Chapter 3

Thursday, November 11, 2027, Clerkenwell

Dawn broke grey and bitterly cold, the kind of morning that seeped into your bones and stayed there. Dale stared into his cold coffee mug, running over the plan in his head. Allegra moved silently behind him, packing ammunition with meticulous care, her petite frame hunched forward slightly, hair falling loosely around her face.

Outside, the air was still. Dale peered through the window at the empty street below, debris scattering the pavement, abandoned cars rusting in the drizzle. He rubbed his jaw, rough with stubble, and glanced at Allegra again, noticing the curve of her waist beneath her jumper. For a moment, his mind drifted before he snapped back to reality.

“You good?” she asked, her eyes sharp, noticing his stare.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Let’s get moving.”

They left in a procession—Dale and Tom at the head, shotguns slung over their shoulders, Allegra close behind with her rifle strapped securely, dark jeans clinging tightly to her legs, the rest of the survivors trailing after. They navigated cautiously through eerily silent streets, scattered with cars left mid-collision and broken windows staring blindly out at deserted pavements.

On the route south, they paused at building sites, hoping for supplies. Two were barren wastelands, stripped bare by desperate survivors. The third, near St. Paul’s Cathedral, gave them what they needed. A white builder’s van stood abandoned, driver’s door ajar, as though its owner had vanished mid-escape. Strapped hastily to its roof was a long extension ladder.

Tom chuckled grimly. “Think it’ll reach?”

“Better fucking hope so,” Dale muttered, working quickly to loosen the straps. Allegra kept watch, her rifle resting casually but visibly, as if daring trouble to approach. Dale heaved the heavy aluminium ladder onto a cargo bike, its segments clattering loudly, echoing off nearby empty buildings.

As they approached Tower Hill, Dale’s pulse quickened. Smoke billowed from the East End, thick and dark, but the Tower of London stood untouched, grimly imposing, locked behind ancient stone walls that had seen off countless invaders and rebellions. Its high battlements were silhouetted against a pale sky, indifferent and menacing.

Allegra pointed to the southeastern wall. “There—that gate looks weakest.”

“Hope this thing reaches,” Dale muttered, eyeing the ladder with concern.

They propped it up carefully. Dale braced the base while Tom scrambled up, rifle rattling. Tom reached the top, scanned quickly, and signalled down.

“Clear.”

Allegra scaled next, swift and graceful, her small frame agile despite the rifle strapped across her back. Dale couldn’t help noticing how her dark jeans hugged the firm curves of her ass as she climbed. He shook his head clear, annoyed at himself.

They all ascended, abandoning the bikes behind a ticket kiosk and pulling the ladder up behind them, severing their way in.

Inside the battlements, the Tower grounds sprawled silently, empty except for scattered leaves tumbling in the breeze. They regrouped in the shadow of the medieval walls, quiet and wary. Dale had once watched a documentary about the Beefeaters who lived and worked here, ceremonial soldiers turned glorified tour guides. He knew they would have likely stayed through the chaos.

“We check every cottage,” he instructed. “Keep sharp.”

They split into small teams. Dale led Allegra, Nicole, and Natalie along the northern row of Yeoman’s cottages, low houses nestled against the inner walls. Dale cautiously pushed open each front door, shotgun raised.

They found the bodies quickly. Most lay in beds or collapsed near doors, empty-eyed and rigid from death. Allegra winced slightly at the smell but said nothing, following Dale with steely determination.

It was the sixth cottage—the Chief Warder’s residence—that finally yielded what they sought. Dale pushed the door, and it creaked ominously. Inside, the room was neat, almost untouched, a bitter irony. On a brown leather sofa, slumped sideways, lay the bloated body of a middle-aged Beefeater. His scarlet uniform was stained, dried blood darkening the collar beneath his grey beard. A heavy ceremonial sword hung uselessly from a hook on the wall, its blade dull with dust.

Allegra stepped forward carefully, glancing around the room. “Keys have to be here.”

“Check him,” Dale muttered.

She hesitated only briefly, then knelt beside the corpse. Gritting her teeth, she pushed her fingers gingerly into his pockets, trying not to look at the bloated face. The tension in Allegra’s frame was obvious—jaw clenched, knuckles white as she searched the corpse with mechanical precision. Hair slipped loose as she worked, brushing his jacket like a final indignity.

“Got them,” she said finally, holding up a heavy ring of brass keys, her voice tight with suppressed relief.

