Metamorphosis

by A. G. Claymore

  When he had stopped worrying about approval and started concentrating on his responsibilities he realized that he was the sort of leader that he had always wanted to be. The men had seemed to sense the change and appeared relieved to finally have a competent officer. Liam was reasonably sure that some of them would be willing to come with him to rescue Tommy. I’ve already doubled my force, now that Simpson seems to want to come.

  It was just after five in the afternoon when he walked into the H-hut that housed his men. They were relaxing in the usual cacophony of conflicting music and shouted conversations, waiting for the mess hall to open for dinner. Rai was there, on his bunk, restoring his recently-returned blade to its former glory.

  The man had been waiting for Liam when his transport landed and had greeted him warmly. Liam was touched by the gesture. He hadn’t expected anyone to be there and he was glad that he had taken pains to bring the wicked-looking knife back to England. As Rai drove him to their barracks, he filled him in on what had been happening in Britain. Liam had found it almost harder to believe that the news of the aliens themselves.

  Now, as the men gradually became aware of their officer’s presence, the chatter and music died away. They looked at him expectantly, curious at the troubled look on his face.

  “I’m going into Echo Lima One tonight,” he began in a quiet voice. “My son was sent there when Kate died and I mean to bring him out.” He took a moment to compose himself but, before he could tell them that he wanted their help, they beat him to it.

  “We’ll be ready to go in ten,” Rai said, sliding his knife into the sheath on his belt. “That’s no place for a child.” He pulled on his boots and started lacing them up.

  It was as simple as that. Liam looked around at the sudden hive of activity. Everywhere, men were pulling on ballistic armor and taking their weapons from bedside lockers. Liam fought his emotions and lost. He turned for the door to hide the riot on his face. He had never felt more sure that he belonged in the military. He finally understood; this unit was his family.

  A family that was preparing to risk their lives for his son.

  Every single one of them, and they seemed relieved that he had asked.

  He remembered that they had been waiting for dinner. “I’ll pick up field rations from the quartermaster before they close for the night.” It would be a long night, but they could at least eat something on the way. It was best never to fight on an empty stomach if you could help it.

  “No bloody tuna!” three or four of the men chorused, almost in unison.

  Liam laughed. “Meet me at six at the motor pool.” He stopped at the door and turned back. The room slowly grew quiet again. “Thank you,” he said lamely.

  “You would do the same for us, wouldn’t you, sir?” Lance Corporal MacKinnon said it more as a statement than a question, but Liam nodded without hesitation. “Then it’s a good thing Simpson stopped you from going alone and making an orphan out of your son, isn’t it?” He pitched slightly forward as the man behind him checked the fit of his armor.

  “Simpson?” Liam began but trailed off, shaking his head in wry amusement. These were the kind of men who wouldn’t wait around to see what happens. Of course they had taken steps to prevent their officer from running off and getting himself killed.

  “We’ve had a few people watching out for you,” Rai explained. “We figured you would have to see Simpson unless you planned to walk all the way.” He grinned as he slid a sidearm into the holster on the front of his vest. “You didn’t really plan to do this without us, did you?”

  East London

  England

  May 17, 2016

  Tendrils of smoke rose from the sector, light grey against the darkening sky. Some indicated homes with fireplaces but most were far too thick to be anything but a burning structure. Liam stood in the open roof hatch of his vehicle, looking down a street running parallel to the barrier. Most of the windows were dark, the houses abandoned. Nobody wanted to live this close to a lawless zone and Millions of dollars in real estate had been left to rot. Graffiti decorated any surface within reach from the ground. Some enterprising individual had found a way to tag the upper stories of a nearby building with an anti-government slogan. Trash blew about the pavement, slowly being pinned down by the growing rain.

  The silence was overwhelming. He had never expected to find a part of London so quiet. There was no traffic, no flow of pedestrians, no hucksters selling cheap cologne in expensive bottles. All the background sounds of nighttime London were gone.

