by Peter Oxley
The man laughed. “I like you,” he said, clapping his hands together once with a sharp crack that made the deserter jump. “I think you and me are going to get along famously.” He rose to his feet and beckoned for them to follow. “I’ll show you boys what it is we’re about.”
They followed the man warily out of the room, Jones noticing that the others around them still had not relaxed their gazes or lowered their weapons. As they had spotted when they first entered the building, all manner of supplies had been raided from the nearby homes, stores and warehouses, and were stacked in the rooms and corridors they passed.
“We’ve been waiting for a sign for a long time,” the man said as he walked. “That sign finally came when the sky disappeared. The old ways weren’t working, not for the common man, not for anyone who wasn’t one of the chosen few.”
“Chosen few?” asked Jones, looking around and keeping a mental tally of what he could see, the numbers of people and any potential threats or weaknesses.
“Yeah,” said the man. “You know, the toffs, the officers, all those who gave orders. Well,” he waved an arm around vaguely, “they’re not in charge any longer.”
Jones frowned at the man. “What makes you so sure? It’s only been a few days, surely, and anyway there’s still plenty of time for the government or the army to clamp back down again.”
“How far have you travelled since the sky disappeared?” asked the man.
Jones shrugged. “From just past Maidstone,” he said. “Couldn’t tell you how many miles, but I can tell you I didn’t see much apart from a load of scared and confused people.”
“And how many soldiers or policemen did you see in all that travelling?” asked the man. “How many people in so-called authority did you see taking charge and helping to bring order?”
Jones shrugged again. “Well… none, I guess.”
The man clapped his hands and spun round, pointing a finger at Jones. The man’s eyes were aglow with zeal, a passion that lit up his face with an almost boyish mania. “Exactly,” he hissed. “They’re all gone now, and it’s down to the likes of us to seize our chance while we can.”
Jones raised an eyebrow, fighting to maintain his composure in the face of this strange man. He was unsure whether to be scared, alarmed or amused by the way he spoke and acted. “And who are you exactly?” he asked again.
The man shook his head as he led them into a long hall that had been converted into a makeshift canteen. “All in good time, my new chums,” he said, sweeping his hand to gesture expansively at the room. “All will become clear when you’ve proven that you can be trusted. In the meantime, you’re welcome to stay as our guests. We have food here, more food than you would ever have seen in the army. Eat your fill and rest well, and soon you will be given the chance to prove exactly whose side you’re on.”
The other people in that canteen were similarly evasive when it came to explaining their purpose or identities. While the deserter continued to persist with his inane mix of compliments and questions, Jones satisfied himself with simply observing and keeping his own counsel.
All of the people around them appeared to be united by some form of common purpose, that much was clear. As Jones and the deserter had noticed over the previous days while travelling, it seemed to require an element of focus and direction to avoid falling prey to the aimless fugue that had overcome so many people. However, the purpose that united their new hosts was not readily apparent. What was it they wanted?
After they had eaten their fill of sausages, steak and mashed potatoes, they were led to another room filled with hammocks, mattresses and rugs. One of the ever-present guards gestured for them to choose a bed and make themselves comfortable. This they did, watching as the guard retreated to the door and closed it behind him.
“So,” grinned the deserter. “Looks like we’ve landed on our feet here doesn’t it, matey?”
Jones resisted the urge to snap at the man’s idiocy. “I’ll be a lot happier,” he said, “when they tell us exactly what’s going on here, who they are and stop having us followed around by guards all the time.”
The deserter giggled. “Don’t know what you mean,” he said. “You heard him yourself: he likes us.”
“Yeah,” said Jones slowly. “But he never did tell us who he is exactly, did he?” He lay down and rolled over without waiting for the deserter to reply.
While Jones had been determined to remain alert, at some point he must have dozed off because he was shocked back into wakefulness by the door slamming open and two armed men marching in and shouting at them to get up. Jones complied, following them out of the room and down the corridor towards the outdoors.
“Time to make yourselves useful, gents,” said a man in front of them. His looks and manner reminded Jones very much of his old Sergeant Major back when he had first signed up with the army. “We are all going on a foraging party,” the man continued. “You’ll come with us and gather what you’re told to gather.”
They were taken by horse and cart along the roads westwards and then across the river towards London. Everywhere was eerily quiet as they made their way, something that Jones remarked on to the guard who was sitting next to him.
Free from the stifling atmosphere of the headquarters, the man seemed happy to talk. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s been like this ever since the sky went away. Seems that most people just decided life weren’t worth living no more. Them that’s still of a mind to do something at all upped and joined us. But the rest, well…” The man shrugged.
As they moved further through the city, heaps of rubbish lined their path. With a shock, Jones realised that these were in fact the bodies of people lying slumped on each other as though they had just decided to stop and give up on life there and then. As he watched he saw one or two move, stirred into a dim form of consciousness by the sound of their passing.