The White Tower rose ahead, imposing and severe, a symbol of Norman domination. Inside, the cavernous rooms were dimly lit by the grey November sky, cluttered with useless museum displays that needed to be cleared.

Tasks were divided swiftly. Allegra took charge of organizing food supplies, her voice confident and clear as she directed Nicole, Jaz, and Becky to raid the Yeoman’s cottages for provisions. Dale and Tom prepared for supply runs, scavenging Clerkenwell for equipment and first aid supplies. Before they left, Dale caught Allegra’s eye again, admiring the sharpness of her jawline, the determination that softened her petite features into something more compelling.

“Be careful,” she said quietly.

“Always am,” Dale smirked back, heart thumping harder than it had in days.

They cycled back to Clerkenwell, loading weapons, bedding, and supplies. On their final return, Dale paused by flat 21 in his building, knocking cautiously. The door opened to reveal Anja, about thirty, German, slender with dark brown hair in a tight ponytail, wearing a woollen jumper over faded jeans. Her hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously until Dale explained.

“Safety in numbers,” he assured her.

She hesitated briefly, then nodded. “I’m Anja. I suppose I trust you.”

They collected two more survivors—Bruno, stocky and square-jawed with a heavy French accent, and Polina, a wary Polish woman in her late twenties, her green eyes constantly darting around nervously.

Back at the Tower, dinner simmered in large pots, the survivors grouped quietly around it. Allegra coordinated everyone efficiently, the gentle authority in her manner reassuring the more skittish newcomers.

As she moved between groups, checking on supplies and assigning tasks, she caught Dale’s eye and approached.

“Maya and Renee,” she said, keeping her voice low. “They’re not pulling their weight.”

Dale sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “What are they doing?”

Allegra scoffed. “Nothing. They sit around all day, take food like everyone else, but barely lift a finger. I told them to help with sorting supplies earlier, and they wandered off the moment no one was watching.”

Dale followed her gaze toward where Maya, Renee, and Cassie sat, chatting quietly, picking at their food.

“She’s with them now,” Allegra muttered, nodding toward Cassie.

Dale frowned. “Cassie?”

Allegra exhaled sharply. “I don’t know if she ever pulled her weight, but she’s young. She could be better, if she wasn’t always around them.”

Dale studied the three girls. Cassie looked smaller, a little lost, but she wasn’t working either.

“I knew this would happen,” Allegra said. “They don’t see this as their problem, just something to survive until someone else sorts it out for them.” She shook her head. “We’ve got enough dead weight already.”

Dale ran a hand through his hair. He had noticed they weren’t as eager to pitch in, but he’d let it slide, thinking they just needed more time. Maybe Allegra was right.

Night fell quickly. Dale secured the White Tower’s door with benches, feeling a strange thrill at having such control over an ancient, historic fortress. Mattresses were arranged, women settling on one side, men on the other. A thin drizzle rattled the windows.

Before sleep overtook him, Dale felt a body slip beside him.

Nicole, warm and soft, silently curled against him. She didn’t speak, didn’t ask permission. She wasn’t sure what she was seeking—safety, maybe. Control. Or just proof that she still could choose who touched her.

She pressed in beside him like it meant nothing. Like she hadn’t spent the last three nights flinching at every sound in the dark.

His warmth was real. Solid. The weight of his arm across her side slowed her breathing, anchored it.

You’re not here because you care, she told herself. You’re here because you don’t want to wake up in the dark. Not again.

Dale didn’t move. That was good. She didn’t want questions. She just wanted the silence.

The night passed slowly, bodies pressed close, keeping cold and fear at bay.

Friday, November 12, 2027, The White Tower

They woke to the cold dawn seeping through narrow medieval windows, well-rested despite the chill that lingered within the Tower’s stone walls. The morning brought with it a quiet sense of determination. No one mentioned Nicole’s presence in Dale’s bed, though Allegra’s lingering glance as she passed by said more than words might have.

They checked their phones—nearly 4,000 messages sent, just eleven replies trickled back. Dale scanned his screen, noting the names. His ex-girlfriend Clare had replied, which caught him by surprise; he hadn’t thought of her much since their brief, unsuccessful fling. Charlie, an old university friend, replied too, along with Bob, the electrician, and a contact labelled “Pimlico Hot,” whose identity Dale couldn’t quite recall.

