Going Underground

by Denison, L. N

  ‘I’m sorry, there is a great deal of interference coming from your end,’ said Oscar with concern. ‘I just hope the link will hold up!’

  *

  As it turned out, it did.

  Oscar now had everything he needed to sway the people back to The Independent Mind’s side. Gerick had surpassed himself this time, and Oscar felt proud to know this brave man.

  Without further ado, Oscar turned off his end of the link and scribbled down the information he received, before packing everything and heading to Myron and Jen’s network home for the first time that day to share his good fortune.

  Again, he passed through a sea of discontented people, who had just about given up on the newsletter and were now buying into John Howard’s anti-Independent Mind propaganda. All Oscar could do was grin to himself, thinking how wrong they were, and how they would soon change their opinions once they had read the new newsletter. It was thanks to Gerick Meyer and the information he had served up—just desserts for the government bureaucrats!

  Upon his arrival at the network dwelling of his co-conspirators, Oscar found himself in a quandary. Myron and Jen were nowhere to be seen. He had not been made privy to Ryker’s bar, their after-work haunt, and feared the worst possible outcome: they had been compromised in some way.

  There was nothing that Oscar could do at that point. There was only one place he could go from there, and that was back towards the warehouse on the outskirts of Hyde Park. No matter how dangerous, he had to get his findings on paper as quickly as possible.

  With only a handful of minutes left before curfew, he took the risk of going outside. The streets surrounding Charing Cross were all but deserted, apart from the odd stragglers who were desperate to get back to the safety of the network before the last seconds ran down. Oscar was beyond caring for his safety as he passed through Charing Cross, making his way by the most direct route possible through to Hyde Park and the warehouse, ducking in and out of shrubbery to avoid detection.

  With curfew in full swing, Oscar had made the journey to the warehouse without hindrance, apart from the odd scratch incurred from scrambling into the brambles to avoid a patrol.

  *

  The printer was still primed for printing, but Oscar was concerned about the amount of ink left. Once the ink had run out, that would be it: the newsletter would be no more. It was his hope the information he had would be such an incredible eye-opener that there would be no need for future editions.

  The Voice of the People

  Issue 8

  It has been brought to our attention that the government is planning a major cull of human life over the Christmas period. Cast your minds back to the third issue, where we mentioned the use of clones to replace the dead. John Howard has instructed the building of a clone army of the existing dead to prevent any kind of celebration over the twelve days of Christmas. Mass genocide looms, and if we don’t do something about it, we will end up being a part of the new army of the dead. We need to pull together to make a stand against this criminal attack on our already oppressive way of life! We must show John Howard in his true light.

  Please take notice of this newsletter and its contents and join in the struggle for our continuing survival. We will fight to the death, if necessary, to regain the life we once knew—before the war and the iron-fisted regime that we have been forced to live with for the past twenty or so years. If you wish to join in the struggle for survival keep your wits about you, as it is difficult to know who to trust in these turbulent times. Remember! Remain vigilant at all times, and don’t let strangers amidst yourselves.

  Your servants,

  The Independent Mind

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Parliament buildings were abuzz with activity, and whispers of the newsletter echoed through the hallways. John Howard had confined himself to his office, plotting and scheming ways to avenge himself yet again.

  He reached for his telephone and dialled for his trusted guard: his army of five, who had served him well over the years even before he took on the role of prime minister.

  ‘Come to my office—I have something to discuss with you urgently!’ he bawled.

  No sooner had the receiver gone down than there was a knock at John’s door. He bade them enter.

  ‘Find yourselves somewhere to sit, gentlemen,’ said Howard. ‘We have a lot of issues to sort through—namely, the resurgence of The Independent Mind!’

  ‘But I thought we had won that battle!’ replied the head of guards.

  ‘You thought wrong, mister!’ Howard stormed. ‘Here’s the plan. From this moment on, the patrols are to begin their search for The Independent Mind in the Charing Cross suburb. For too long that area has been left to its own devices. That’s the only place left that the Mind could be working out of, and other leads to locate their whereabouts have been unsuccessful.