  This part of the city was dead. Behind him was the old world. The investment banks and electronic stores. In front was the new reality. A churning, mutating society with brutal rules and constant, desperate innovation.

  He wasn’t sure which society would end up surviving.

  Heat rose out of the opening around him, carrying the smell of gun oil and hydraulic fluids – the smells of home. The comforting rumble of the armored car’s diesel engine blended with the second vehicle behind them. True to his word, Simpson had been waiting for them in riot gear with two German-built Fuchs TPz armored scout cars. The six-wheel drive, ten-passenger armored cars could travel at highway speeds and provided excellent protection. Liam especially liked the diesels. The British Army’s previous generation of light armor had relied on gas engines and he had never been fond of going into a fight surrounded by thousands of liters of highly flammable fuel.

  He looked down as the light meter sitting on the periscope began to beep. He activated his headset. “We’ve a spot of good luck: the rain is reducing the light levels and it should keep the buggers inside for the night.” He could hear the men in the vehicle below him mutter in approval. Bad weather was typically their ally. It would keep the locals inside and leave the streets to them. “Drivers, night vision only and keep the revs down. We should be able to sneak in with nobody hearing or seeing us.”

  He waved down to the small guardhouse where soldiers controlled gate nine, their chosen point of entry into the sector. Nothing happened. He sighed, dropping down the hatch to see who was closest to the back hatch. “Kent, go see what those arsehats are doing in the guardhouse. We need to get moving while conditions favor us.”

  Corporal Kent headed for the small structure while Liam climbed back into the rain to watch. He frowned as the two guards came bowling out of the windowed hut. The ten-foot-high chain-link gate, topped with razor-sharp concertina wire, began to slide out of the way. Kent came out and leaned over to talk to the men on the rain-slick asphalt before trotting back over to his vehicle. When he shut the door and sat back in his seat, he found his officer looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

  “Both of them are bloody bagheads, sir.” He shook his head in disgust. “Needles and spoons all over the place. Told ‘em if they weren’t waiting for us to come out, they’d have to explain why their pretty little gate was laying on the ground in pieces.”

  The 320-hp engine grumbled as the driver engaged the clutch. Liam pulled himself back up through the hatch just in time to see the two guards stumble back into the shelter of their post. With surprising agility for an eighteen-ton machine, the Fuchs maneuvered around the low concrete barriers, built to prevent vehicles from building enough speed to smash through the gates.

  Though the neighborhood still had power (there would have been regular riots otherwise) the streetlamps had all been smashed long ago and the small convoy travelled in near darkness. The occasional burning house caused them to slow as the ambient light reflecting off the rain played havoc with the drivers’ night vision goggles.

  They reached the old, four-storey estate building where Liam’s brother-in-law lived and both vehicles came to a stop by a huge, stinking garbage heap near the back stairs. The men piled out the back door and headed straight for the open door, moving up the stairs in relays, guarding the entry from each floor until reaching the third. Liam took the lead, passing through the rusted door frame and heading down the broad concrete walkway.
On the right was a heavy, crumbling-concrete balustrade, overlooking their vehicles. On the left, light seeped out from under closed doors. There were no windows.

  They reached Leo’s front door and regrouped. One of the troopers stepped up with a Halligan bar. Combining an adze and pick head at right angles to each other, the bar made an excellent breaching tool for quiet operations. The man slid the adze edge between the door and jamb next to the lock and gave the long bar a push, popping the latch free and swinging the door into the small apartment.

  “Buggeration,” one of the men muttered. “Smelled better back by the garbage heap.”

  Leo sat in a dirty old lounger in front of his television, snoring, a half-empty bottle in his lap.

  He woke in terror, lying face down with his hands and feet bound and heavy tape over his mouth. Liam looked down at him as his wide-eyed gaze took in the armed men in black uniforms and gas masks. He looked back up as Rai came up to him. “He’s not here,” the sergeant said in a worried tone.