Tom got two hits from former lovers as well as an old colleague; Jake had responses from three old schoolmates, Arancha had heard from one friend, Bea, while Pierre and Polina’s contacts remained hauntingly silent.

After a quick breakfast, Dale gathered Jake, Allegra, and Arancha, leaving Tom in charge of fortifying the Tower.

“First stop is Clare,” Dale announced, pulling on his battered jacket.

“Your ex, right?” Allegra asked, one eyebrow raised.

He shrugged. “Something like that. South of the river, near London Bridge.”

They cycled carefully through the deserted streets, Allegra close beside Dale, scanning windows and alleyways for danger. Clare was already waiting nervously outside London Bridge Station, slim figure wrapped in a medical student’s white coat, dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She visibly relaxed when she saw Dale.

“Never thought we’d meet again like this,” he said drily, managing a half-smile.

“Me neither,” Clare replied, her eyes bright but cautious. “Where’re we headed?”

“Tower of London. We’ve got a group—safe, for now.”

She hesitated, thoughtful. “Guy’s Hospital is nearby. We should load an ambulance with supplies.”

Dale nodded, impressed. “Smart. Lead the way.”

Guy’s was a nightmare of neglect—corridors crowded with bodies, their grotesque silence more unsettling than the stench. Clare navigated efficiently, leading them directly to an ambulance bay littered with abandoned gurneys. Within twenty minutes they’d filled an ambulance with medical supplies, antibiotics, and painkillers, their efficiency born from desperation.

“Good call,” Dale muttered as Clare climbed into the driver’s seat, his respect for her practical mind briefly overshadowing the memory of their awkward chemistry.

They slowly escorted Clare back toward the Tower, stopping occasionally to clear the road of abandoned vehicles and corpses, dumping the decaying bodies into the dark, sluggish waters of the Thames. Jake, Allegra, and Arancha helped, wordlessly shoving the dead over the low embankment walls, the river swallowing them with cold indifference.

After securing Clare and the ambulance at the Tower, they continued north. Instead of scattering across the map, they moved with precision, hitting addresses in batches.

In Holloway, they found Sven, Tom’s old Swedish friend—a tattooed mountain of a man whose quiet presence added weight to the group. Charlie was next, a wiry ex-flatmate of Dale’s who hadn’t stopped smiling since they showed up. Bob, the electrician, was already waiting outside his Brixton flat, toolkit slung over his shoulder, practical and grateful.

Kat, tall, poised, and clearly used to turning heads, joined them in Pimlico. Dale had saved her as “Pimlico Hot” in his phone—now he remembered why. She kissed his cheek just long enough to catch Allegra’s glance.

By noon, the convoy was nearly full. Joe, one of Tom’s exes, fell in naturally with Sven. Bea, Arancha’s friend, rode close beside her, the two speaking rapidly in Spanish as if trying to make the world normal through speed. They met Imran last—watchful, earnest, and clearly desperate to prove himself. Dale said yes without consulting Allegra. Her silence on the ride back said plenty.

Back at the Tower, lunch was being served—rice and beans, with newly scavenged spices providing a much-needed kick. The group was now twenty-five strong. The ground floor had been cleared of museum clutter, exhibits relegated to the Fusilier Museum, while polearms, swords, and shields remained accessible.

After the meal, Dale climbed the battlements, surveying the city. Water was urgent, the wells within the Tower their best bet. He singled out several construction sites close to the Thames, knowing they’d likely find pumps.

He took Jake, Bruno, Sven, Bob, and Ling. Dale and Jake carried guns; the rest brought tools. The first site yielded a pristine, unused pump; two others provided additional equipment in acceptable condition. They heaved their haul onto dollies, muscles aching by the time they wheeled everything back to the Tower. Jaz and Leila began cleaning the pumps meticulously, their quiet efficiency reassuring Dale that they’d survive this mess.

A second run yielded hoses and pipes, and eventually a diesel generator, heavy enough that it took the combined efforts of Dale, Allegra, Arancha, Natalie, Nicole, and Bruno to move it back.

As dusk settled, Bob and Bruno busied themselves rigging the pumps, working by torchlight. It wasn’t finished, but they’d made progress. Dinner that night felt earned, the group gathering around simmering pots, discussing plans and welcoming their new additions.

Dale leaned against the stone wall next to Allegra, her presence calming after the day’s frantic activity. She glanced at him, her gaze softening.