  ‘Arrange for patrols to man that area, and send in your best infiltrators. I want these people to suffer for trying to undermine me! The sooner we can quash their influence over the people, the sooner we can get to the real issue! Don’t let me down.’

  His personal guards leapt from their seats to get to work straight away. Once they had left his presence, Howard opened his drawer and pulled out the latest copy of The Voice of the People. He glanced at it briefly and then crunched it up into a little ball and threw it across the room.

  ‘I will find you all, and when I do, you’d better pray!’ he said quietly to himself.

  *

  Another day of delivering mail had ended for Jen, but Myron was nowhere to be seen. He had the misfortune of delivering in the South side, and God only knew what state he would be in when he arrived. The postmaster had assigned Myron to the South side permanently: a den of vice, and home to London’s brutal black-marketers. Myron always had fresh bruises to show for his frequent beatings.

  Jen had already offloaded her sacks in the makeshift office and made her way round to Ryker’s bar for her regular intoxicating concoction. As usual, she had thrown caution to the winds and prayed that she hadn’t been seen as she made her way towards the back of the building.

  ‘Hi, Jonah! Pass us a beer, will you, I’m gasping for a drink,’ Jen propped her elbows on the bar and stared wearily at him.

  ‘Where’s Myron? You’ve never come in here alone afore,’ Jonah enquired.

  ‘He’s still working, I think. I tried to get hold of him earlier, but his transmitter seems to be on the fritz. I’m a little worried.’

  Jonah passed her the beer with the usual added ingredient and took hold of her hand.

  ‘You have nothing to worry about—Myron is quite capable of looking after himself,’ he reassured her.

  ‘Even on the South side?’

  ‘The South side, eh? That’s a horse of a different colour, that is. Them ruffians and scallywags is like as not to make mincemeat out of the poor bugger.’

  ‘Thanks for cheering me up, Jonah,’ she replied sarcastically.

  Half an hour into her first drink, Myron turned up, staggering through the back door with blood streaming from his forehead. Jen was astonished by his appearance and wasn’t sure quite what to do.

  ‘Don’t just sit there like a potted fern, girl!’ Jonah snapped.

  Jen bolted from the stool and ran over to Myron, and not a moment too soon. He was on the verge of collapsing in a heap on the floor. Jen quickly grabbed his right arm and placed it round her shoulders, feeling his weight bearing down on her heavily.

  ‘Can someone help me, please!’ she shouted across the bar. A hush fell over the joint.

  ‘Keep your voice down! You want this place swarming with patrols?’ Jonah grumbled.

  ‘Well, why don’t you help me yourself, you lazy bastard?’ Jen shot back.

  Jonah had to smile in spite of himself; he liked this spunky red-haired vixen tremendously.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get him to the back room.’

  *

  Myron had lost a lot of blood
. He had received the worst beating so far at the hands of the South side’s most notorious black-marketer, but his condition was not life-threatening. After a bit of patching up and resting, he felt the urge to get up and carry on as normal.

  ‘I am going to tell that bastard just where he can poke his Hessian sacks tomorrow morning!’ he vowed. ‘I’m fed up with getting all the rough jobs. He sent me to the Southside one too many times!’

  Jen was astounded with Myron’s out-of-character outburst, but at the same time she was relieved that he was finally growing a backbone—and his bullish manner made her a little horny. She had it in her mind that if he carried out his intentions tomorrow, she would quit as well. Then maybe they could concentrate all their efforts towards their cause.

  Myron was not in the mood for drinking that evening. He knew that Oscar was drafting next week’s newsletter, which would prove to be the final edition, and he was eager to get started.

  ‘I want to go see Oscar tonight and see how far he’s come along with the newsletter,’ he whispered. ‘Are you coming, or are you going to stay here?’

  The danger of leaving Ryker’s at such a volatile time of night filled Jen with excitement. She and Myron were unaware the patrols had infiltrated Charing Cross; Prime Minister Howard had kept this fact hush-hush to flush out the members of The Independent Mind.

