Chapter 10

Monday, December 4, 2027, The White Tower – Julian

Julian had been assigned to a scouting battalion, a position he hadn’t chosen, and certainly one he hadn’t wanted. His days now followed a grim routine: clearing buildings, scavenging supplies, and carting away the dead. It was gruelling, unpleasant work, but at least it was defensible—someone had to do it, he reasoned. The city couldn’t simply be left filled with decaying bodies, breeding disease and attracting vermin. The Thames, vast and indifferent, served as their mass grave.

What tormented Julian, however, were the fresh bodies. He knew exactly how they’d died. It wasn’t sickness, starvation, or even accidental violence—these were deliberate executions. The guards made little effort to hide what they did, though they didn’t boast either. It was a cold pragmatism that unsettled him deeply. Julian felt a bitter ache each time he carried one of their recent victims to the river. He tried not to look too closely, but the faces haunted him nonetheless. Invariably, they were Black or South Asian—men and boys who would’ve been alive today had they not crossed paths with Dale’s ruthless scouts. He still couldn’t shake the memory of carrying one particular woman, a Black woman barely older than himself, her body still warm, blood still seeping from fresh wounds. Dave had caught Julian’s eye at that moment, his expression unreadable, though there’d been a flicker of something—acknowledgment, perhaps guilt. Julian wondered what was behind that silent glance. Did Dave approve of what was happening, or was he simply grateful not to be the one with blood on his hands?

Julian thought about Nasrin often. She had been luckier, assigned to the medical unit where she could use the knowledge she’d gained before the collapse. She looked tired but focused, treating minor wounds, assessing new arrivals for illnesses, seemingly insulated from the brutal truths Julian witnessed daily. Julian was relieved for her, but it left him feeling alone with his conscience.

He had never been particularly altruistic or generous, but Julian possessed an unshakable sense of fairness, a need for justice that felt almost painful now. His gut told him what was happening here was wrong, deeply unjust, and morally irredeemable. Yet what could he possibly do about it? And what about the others—those quietly washing clothes, cooking meals, or teaching the children in their makeshift school—did they know the truth? Did they suspect what happened each day outside the Tower walls? Did they care? Julian hoped not. If they did, he wasn’t sure how he could live alongside them.

The evenings, however, felt jarringly normal. After a day of grim labour, the atmosphere inside the Tower was upbeat, sociable, even festive. People laughed easily, and couples disappeared regularly to find comfort in each other’s arms. Julian sometimes wondered if he was the only one feeling this internal dread, this deep unease. He hoped not, yet he could hardly speak up. Questioning openly would make him a target.

Worse was Dale himself, the so-called Leader, whom Julian regarded with growing contempt. Dale strutted through the Tower, surrounded by fawning admirers—especially young women who seemed to compete openly for his attention. Rumours swirled freely about Dale’s bed partners, several of whom, it was whispered admiringly, were teenagers. The others seemed either impressed or indifferent. Julian felt nothing but disgust. Power had clearly gone to Dale’s head, transforming him into something repulsive. If the murders weren’t enough, this casual exploitation of vulnerable young women was another nail in the coffin of Julian’s respect.

He needed to find a way out—but how? The Tower was secure, guarded at all times, and beyond its walls lay only the unknown. Even if he escaped successfully, where could he go? Would the Muslims in the East offer refuge if he told them the truth—that their people had been slaughtered behind the scenes? Maybe. But if they knew the full extent of what Dale’s people had done, wouldn’t they already be fighting back? Yet, he had heard of the agreement reached between Dale and the Imam. Surely, they couldn’t know the details. Maybe if they learned the truth, they might intervene.

The decision weighed heavily on him. As Julian considered his options that evening, he saw something troubling. The nightly ritual of calling volunteers to the front began again. Volunteers moved eagerly forward to join Dale’s elite guard, ready to do what was asked, no matter how brutal. To Julian’s shock, Dave—quiet, decent Dave—stepped forward. Julian studied him, searching for any sign of hesitation. Was this man he’d come to respect really eager to climb ranks in Dale’s twisted hierarchy, or was he just desperate to belong somewhere safe?

