Chapter 9
Liz Tutor, the Deputy Chief of Mission United States Embassy, took a deep breath, held it, let it escape. A slow ragged exhalation that broadcast her fear on all channels. Fortunately she was alone.
. It was a few days after the pulse and no one had contacted the embassy.
No Black Hawk helicopters had swooped in to take them home. No convoys of marines, no couriers, no communication. Nothing.
They were low on food and had already run out of water. She had asked two of the marines to take a trolley from the embassy workshop, load it with a couple of plastic drums, and go down to the Thames to collect water.
Manson and Ronaldo had kitted up and she watched them, through her office window, as they pulled the trolley out of the gates and set off down the road.
‘Damn,’ said Ronaldo. ‘I feel like I’m back at basic training, humping drums of water for the man.’
‘Someone’s gotta do it,’ countered Manson.
They continued pushing, down the road, around the corner. The road was almost empty. They were far from residential areas and the embassy had so far attracted little attention from the scavenging gangs of post pulse London.
They headed down Queenstown road towards the river and, as they passed the Millennium Arena they found the road blocked. Two cars had been pushed across it and, on each side, a barricade of furniture. Office desks, chairs, refrigerators. Standing on top of the cars and crowded behind them was a group of men numbering around two hundred plus. Most of them were dressed in the bright blue and yellow striped boiler suits that the government had recently introduced to all prisons holding category A offenders.
Some were holding shotguns, others swords, knives and clubs. A few even had sidearms. Mainly 22 target pistols although there was also the odd 38 in evidence.
The marines slowed down and stopped in front of the barricade. Safety catches off. Rifles held ready.
A large man, his shaven head tattooed with a swastika, pointed at them. ‘What you want here, soldier boys?’
‘Water,’ answered Manson. ‘For the people at the embassy. We’re not looking for trouble, so just let us through. We’ll fill up our drums and be on our way.’
The big man laughed. ‘Can’t do, soldier boy. You see, we own this part of the river now. You want water, then you pay us, the Belmarsh boys.’
‘What point is there in charging for water?’ Asked Manson. ‘Money ain’t worth crap at the moment.’
‘Screw money,’ retaliated the big man. ‘Food. Weapons. Your sweet ass.’ He thrust his hips towards the marines and the men around him burst into gales of laughter. Some whistled and clapped. ‘Trade with us, soldier. Trade or piss off cause we’s busy.’
‘Damn you, crap-for-brains,’ shouted Ronaldo as he brought his rifle to shoulder. ‘Nobody talks to the marines like that and gets away with it.’
He shot the big man twice in the chest. The high velocity rounds punched through him and exited out of his back in a spray of red mist. His body slumped slowly to the car roof. His face a mask of surprise.
Normally this sort of reaction would cause a crowd to scatter as they ran for cover. But these were ex-inmates of one of Britain’s most infamous prisons. Psychopathically hard men made harder by a system of punishment as opposed to reformation. Men who did not react in the same way as any other normally functioning member of society.
There was perhaps a second of stunned silence and then everyone with a weapon fired back. Shotguns boomed, 22 pistols cracked. Spears and knives and house bricks flew. Even though the marines were wearing full combat armor, the level of firepower was simply too great. A spear lanced into Ronaldo’s throat, smashing his esophagus and slicing his jugular before exiting from the back of his neck. A shotgun blast took him full in the face, blinding him and shredding his flesh from the bone. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Manson slipped his fire selector to full auto.
‘Oorah!’ He shouted as he pulled the trigger and swung the barrel. The thirty round magazine emptied in under four seconds, the supersonic rounds chewing through at least six people before the rifle clicked empty. The crowd of criminals surged forward like a wave of human violence, swarming around the marine, knocking him to the ground, kicking and hitting until his body was merely an inanimate flesh sack full of broken bone.
For a moment the gang of thugs milled around. Purposeless. And then it found its natural level. The hierarchy of the prison system clicked in and the next rung on the ladder stepped up to lead.
Almost a carbon copy of the recently deceased big man except that the new leader’s swastika was tattooed on his face.
He jumped onto the roof of one of the cars. ‘They killed ours,’ he shouted. ‘Now we go get theirs. American embassy. Let’s go.’
He jumped off the roof and started running. The pack ran after him, ululating, screaming. Laughing. A mobile mass of concentrated vileness acquiescing to the lowest human denominator.
It took them less than fifteen minutes to get to the gates of the embassy and when they did they did not stop. As one they threw themselves at the gates, climbing over one another to gain the top of the steel barricade and jump over.
Years of prison brutality pouring from them like pus from a ruptured boil.
The two marines at the gate were caught completely by surprise but their training slammed home in seconds and they brought their weapons to bear. They only managed to get off a few shots each before they were cut down.
Someone threw a Molotov at the embassy entrance and it exploded on the front doors, burning fuel spreading into the lobby.
The four remaining marines who were off duty and asleep, grabbed their weapons and ran for the entrance. Already there were around fifty armed prisoners inside the building. Male members of staff were mercifully executed on sight. Female staff members were punched to the ground and queues immediately formed.
The four marines sprinted into the entrance lobby, firing from the hip. The Belmarsh boys flipped over desks for cover and fired back. Another Molotov exploded against the wall, spraying the one marine with burning fuel. He rolled on the floor in an attempt to smother the flames but they were too strong. He jumped up and ran in an aimless circle, screaming in mortal agony.
One of the prisoners found this to be so amusing that he collapsed on the floor in a paroxysm of laughter.
Eventually the burning man fell to his knees and died. Hands curled up in front of his chest. An emolliated sacrifice to the Belmarsh boys.
The marines were members of one of the paramount fighting forces in the known world. But they were few and the enemy were many. Too many. The marines took their toll as they killed and killed again. In total they sent eighteen Belmarsh boys to hell before the force of numbers overwhelmed them.
Now the only sound was the crackling of flames and the whimpering and screaming of the women as they were repeatedly raped.
And on the top floor of the embassy, Liz Tutor, the Deputy Chief of Mission United States Embassy, opened the access door to the heliport on the roof of the building and slipped out, closing it behind her. Her face was slick with tears and her body jerked at every scream, every whimper from below.
Why hadn’t they come to rescue them?
Where were the troops?
Where were the helicopters?
The fifth fleet?
Sobbing, she undid the lanyard and pulled the Stars and Stripes down from the flagpole. She unclipped it and wrapped it around her like a shawl.
Behind her the door burst open and a gaggle of lunatics scurried in.
‘Oho,’ one shouted. ‘Fresh pussy.’
Liz walked calmly to the edge of the roof and then turned to face the men, the stars and stripes clad her in its glory.
‘And this be our motto,’ she said. ‘In God is our trust.’
She raised a finger at them.
‘Damn you all to hell.’
For a short while she flew before her life was crushed from her as she struck the ground.
And the shrieks and whimpers continued.
And the embassy burned.
And old glory slowly turned red with her blood.