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. 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 decided he couldn’t carry this alone anymore.
He found Nasrin crouched over a crate of gauze rolls and antiseptic bottles, the light catching in the dark wave of her hair and throwing soft shadows along the strong line of her aquiline nose. She looked up at him, eyes questioning.

“Come with me,” he murmured.

She didn’t hesitate. He led her through the narrow corridors until they reached a quiet corner of the men’s quarters. Most beds were empty, the rest occupied by sleepers who didn’t stir when the two of them slipped under a blanket.