“We should help them,” Jones said.
“Nah,” sneered the man next to him. “They’re all goners. Anyway, we’ve got a higher cause to work for now.”
Jones stared at him, wanting to do something but knowing he was powerless without a weapon against their numbers. “And what cause would that be, exactly?”
The man stared at him for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether Jones was being idiotic or just difficult. A look of shock flashed across the man’s face as he realised that these newcomers had not been inducted into whatever secrets the others shared and he looked away, his jaw clamped shut.
Jones’ days settled into a routine of foraging followed by food and sleep, all the while staying under the watchful eye of the guards. He had no idea how many days were passing, his only way of marking the passage of time being the periodic changes in activities. The trips themselves proved to be incredibly depressing, with them encountering very few people alive as they travelled despite Jones’ keeping a watchful eye out. The few people still living that they encountered were as still and insensible as those he had passed on his way towards Greenwich in those early days after the sky’s disappearance.
All through this, the guards steadfastly refused to allow him any form of weapon for even a moment. The foraging trips themselves, aside from the terrible helplessness he felt at not being able to help those poor souls who lay or wandered around the streets, were for the most part a backbreaking monotony of lifting and carrying.
On the third such trip, Jones was in the process of trying to manoeuvre a crate of ammunition into a wagon when a shout rang out from the next street over. Without thinking, he let go of his load and ran towards the sound of the cries, instinctively recognising the sound of someone in trouble.
He rounded the corner to see one of his fellow foragers backing away from a demon that was advancing upon him with murderous intent.
Jones looked around as he ran towards the monster, trying to spot something that could be used as a makeshift weapon. He settled on a length of wood that had been discarded in the street, clearly once part of a costermonger
’s barrow. Kicking it into the air, he caught it one-handed as he ran, swinging it around his head and yelling as he advanced on the demon. The creature started to turn at this noise and Jones caught it hard across the head with his bludgeon, sending it flying to the ground.
“Come on! Run!” he yelled to the man who was still cowering helplessly against a wall. When the man did not reply, Jones grabbed him by the arm and propelled him out into the street and past the demon, which was now getting to its feet with a snarl filling its face.
Jones looked down at the length of wood in his hand, noting with dismay that the impact with the demon had had broken it in two. He threw the remainder at the demon’s face and used the brief distraction it afforded to make a run for the safety of the others who, he noted with incredulity, were just standing around watching.
“One of you bastards fire at the thing!” he shouted to them as he ran at full speed.
For a moment they gaped at him before starting to back away. Jones glanced backwards to see that the demon was still tearing after him, all bright red eyes, sharp teeth and grasping claws.
This sight spurred Jones into a sprint the like of which he had never before managed, and he barrelled into the nearest guard, snatching the rifle from his hand. He swung round and swiftly discharged the weapon straight into the demon’s face. He followed this up with a succession of hard strikes of the butt of the rifle to its head.
He shouted as he struck at the creature, finding an outlet in the mindless violence for all of the pent-up frustration that had built up in him over the past few days. After a few moments he was grabbed roughly by the shoulders and pulled away, the rifle snatched from his grasp.
“It’s done,” said a guard, throwing the bloodied rifle disgustedly back to the man who had surrendered it so meekly.
Jones sank to the floor breathing hard, but there was a part of him that enjoyed the newfound respect he could see in the others’ eyes.
The next day he was just getting ready to settle down to another meal and rest when he was summoned away from the canteen and into a chamber. The room he found himself in contained a large table that had been laid out for dinner, with meats and bread dotted invitingly around. At the head of the table stood the man who had interrogated them on their arrival all those days ago.
On his urging, Jones sat opposite him, watching as three other individuals took up the remaining seats. Jones noted with a slight degree of satisfaction that the deserter had not been invited to this gathering; he had been very keen to ingratiate himself with any and all of their new companions and had soon been whisked away to join some other party. Jones had been pleased to see the back of the man and his idiotic rantings.
“How are you finding our hospitality?” asked the man at the head.
Jones placed his hands on the table, looking around as he tried to ascertain the reason for this invitation. “I’m not sure you could call it hospitality,” he said slowly. “No one will talk to me, I still don’t know any of your names or your intentions.”
The others around the room chuckled and the man looked around before nodding to Jones. “We appreciate your patience and your hard work over these past few days,” he said. “You have proven yourself to be a good worker and we are keen to test you in other ways too. In particular I’m very conscious of the fact that your more… specialised talents appear to be going to waste.”
Jones could resist his hunger no longer and grabbed at a nearby hunk of bread, tearing it into chunks and pushing them into his mouth. He looked at the man opposite as he chewed on a large mouthful.
“I heard about how you handled yourself with that demon,” said the man. “I fear that many of our people would not be as quick-thinking as you appear to be.”
Jones shrugged. “Had to do something,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Couldn’t just stand by and watch someone get torn to ribbons.”