  Myron left the back room and staggered to the bar to thank Jonah. Jen followed in his shadow.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Jonah,’ he said. ‘I think it’s best we be on our way now.’

  ‘You can’t go outside now—it’s far too dangerous!’ Jonah urged. ‘The patrols may not be here, but there are other dangers.’

  Myron was adamant that he wanted to leave the safety of the bar, and was in no mood to argue. Jen looked at Jonah and shrugged her shoulders, as she was not about to stand in his way.

  *

  Oscar had surpassed himself; he had already completed the final newsletter thanks to Gerick’s new information, and it would prove more damning than the last.

  Oscar was not alone in the warehouse; several of the recruits were keeping guard over him and the hideaway. The guards had not been told to expect anyone on that evening, and if anyone were to arrive at the warehouse, they were to use force if necessary.

  Meanwhile, Myron and Jen had made it to the outskirts of Hyde Park, a familiar route travelled every day. Myron was puzzled by the sight of patrols as they made their way through Charing Cross, scouring the network for curfew breakers. The pair slinked and slid their way in and out of crevices to avoid their eyes.

  ‘What’s going on? Patrols never come this far!’ Myron said anxiously.

  As Jen was one of the few non-pure bloods in existence, she had great cause to be concerned. She kept far out of sight to avoid capture.

  The warehouse was in Myron’s sight, but a patrol lurked, using the entrance as a meeting place to begin their patrol of the surrounding area.

  ‘I think we should turn back,’ Jen said, her voice husky with fear.

  ‘No, Jen, we wait!’ Myron replied sharply.

  They waited a few minutes behind a nearby bush until the patrol moved away and disappeared from sight.

  Myron grabbed Jen’s arm and cautiously pulled her towards the warehouse entrance. They slid open the door and tiptoed inside, to be promptly met by a recruit on sentry duty.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the colossal figure grunted. ‘Oscar isn’t expecting anyone tonight. Leave quietly and peacefully before I have to make you!’

  Myron did not recognise the six-foot-four, broad-shouldered man towering over him. ‘I might just as well ask, who the hell are you!’ he said, unfazed by the brute’s size. ‘Do you not know who we are? Has Oscar said nothing to you about us?’

  Jen just stood in awed silence as Myron and his newfound backbone squared up to the giant of a man, who was wielding a two by four.

  ‘No, I don’t know who you are, and why should I? All I see in front of me is a couple of intruders trying to get to my boss, and that’s all!’ the giant replied menacingly.

  By this time, Myron’s temper was at boiling point, and the usually hard-headed Jen could do nothing to bring him down. If he carried on the way he was going, he would end up getting hurt at the very least. With the gash that he had sustained earlier on in the day, a blow to the head could well prove fatal.

  ‘Myron, come on, it’s not worth getting hurt again!’ Jen whimpered.

  At the mention of the name ‘Myron,’ the giant began to back away. He had obviously been told their names, but had not envisaged them being so young or so scruffy.

  ‘Please accept my apology! I didn’t realise who you were. Oscar has spoken highly of you.’

  He stuck out a giant paw, which Myron shook.

  ‘There’s no need to explain or apologise,’ said Myron, wincing from the giant’s grip. ‘I must say, you’re doing a good job of looking out for Oscar. What’s your name, big guy?’

  ‘My name is Lonny Campbell, sir!’ he barked in an almost military fashion.

  Jen looked puzzled. ‘Are you a non-pure blood, Lonny Campbell?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I am! I also fought in the war—Scottish Army!’

  ‘But where is your accent? You have done well to hide it,’ Myron observed.

  ‘Aye,’ said Lonny, ‘I have gone to great pains to disguise my brogue. My life depended on it, you might say.’

  Jen was stupefied to learn she wasn’t the only non-pure blood left in existence and was about to share her lineage with Lonny when Myron chimed in.

  ‘Jen here is also of Scottish blood on her mother’s side,’ Myron said excitedly.