  Liam pulled his brother-in-law to a sitting position and knelt in front of him, pulling off his gas mask. Leo’s face showed relief when he recognized his sister’s husband but the expression was short-lived. Guarded alarm stole across his features and Liam felt an icy knot of fear grow inside his own chest.

  He couldn’t afford to sound desperate in front of Leo. He needed the man to have no doubts as to who was in charge of the situation. “All right, Leo?” he asked casually. “Thought I’d pop round and visit with Tommy; see how he’s getting on.”

  “Ain’t here,” the man blurted. “He scarpered last month and I haven’t the foggiest where he is.”

  Liam could spot a lie nine times out of ten and his brother-in-law was no master spy. He knew where Tommy was and he was scared of Liam finding out. Either he’s worried about what I’ll do to him or someone in Sector One will come after him. Either way, Liam needed answers. He leaned in close enough to smell the stink of cheap vodka on the man’s skin. “Look, Leo, I don’t have all night. Are you telling me you let something happen to Tommy?” His anger was just beneath the surface and it came through in his voice.

  “He’s fine, I swear it. Only…” he cut himself off before he could dig himself in deeper, his eyes darting from Liam to the men standing around him.

  He knows something, Liam realized with a feeling of relief. When they had discovered that Tommy wasn’t in the apartment, he had feared the worst. Even if he was still alive, it had been looking like they would have to go back empty-handed.

  But now they might have a lead – and Liam knew how he would dig it out of this shell of a man.

  “Danny,” he said nodding to Rai, “you lost your change purse last month, yeah?”

  “I… did, sir,” Rai answered with only the barest hesitation. He wouldn’t be caught dead carrying a change purse.

  “Well, we can’t find you a water buffalo but this one should be close enough for small change.” He slapped Leo’s ample beer gut.

  “ ’Ave it, Danny,” one of the men called out.

  The prisoner watched nervously as the masked soldier pulled a wicked, dog-leg blade and advanced on him. “Right,” the black-clad man announced with a slight South-Asian accent, “get his pants down, lads. Be the first time this salad dodger’s seen it in years…” The mask hid any human expression, heightening the sense of menace.

  It was nothing but a mummer’s farce but it worked. As the first man reached for Leo’s waist, he re-assessed who was the greater threat to his well-being. “He’s in the tower over by Boleyn Ground.”

  Liam had been there for matches, in better times, and he remembered seeing the three towers that barely reached above the stands on the east side. “Why is he there if the government checks are coming here?” he asked, still not stopping his men who were laying their victim out on the floor and slicing through his belt.

  “Because the West Ham Syndicate pays better than the government, that’s why,” MacKinnon growled from where he sat on the prisoner’s feet. “They ‘rent’ kids from locals and put ‘em to work cooking up Tina. They keep ‘em there twenty-four-seven so they don’t lift the product.”

  “You sold my boy to work in a meth’ lab?” Liam was incredulous; he had never thought highly of Kate’s brother but this was beyond the pale. He waved his men away and leaned over to look him in the eyes. “Which tower?”

  “Middle one.” His voice had lost the edge of terror, now that Rai and his knife were on the other side of the room. “South got gutted by a fire last year and the north is almost ready to collapse.” He raised his bound hands to grasp at Liam’s sleeve. “I swear to God, they take good care of the boys that work there – wouldn’t be able to get anyone if they didn’t.”

  Liam shook him off and stood up, activating his headset. “Right, we’re taking a little spin over to Boleyn Ground; everybody mount up.” He waved the men out the door and stepped over Leo to follow them.

  “You can’t leave me like this,” the man pleaded. “The neighbors will clean me out.”

  Liam stopped for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right, Leo,” he said as he leaned over, his brother-in-law extending his hands to be freed. Liam delivered a solid blow to the man’s jaw, driving his head back to strike the floor.

