Chapter 5
The first day of Hogan’s journey had been the worst. Unlike before, London was now choked with people as they realized that to stay in the city was to die. There were people looting, people searching for water and drugs, people simply milling around in groups, their faces blank with dull incomprehension.
Fights and gunshots were a constant thing and one couldn’t travel more than a city block without coming across some form of violence.
There were also large swathes of the city that were on fire, primarily due to the huge number of airplanes that had come crashing down and the inability of any firefighters to do anything about it.
But people avoided confrontation with the marine. The SAW, the Colt 45, the webbing and body armor, all wrapped around a six foot four, two forty pound plus delivery vehicle, added up to something worth avoiding. There were easier targets. More vulnerable targets. And in this case, that more vulnerable group pretty much included anyone else in the greater London area.
Hogan only got involved in two scuffles. The first one involved a middle-aged woman, a shopping trolley and three young men. It was your basic hi-jack. They wanted her trolley full of goods and she didn’t want to give it to them. Hogan had decided the issue by smacking the three men in the head with the butt of his SAW and knocking them unconscious. The middle-aged woman had then told him off for being both American and violent. The marine contemplated slapping the stupid woman in the face but instead he simply shrugged and walked off.
The second event was far more harrowing. A group of teenagers had gathered around an old man and his ancient dog, a black Labrador, and they were stoning the dog to death. Its limp form already lay under a pile of rocks and half bricks. The old man was trying to cover the hound with his own body but the teenagers would kick him aside and then continue their stoning.
Hogan stepped in front of the dog and held his hand up.
‘Stop,’ he yelled. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Piss off, soldier,’ yelled the one boy as he threw a rock at the marine.
Hogan took a step forward and whipped out a straight-arm punch into the hoodlums face. His nose broke with a crunch and his two front teeth snapped off at the roots. He went down like a rag doll.
The rest of the group pulled back.
‘Hey,’ shouted a girl. ‘That’s not right, you bastard. The dog bit me. It should be put down.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Asked Hogan. ‘Where’d it bite you?’
She held up her hand. There was a vaguely discernable red mark on the back of it. A scratch. Maybe a bump. Probably nothing.
In the background he could hear the old man crying as he stroked his dying dog.
It took all of the marine’s willpower to stop opening up on the group of teenagers.
‘Get out of here,’ he said. His voice little above a harsh whisper. ‘Go now, before I kill you.’
The teenagers fell over each other in their haste to escape the gaze of the massive armed warrior in front of them. As soon as they were at a safe distance they turned and shouted a few cuss words. Then they disappeared.
Hogan knelt down next to the old man. ‘Are you all right?’
The man looked up at the marine with red-rimmed eyes. ‘They killed Monty,’ he said. His voice barely a croak. ‘He licked the girls hand and so they killed him. They said he was a smelly old dog and they threw stones at him.’
Hogan put his hand on the dog’s neck to feel for a pulse but his master was correct. Monty had drawn his last breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Hogan. But the old man did not respond. He simply sat next to his dead companion. Tears rolled slowly down his face, zigzagging through the wrinkles and lines on his skin.
The marine stood up and walked away. When he reached the corner and glanced back, the old man was still stroking the dog.
And weeping.
That night the marine slept in a hedgerow behind a house. Hidden and out of the way.