  ‘Thank you, Myron, I am quite capable of speaking for myself!’ she griped. She turned her attention to her fellow non-pure blood. ‘We need to see Oscar. Is he in the print room?’

  Myron was cowed by Jen’s take-charge attitude and came back down to earth with a crash. ‘I’m sorry for speaking out of turn, Jen,’ he said sheepishly, reverting to his easygoing old self, much to Jen’s disgust. She was beginning to get used to the new Myron, and for him to return to his soppy self was a bit of a letdown.

  ‘Yes, he is. I shall take you to him,’ Lonny replied.

  ‘No, that’s okay, we know where to go!’ Jen said sharply.

  Myron and Jen made their way past the steel racking on either side of them. They passed another couple of recruits, who recognised and greeted them.

  Oscar could hear footsteps from the other side of the door, but thought nothing of it. He assumed it was one of the new members of The Independent Mind moving around. Suddenly, the door to the print room began to open; Oscar realised it wasn’t one of the recruits, as they would have knocked. He grabbed a heavy spanner capable of maiming sufficiently and hid on the other side of the door, waiting for the intruder to enter.

  Myron’s shadow formed on the wall as he entered, and Jen followed shortly after.

  ‘What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you today,’ Oscar enquired.

  ‘Myron fancied doing something risky! What more can I say?’ Jen replied cynically.

  Oscar laughed, much to Myron’s annoyance.

  ‘What! I did want to do something risky half an hour ago—coming here was risk enough!’ Myron hissed.

  ‘Indeed it was, and you came this close to getting brained,’ said Oscar, dropping the spanner to the floor with a clang. ‘Here, the final newsletter has been put to bed, as they say.’

  He handed a copy to Myron and Jen to look at. The layout was spectacular and befitting a final issue.

  ‘I must say, Oscar, I’m highly impressed!’ said Myron. ‘Why wait until the end of the week to distribute it? I say we get this out among the drooling masses tonight!’

  ‘I reckon we should do a military-style airdrop, in order to reach as many readers as possible in one fell swoop, and I know just the place to do it from,’ Oscar piped up excitedly. ‘The old ministry building! It’s in the centre of London, and a
t twenty storeys tall, it’s the tallest building still in existence. With the stiff breeze that’s blowing tonight, distribution will be a cinch!’

  Jen nodded in agreement.

  Myron was not so easily convinced. ‘We’ve never done an airdrop before. I think we’d be playing with fire. No, it’s out of the question.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a big girl’s blouse!’ Jen chided Myron.

  ‘Jen’s right,’ said Oscar. ‘It’s the most expedient method for distributing the newsletter, and we’ll keep on our toes, I promise.’

  ‘All right, all right, you have my approval!’ Myron yelled, throwing up his hands in frustration. ‘You and Jen can carry out the drop, then, as you seem to be hell-bent on going through with this risky venture! Just be careful!’

  ‘We’ll be back before you know it!’ Oscar assured him. ‘Lonny! Bring through a couple of sacks, will you!’ Oscar shouted, his shrill voice reverberating throughout the warehouse.

  Two minutes later, Lonny entered with two Hessian sacks.

  ‘Would you mind filling them up for me? There’s a good fellow.’ Oscar sounded almost condescending, which ruffled Lonny’s feathers slightly. An order was an order, and Lonny obeyed without protest as if he were still in the Army, even giving Oscar a smart salute. He loaded each bag as equally as he could and passed one each to Jen and Oscar.

  ‘Good luck!’ Myron cried as his confederates grabbed their bags and took their leave.

  ‘We’ll be back shortly—see you in about an hour!’ Jen said, brushing past Myron. She paused and looked up into his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, everything is going to be okay. Oscar and I will look out for each other.’

  Myron smiled down at her and gave her hand a brief squeeze before the pair disappeared from sight.

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ Lonny reassured Myron, as he sensed the youth’s apprehension.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Myron. ‘And now the waiting game begins.’

  *

  Oscar led Jen cautiously towards the colossal ministry building. They avoided the loitering patrol that stood on the corner, but did not for one moment have second thoughts about carrying out their risky venture.