harped. ‘Oscar—do you know where you’re going?’ she shouted out to him.

  Oscar ignored her cries and kept walking. He was determined to carry on with the journey on the outside, no matter what the cost.

  Myron grabbed Jen’s arm and pulled her aside. ‘We’ll follow him as far as the next station, and complete the journey via the tunnel networks. He can do whatever he likes!’ Myron said softly and reassuringly.

  Jen smiled nervously at him as they carried on walking. She couldn’t remember Oscar being this pushy in the camp, but then again, she had only known him briefly. She was indebted to him for tending to her wounds after the missile attack, and for helping her achieve her freedom from the camp.

  *

  With the light fading and curfew just minutes away, Oscar hotfooted it towards the nearest underground station, Paddington. It led him straight to Northwood through the old Metropolitan line. He didn’t seem too put out that Myron and Jen had technically given him a vote of no confidence as far as his navigational skills were concerned. He had no doubt that Myron and Jen had already made it to Northwood, and was working on the premise that they would be there when he eventually arrived.

  Unlike Myron and Jen’s journey back to Northwood, Oscar’s journey through the tunnel would be corpse free. Certain lines had not been plagued with death, and the Metropolitan was one of them—but the smell of death and sewer water was still very apparent in the damp tunnel air, making for an unpleasant journey for his sensitive nose.

  A glimmer of light shone ahead of Oscar; it told him that the platform was in sight, and that his journey
was coming to an end after around six stations.

  Northwood would be a welcome sight.

  *

  Myron looked at Jen anxiously, wondering what was taking Oscar so long. They had been preparing the next newsletter at the warehouse for the past two hours, while hoping that Oscar hadn’t been caught—or even worse, killed.

  While Myron fretted about Oscar, Jen thought she heard a noise.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ she asked.

  Myron looked up at her and shook his head. ‘You’re hearing things.’

  ‘There is someone else in here, Myron—don’t be so quick to shrug it off!’ Jen snapped. ‘Can you go and take a look?’

  Again, a crashing sound came from the main warehouse; it was louder this time, and Myron also heard it.

  ‘Wait here!’ he said quietly. A moment later, he stuck his head through the door and reported, ‘Nothing to worry about, it’s only Oscar!’

  Jen made her way out of the print room to greet the tardy and rather tired Oscar.

  ‘Where the hell have you been, mister?’ she screamed. ‘You said you knew how to get here without the tunnels! Shit! You couldn’t find your own arse with your finger!’

  ‘Jen, leave him alone!’ Myron ordered.

  In a huff, she re-entered the print room to prepare for the next run. She was followed by Myron and Oscar, who wanted nothing more than to rest.

  ‘You two can work on the newsletter if you want,’ said Oscar, sounding a little wounded after Jen’s tirade. ‘I can see that you have everything in hand. I, on the other hand, will be sleeping! I bid you a good night.’

  Oscar turned on his heels and headed for his bunk. Jen was angry at his lack of commitment to getting the next newsletter printed and distributed. She didn’t care too much for the fact that he was tired; they weren’t resting, so why should he be able to?

  ‘Myron, I’m not being funny, but wasn’t he the one that wanted us to take this seriously? A slight contradiction on his part, don’t you think?’ Jen snarled.

  ‘Let it go,’ said Myron, ‘let it go.’

  *

  While Oscar rested, Myron and Jen formulated the next newsletter. The first issue was only a taster of what the people of London could expect, but the second instalment made for very interesting reading and would blow everyone’s mind. Even loyalists and non-believers would have to take the newsletter seriously, or so Myron thought as he read through the final draft.

  ‘I have to say, this is a lot more absorbing than the first newsletter,’ said Myron. ‘No disrespect to Oscar, but it was rather vague and simplistic. I’m surprised it went over so well with the citizenry. I never said anything before because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s such a sensitive git.’

  Jen took the draft and looked over it for herself. It wasn’t that she disbelieved him, but she had to make sure that Myron wasn’t tooting his own horn—but every word that had been printed was true—so true, in fact, that it scared her.

  ‘I can’t believe how accurate this is!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is exactly what happened in the camp. I wasn’t there long enough to be experimented on, but I know a man who was: Gunnar Bailey, the poor sod they hanged in Hyde Park. Along with my mum …’ her voice trailed off sadly.

  ‘We’ll go with it then!’ Myron replied. ‘I’ll print them now, and we can distribute them over the weekend.’

  ‘What about Oscar? Shouldn’t he have a say in the matter?’ Jen whispered.

  ‘He’ll go with it, don’t worry about that!’ Myron replied.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Amonth had passed since the devastating and influential second newsletter had been printed. Its effects were causing all kinds of problems for the current government, who were in the middle of their election campaign.

  The names of the main candidates were brought to the attention of Prime Minister Edward Myosin. One name on the list was the prime minister’s own brother, Joseph, who continued to be a thorn in his side by trying to outdo him at every turn—but John Howard had not abandoned his plan for disposing of the prime minister. Every waking hour was spent trying to devise a way to get rid of him in the worst possible manner, making him pay for years of misery. This was a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black, for the brigadier had been instrumental in the key battles of the war. He had caused just as much misery in his own right by killing innocent men and women for the sake of a lie.