“We have need of men of action, people like you,” said the man. “Your kind will be extremely valuable in this new world that we are on the cusp of creating.”
Jones raised an eyebrow. “New world?” he asked through another mouthful of bread.
The man nodded. “The old world is over; even a fool can see that.”
Jones shook his head. “It’s only been a few days. There is still time for the government, the authorities to re-establish themselves. And yet you are acting as though—”
“How many days or miles did you travel after the sky disappeared?” asked the man. “How many days have you been with us here, scavenging around London?”
Jones opened his mouth to reply but before he could do the man interjected. “In all that time, how many aimless, mindless imbeciles did you come across, driven to despair by what has happened?” He did not wait for a response, instead slamming his fist down hard on the table, making the glasses and plates chink together, an audible exclamation point emphasising his point. “Exactly! There is a reason why we alone have survived and are the lords and masters of all we survey.”
“And that reason is…?” asked Jones.
The man spread his arms wide. “All of those sheep, all of those imbeciles who now line the streets and aimlessly wander about, unable to fend for themselves, they were all united by one thing.” He held up a finger, his eyes shining with the bright zeal Jones remembered from when he first met him. “God: that’s what. They were all so beholden to their God that they could not cope when He finally abandoned them.”
Jones’ chewing had slowed down as he took in this diatribe. He grabbed a nearby glass of wine and took a sip in the hope that it would help to lubricate the mass of food now stuck in his cheeks. He did not like the way this conversation was heading.
“We are the messengers for a new world,” said the man. “We have been delivered here to prepare the way for His coming. That is the work that you have been helping us with and that is the work that we would have you play a key role in.”
“And when you say ‘He’?” asked Jones.
“I mean of course the one who has made all of this possible,” said the man, waving his arms vaguely about him.
“All of this…?” Jones instinctively pushed another chunk of bread into his mouth, if only to give him an excuse for not replying straightaway.
“The sky, the demons, the portal at St Albans, the coming of the new world,” said the man, spittle flecking the tablecloth as he spat out the words. “He who will deliver us from the old world of so-called elites with their precious gods. Satan himself!”
Jones fought hard to not laugh in their faces as he considered this, for looking round the table he could tell that they were completely sincere in what they were saying and what they believed. He realised that he was in an incredibly perilous situation, for to make a wrong move at this point could not only end his life but also any chance of his superiors being warned of this new threat until it was too late. Whatever this threat was. He frowned, trying to make sense of the man’s words. “By Satan do you mean the demon Andras?” he asked.
The man barked a dismissive laugh. “No, not that usurper,” he spat. “We serve the one true Lord. He is coming and He has told us to pave the way. There are many others like us, and our time has finally come. The question is: are you with us or against us?”
The bread in Jones’ mouth had taken on a rock-like quality as he struggled to digest this turn of events. He took a long swig of wine, draining his glass and using the liquid to flush the food down his throat. Swallowing hard he looked up at them and forced a grin. “In your new world, will I still have to be a Sergeant?” he asked.
The man looked at him for a second and then emitted a short, shrill laugh that was taken up by the others around the table. “That is one of the reasons why I appreciate you,” said the man. “You have a very direct and earthy sense of events. No, you do not have to be a Sergeant. You can be whatever you want to be; why not be a Major, or a General?”
“In that case,” said Jones, “I figure that the old world did
n’t work too well for me. As long as there’s food, beer and women then your new world is fine by me.”
The man stood and walked round the table to Jones, picking up a bottle of wine and refilling Jones’ glass, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder as he did so. Putting the bottle back down on the table, the man gathered up a glass of his own and raised it in a toast that was joined by all the others. Jones raised his own glass and downed the contents, feeling a burning sensation run down his throat as he realised exactly what it was that they were toasting.
Whilst they did not immediately bring him into all of their confidences, Jones saw and heard enough to realise that their insane plans needed to be stopped as soon as possible. He learnt that a large proportion of men and equipment had the previous day been sent to St Albans, the reasons for which he could only guess at but knew they would not be favourable. Each day, more and more people came to join the group, mostly aimless souls simply looking for sanctuary, but there were also far too many people already sharing the same zeal as the man and his Satan-worshipping colleagues.
The following night, Jones was placed on sentry duty outside the headquarters building. Whilst this was no doubt a test of his reliability, it was a test that Jones was determined to fail. He waited until an hour or so had passed and all seemed silent around him before slipping off into a side street and running as fast as he could westwards towards Whitehall.
Chapter Seventeen
I stared at Jones during a break in the journey from St Albans to Hughenden as we tried to come to terms with all that he had said. “Satanists forming an army in London?” I asked incredulously.
“I know,” said Jones. “I barely believe it myself, and I was right in the thick of it. However, it’s true, and they’re not only very well organised they also have widespread support too. Since I left them they’ve been nothing but trouble.”
“Completely insane,” muttered Pearce. “The world is going mad…”