Later that night, Julian resolved he couldn’t bear this alone anymore. He found Nasrin quietly tidying medical supplies and gently pulled her aside. It was hard finding privacy, but eventually, he led her quietly back to the men’s quarters. Most beds were still empty at this hour, so nobody took much notice when they stripped down to their underwear and climbed beneath the covers.

At first, Nasrin misinterpreted his intention and pressed herself warmly against him, eager for intimacy. Julian felt her soft lips on his own, and for a brief moment, the temptation to just lose himself in her warmth and affection was almost irresistible. But he gently broke their kiss, urgency overtaking desire.

“They’re killing people, Nas,” he whispered.

She froze, staring at him with startled eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“Mary isn’t here because they didn’t want her here. They’ve been killing people—Black people mostly, but Asians too, especially men. Why do you think we haven’t seen a single Black person since we got here?”

Nasrin’s eyes filled with quiet horror. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve carried the bodies myself,” he said quietly, ashamed. “Some of them were still warm.”

“Why? It makes no sense. Why kill people when there are hardly any left alive?”

“It’s about race,” Julian said bitterly. “Have you seen any Black faces since we got here? A few Asian women like you, sure. But that’s it.”

Nasrin paled, suddenly understanding his meaning, clearly thinking of Mary, her friend, whose fate had never been officially explained.

“So, what do you want to do?” she asked cautiously. “We can’t exactly fight them.”

“I don’t know yet. But do you really want to stand by while they ethnically cleanse this entire city?”

Nasrin was quiet for a long moment, her expression uncertain. Her fingers trembled slightly against Julian’s chest. Finally, she shook her head gently, eyes moistening in the darkness.

“I can’t lose anyone else, Julian. I’ve lost so much already,” she whispered. She kissed his cheek softly, sadly, and rolled away from him. He saw tears on her face as she got up quietly to go back to her own bed. He looked fragile to her, helpless against the tides of cruelty that surrounded them. His idealism was noble, even endearing, but she couldn’t shake the feeling it was futile, like fighting the wind itself.

Julian watched Nasrin leave, feeling emptiness settle over him again. He lay awake for hours, thinking, questioning himself, wondering if he was mad or simply alone in his clarity. Maybe he was tilting at windmills—but at least he wasn’t blind. And in this new, cruel world, clarity was something precious to cling to. He would find a way out, he promised himself. He would do something. He couldn’t live like this, complicit, silent, a passive participant in atrocities.

Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and fitful, filled with dreams of blood and silent, accusing eyes staring up from the cold depths of the Thames.

Friday December 9, 2027, Whitechapel

Karim shifted uneasily on the hard wooden chair, eyes narrowed at the man who sat calmly across from the council. Julian stood out starkly among the weary, gaunt survivors Karim was used to dealing with. His clothes were clean, his face clean-shaven, and he carried himself with a quiet confidence. Whoever these people at the Tower were, they’d clearly treated him well.

Ali, the council’s leader, sat silently at the table’s head, observing Julian coolly. Beside Ali were the others: Yusef, tense as ever; Farhan, twitchy and wary; Bilal, massive and intimidating; Tarek, the quiet watcher; Zahir, older and jaded; and Karim himself, suspicious and watchful.

Julian spoke clearly, confidently. “Look, the leadership at the Tower—they’re violent, racist. Dale and Tom run the place like warlords, making decisions about who lives and who dies based purely on how people look. They’re dangerous. But they’re vulnerable, not everyone supports them.”

Ali’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why come to us?”

“Because you have what we need to take them on,” Julian said flatly. “Numbers, discipline. I slipped away during patrol today. We’re clearing buildings, dumping bodies—routine stuff. I can help you get in.”

Karim exchanged a quick glance with Bilal, his suspicions warring with intrigue. Ali leaned forward slightly.

“How do you think we can accomplish this? The Tower has high walls and they have guns and we don’t.”

“Next Thursday night,” Julian explained immediately. “They hold initiation parties every week. Drinking, drugs, sex. Most of the guards abandon their posts. The watchtowers barely manned, gates unguarded. Weapons are stored in the White Tower, far from the perimeter.”

Ali considered this, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “And your role?”

“I’ll recruit people on the inside,” Julian replied evenly. “We’ll distract the guards, and I’ll signal you when the coast is clear. I can I’ll open a gate.”