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. Dale couldn’t help but notice how the tension pulled at the edges of her jeans, how strands of her hair brushed against the dead man’s uniform jacket.

“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. He barely registered her movements before another joined quietly—Allegra, her small, lean figure pressing gently into his other side, her presence surprising but welcome. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask questions. In this new reality, simple human warmth was something rare and valuable, too precious to waste by asking why.

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, the team cycled onward, working methodically through their list. In Holloway, they found Sven, Tom’s Swedish friend—a stocky, muscular giant who towered over Dale, his shaved head gleaming under a knit cap, a tattooed neck visible beneath a threadbare scarf. At Elephant and Castle, Bob waited nervously. He was lean, wiry, with the kind of practical air you expected from someone who’d spent years fixing broken electrics. Bob already had his toolkit slung across his shoulder, prepared and ready to move.

Lambeth brought them Bea—Arancha’s friend—a dark-haired Spanish woman in her late twenties, anxiety clear in her wary glances. In Kennington, Charlie joined their growing convoy. He was lanky, his brown hair overgrown, face marked by weeks of stress but eyes alive with relief.

Then came Pimlico and Kat—tall, strikingly beautiful, dark blonde hair falling past her shoulders. Dale had her saved as “Pimlico Hot,” and now he remembered why. Allegra watched carefully as Kat leaned forward to kiss Dale’s cheek, her lips brushing his skin a fraction too slowly.

“Good to see you,” Kat murmured, climbing gracefully into the cargo bike.

Dale noticed Allegra’s raised eyebrow again, and pretended not to.

They moved swiftly north, stopping at Paddington to collect Joe, another of Tom’s exes, a wiry man in his early thirties with sharp eyes and an easy-going grin.

They did some more collections and by noon they were done.

On the ride back, they spotted a man standing near a burned-out petrol station, hands raised in a cautious gesture. Mid-twenties, Pakistani, neatly trimmed beard, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“You part of a group?” he called out.

Dale slowed his bike. “Maybe. Who’s asking?”

“Imran,” he said. “Been alone since my brother died. I had a good job, a flat. None of that matters now. What matters is surviving, and I know I can help. I’ll work, fight if I have to. Just give me a chance.”

Allegra scoffed. “We don’t owe him anything.”

Dale ignored her. “You armed?”

“Just a knife.”

Dale studied him. Young, fit, no baggage. More hands wouldn’t hurt.

Allegra edged closer. “You sure about this?”

Dale didn’t hesitate. “You pull your weight, you stay.”

Imran exhaled, relieved. “You won’t regret it.”

Allegra muttered something under her breath but didn’t argue further. They kept riding.

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.

“You’re good at this,” she said quietly. “Leading.”

He laughed softly. “I never asked for it.”

“Maybe that’s why it works,” she murmured before turning away to help serve the meal.

She didn’t get far before she turned back. “We need to talk about Maya, Renee and Cassie.”

Dale sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He knew where this was going. “What about them?”

“They’re not pulling their weight. Again.” Allegra’s voice was sharper now. “I asked them to help with water runs earlier, and they disappeared. Found them later, sitting around like they had nothing better to do.”

Dale exhaled. He had noticed. Others probably had too.

Allegra’s expression darkened. “I thought Cassie had potential but their attitude is rubbing off on her.

Dale looked across the courtyard. Maya, Renee, and Cassie were keeping to themselves again, talking in low voices, avoiding the others.

“We can’t keep dead weight,” Allegra continued. “People are watching. They see us letting them skate by, it’s going to piss people off.”

Dale sighed. He didn’t disagree.

“I’ll decide tomorrow,” he said finally.

Allegra narrowed her eyes. “Dale.”

“Tomorrow,” he repeated.

She studied him for a moment, then exhaled, shaking her head. “Fine. But I won’t pretend it’s not a problem.”

She walked off, slipping back into the work of the evening, making sure everything ran smoothly.

Dale watched her go. She was right about one thing—people were watching. And he’d have to make a decision soon.