  “Couldn’t leave you conscious like that,” he muttered as he shook his right hand with a wince. “We don’t want you getting loose and narking on us.” He turned from the unconscious, semi-naked man and jogged out the door to catch up with his men.

  ~*~

  The entry team was lined up just around the corner from the main entrance of the middle tower. Simpson had volunteered to do the recce and he had found clear progress right up to the front door. The syndicate that ruled this region obviously felt that nobody would ever dare attack them. Liam’s sniper teams were in position in both of the flanking towers and had identified a concentration of warm signatures on the southwest corner of the second floor.

  The big Scot reached out for the wine bottle that he had given to MacKinnon to carry for him. He had found it laying on the ground near their vehicles and filled it before moving off to clear the approach to the towers. He chuckled at the soldier’s confused expression. “Dinna your maw teach you not to show up empty-handed?” He shifted the bottle to his left hand so he could hold his C8 carbine in his right. “Manners, laddie, manners.” With that, he simply strolled around the corner and headed for the door as if he owned the place.

  He reached out his carbine and tapped the silencer on the glass windows of the red door. One of the two guards in the vestibule opened the door and frowned out at him. Simpson produced an heroic belch and sauntered in, handing the bottle to the second guard, who, seeing no hostility from the sudden visitor, lowered his handgun and reached out for the bottle with a grin on his face.

  “I’m new,” Simpson explained in a perfect local accent, to the surprise of his mates, crouching out in the rain. “Thought I’d get here a bit early for my watch and learn the way of things.”

  “I bloody knew it,” whispered a voice on the net. “That manky Scots git has been putting us on with that dodgey brogue all this time!”

  “Quiet,” Liam cut through the chuckles just as the guard with the bottle sneezed diesel fuel out his nose in shock. Simpson, who had been explaining himself to the guard by the door brought his carbine butt up to strike the man in the mouth, knocking him cold. “Shift yer arses,” he growled into his headset, hanging inside his collar.

  The entry team poured into the small vestibule where both guards were now unconscious. “He said there were four guards on the second floor.” The big man shrugged. “Could be pure blatherskite.”

  “You know your job,” Liam told the group. “This building is hostile; if you see a weapon, you pull the trigger. This is a meth lab so don’t lose any sleep over the buggers.” He smiled at the men who grinned back at him. They were along to bring Tommy out but there wasn’t a soldier alive, with the possible exception of the two gu
ards at the barricade, who didn’t relish the thought of going after drug dealers.

  “Masks on. Security detail to hold the lobby. The rest of you follow me.” He turned to the stairwell door and headed for the second level. He led his force onto the second floor hallway and turned for the southwest corner. Two guards sat at a small table, playing cards. Liam fired two rounds into the man who sat facing him while the trooper behind him shot the second guard before he could react. Though silenced, the breech mechanism of the C8 still made a loud noise in the concrete hallway as it slammed back and forth, cycling ammunition through the chamber, spitting brass cartridges onto the concrete floor.

  It was one of the reasons he had ordered his team to leave their weapons on single shot rather than full automatic. The occasional shot would sound like a guard cocking his weapon while a burst would be unmistakable. His main reason, however, was that there were children on this floor.

  And one of them was his son.

  They formed up at the doorway to the southeast apartment and one of the men stepped up with another Halligan bar. Liam counted down on his fingers. As the last finger curled down into a fist, the trooper forced the door open and jumped back to allow the entry team space to pour in. Liam was first through the door and it took him a moment to assess what he was looking at.

  There were eight boys, some perhaps as old as thirteen or fourteen, in the parlor. Six were standing against the wall watching a seventh who was tied to a chair, his face a mass of bruises. One man, breathing heavily from the beating he had been administering, was thrown down and secured by Liam’s men, none too gently. The second man in the room had been holding the eighth boy by the scruff of his neck and he let go in alarm, raising his hands as he backed against the wall. He was also secured efficiently and with a great deal of injury.