  Howard had no qualms about carrying out the task asked of him. He was well versed in effective killing techniques—he had to be, in his position. Years of combat training had not gone to waste; his intended victims would not know what hit them. But for one man, the death would be a particularly slow and painful one. Edward Myosin had to go home at some point, but not to Number 10, as another so-called wayward missile had blown most of Downing Street to the heavens. His only retreat was his house in the country, close to the war-ravaged forest, and that is where the Brigadier would strike. Before he could carry out his intentions, though, he had to appear loyal to Myosin. He had been given a week to hunt down and kill the opposition, including the prime minister’s brother.

  *

  John Howard had made short order of the list of Edward Myosin’s opposition, dealing with them swiftly and without fuss. A simple bullet to the back of the head of each victim, including Joseph Myosin, had sufficed—but what he had set aside for the prime minister would be worse than death itself. Howard thought of how he would go about carrying out his dastardly deed as he travelled towards Myosin’s country house. He wasn’t alone; he had managed to coerce a couple of reluctant accomplices into aiding him.

  Howard had managed to acquire a form of transport, an old transit van, ominously black and nondescript. Everything that he needed was within that transport: rope, a couple of shovels, and a shoddily made coffin. His two henchmen asked no questions upon seeing this motley group of items, but it didn’t take them long to figure out what the brigadier had planned for his victim.

  Slowly, Howard drove up the bumpy, single-lane track towards Myosin’s home. He turned off the headlights on the final approach, with the engine running at a low hum.

  ‘We’ll park just a bit further up—bring the rope with you!’ Howard ordered one of the men in the back. An uneasy silence followed. The two men looked at each other, wondering whether or not they really wanted to get involved in this outrageous scheme. Really, though, they had no choice, for fear of the ramifications if they didn’t. Howard had openly threatened both their families if they didn’t carry out his every order.

  The van stopped a little over fifty yards from the main drive. Everyone dismounted and gathered the equipment, and then stealthily made their way towards the front door of the house. There were no lights on and the curtains were drawn; without a security detail, their job was made much easier. Myosin refused to have any form of protection, as nobody apart from a few trusted cabinet members knew where his house was—John Howard being one such person.

  Edward Myosin was asleep, and remained oblivious to what was going on. There was no one to help him: even his wife was no longer part of his life. Like many others before her, she found herself despising everything her husband stood for: all the lies, the deceit, and the tyranny that he had adopted over the longest prime ministerial term ever recorded—twenty years.

  Once the brigadier had carried out his intentions, it would be a welcome end to an era which many thought of as one of the worst periods in the history of the British Isles. What would happen afterwards? John Howard was undecided about whether to publicize his intentions to take the reins of power, or merely seize them quietly.

  Howard and his henchmen entered the rustic foyer easily with a lock pick kit. They then crept stealthily up the staircase to the landing, making sure to not disturb any creaky steps along the way. The next challenge would be trying to find which one of the eight rooms was actually Myosin’s bedroom. Howard’s instinct was to go to the closest room to the bathroom, which proved to be
incorrect. Slowly and separately, Howard and his henchmen checked every door.

  ‘Over here.’ one of them whispered softly.

  There Myosin lay on his back, sleeping shades on and snoring his head off. He was dead to the world. He looked ridiculous and vulnerable, as non-prime ministerial as one could imagine.

  Howard pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket, walked up to the prime minister’s bedside, and shoved it in his mouth. Myosin awoke with a violent start. He angrily spat out the rag, and tried to reach for the sleeping shades that covered his eyes. But no sooner had he lifted his arm up than the Brigadier hauled him bodily out of bed and slammed him on the hardwood floor.

  ‘Throw me that rope!’ Howard hissed.

  Myosin instantly recognised the voice of his trusted right-hand man—the Himmler to his Hitler, as he had been widely regarded during the twenty-year reign.

  ‘Howard! Is that you? Get off of me!’ Myosin snarled.

  The brigadier said nothing as he trussed the prime minister up like a prize hog; hands tied behind his back and feet pulled tight to his knees. Myosin screamed blue murder, which did him no good.

  ‘Go to the chest of drawers over there and find me a sock or something—this idiot is getting on my nerves!’ Howard snapped at one of his henchmen.

  Now, blindfolded, trussed up, and gagged with one of his own socks, the prime minister was now completely helpless. No amount of struggling would save him from what John Howard had in store for him.

  ‘Pick this pig up, take him to the van and toss his fat arse in the back!’ Howard ordered.

  The two men picked up the prime minister, silk pyjamas and all, as he struggled futilely against the ropes pulling on his wrists and ankles.

  ‘The bugger’s apt to break free!’ one of the henchmen complained. ‘P’raps we should knock him out?’

  ‘No! I want him to be awake the whole time, and know what it feels like to fear for his life every step of the way!’ said Howard.

  Before the brigadier headed for the van, he took every opportunity to rob his victim blind. Everything from the money in his wallet to the jewellery that his wife had left behind was put in his pockets.