Night fell heavily over the Tower, the chill deepening. Dale lay on his mattress, staring at the ancient stone ceiling, when Nicole quietly slipped beside him again. Moments later, Allegra silently joined him on the other side, her small frame pressing gently against him. Dale didn’t speak, simply accepting her quiet comfort. Neither woman spoke. There was no need for words; the silent bond they’d formed in those desperate days was stronger than words anyway.

He drifted asleep with Allegra’s breath soft against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of her beside him. It wasn’t uncomplicated, but it felt good.

Saturday, November 13, 2027, The White Tower

Morning came grey and damp, the mist clinging to the Tower grounds, curling through the open spaces like a slow-moving shadow. Down below, Allegra was already in control, her presence unmistakable.

She was near the courtyard well, her compact frame wrapped in a heavy sweater that still did little to hide her shape. She moved with purpose, giving clear orders to Tom, Bob, and a handful of others, her voice low but sharp. She wasn’t waiting for permission to lead -she was just doing it. And people listened.

Dale watched her for a moment, taking it in. She was calm but firm, practical but decisive. She didn’t shout, didn’t demand attention, but she had it anyway. There was something about her -the way she carried herself, the quiet authority she had assumed so naturally. And she looked good doing it.

Water was today’s urgent priority. The wells were their best hope. Dale had identified two—the main one in the inner courtyard, another deep inside the White Tower itself—but the logistics were daunting. They’d have to get pumps deep enough into the wells, route power to them, and channel the water somewhere useful.

After a quick breakfast, the group got to work. Bob, sleeves rolled up, guided Sven and Bruno as they carefully lowered the pump down into the courtyard well, while Dale, Jake, and Ling rigged the heavy diesel generator they’d scavenged the day before. Allegra, Arancha, Nicole, and Natalie painstakingly dug trenches, sleeves damp with sweat and grime, their boots sinking into muddy earth as they laid lengths of pipe from the well to one of the cleared cottages.

“Think this’ll actually work?” Nicole asked sceptically, wiping sweat from her forehead.

“Only one way to find out,” Allegra replied, grim determination etched across her face as she tightened a connector.

Hours of exhausting labour later, Bob wiped grease-stained hands on his jeans. “Right, fingers crossed.”

Dale nodded. “Fire it up.”

Jake pulled the generator cord, the engine coughing loudly before sputtering into life. For several agonizing moments, nothing happened—then suddenly, water burst from the taps inside the cottage. Cheers erupted. Allegra laughed, pushing damp hair from her forehead, relief breaking through her usual seriousness.

“Goddamn miracle,” Dale said with a grin, briefly locking eyes with her.

“Let’s route it to another house before the pipes explode,” she shot back, smiling despite her weariness.

By midday, two cottages were rigged for running water. Doubts about water quality lingered, but at least now they had something for cooking, washing, and basic hygiene. Bob shut down the generator to conserve fuel, and the group took a quick break, exhaustion mingling with quiet triumph.

Dale wiped his hands on his trousers, scanning the courtyard. Most people were either working or slumped against the walls, catching their breath. He was about to join them when he spotted Maya, Renee, and Becky sitting on some overturned crates near the edge of the camp, talking quietly.

They hadn’t done a single thing all morning. No water runs, no clearing debris, no helping with the pumps or trenches. Just sitting, watching, letting everyone else work.

Dale signalled Allegra to come and they walked over. They didn’t even notice him at first.

“Enjoying yourselves?” he said.

Maya looked up, blinking. “Huh?”

“You haven’t done a damn thing all morning,” Dale said, voice flat.

Renee shifted. “We were just—”

“Just what?” Dale cut in. “Everyone else is working.”

Cassie was staying silent. Maya crossed her arms. “We never agreed to be your slaves.”

Dale exhaled, shaking his head. “Everyone here pulls their weight. If you don’t, you’re out.”

Renee looked away. Maya scoffed. “And where are we supposed to go?”

“Not my problem,” Dale said.

None of them moved.

Allegra turned back to Cassie, who was still sitting on the crate, staring at the ground, hands clenched in her lap, trying to make herself smaller.

““How did you get involved with this?” Allegra asked.

She swallowed hard, glancing up at him briefly before looking away again. “I wasn’t trying to slack off,” she said quickly. “I just ... I wasn’t feeling well this morning, and I thought I’d rest for a little bit.”