Chapter 6

Saturday, November 20, 2027, The White Tower

A bullet to the head wouldn’t cut it—not this time. Josh’s crime demanded something public, something that sent a clear message to anyone else tempted to cross the line. They locked him deep beneath the Tower, in a dank stone cell they’d found in the basement of the Bloody Tower. Jake stood guard outside, armed with a shotgun, his face expressionless but eyes alert.

Before sunrise, Tom and Bruno rode out to the Robert Dyas they’d noted earlier, returning with supplies Dale hoped would ease their ammunition worries: a dozen boxes of nails, rope, batteries, and—crucially—walkie-talkies. Communication was critical, especially now they were venturing further into unknown territory. Dale immediately distributed the radios to squad leaders, ignoring the uneasy look from Polina as she logged yet another depletion from their limited batteries.

They gathered at breakfast to discuss the day’s plans. The City of London was a ghost town—its skyscrapers vacant tombstones, silent and irrelevant now. Dale had no interest in wasting precious manpower scavenging empty office blocks. Westward was where the real risk lay—possible remnants of the government, military holdouts, groups more organized and dangerous than ragtag survivors clinging to decaying council estates.

But today wasn’t a scavenging run. Today, Dale wanted them ready. They’d grown used to facing isolated threats, two or three starving individuals at a time. But if the government—or what remained of it—was dug in somewhere near Westminster, they’d be facing organized resistance. Dale made sure twelve of his more promising recruits got rifles, another ten took shotguns. Ammo was tight, but training mattered more right now than hoarding supplies that might not save them if shit went sideways.

Outside the fortress, rifle bearers took careful aim at makeshift targets nailed to plywood sheets. Each got five shots, the sharp cracks echoing around Tower Hill. It wasn’t nearly enough to make them expert marksmen, but it gave them confidence and familiarity. Anyway, at twenty yards, accuracy didn’t have to be perfect—just good enough. Sven barked instructions, eyes narrow, assessing their strengths and weaknesses.

The bigger gamble were the thirty-odd recruits equipped with salvaged polearms—seven-foot lengths of sharpened metal, ideal for keeping desperate looters at arm’s length. They’d practiced drills all day, marching in formations two abreast, four deep, rotating quickly into defensive squares. Each movement was practiced until their coordination began to feel second nature. Dale nodded approvingly as he watched, but his mind was elsewhere, calculating the odds they’d survive a real assault.

Late afternoon, Dale and Bob slipped out to the docks to inspect the boats. He had plans.

Tonight had its own agenda.

As darkness swallowed the fortress, the women built up a makeshift pyre—splintered museum furniture, crates, and charcoal piled in the square just outside the western gates. Josh was dragged up from his cell, wrists bound tightly behind him, eyes wild with terror and defiance.

“You fucking animals!” he spat, voice cracking. “I didn’t do anything she didn’t want!”

Dale ignored him, eyes hard, jaw tight. Every survivor stood assembled, firelight flickering in their solemn faces. The children had been sent upstairs, doors locked behind them. This wasn’t for innocent eyes.

With grim ceremony, Josh was thrown onto the pyre, limbs flailing uselessly against the hands gripping him. Flames sparked to life, catching on furniture and charcoal, slowly climbing toward him.

Josh’s screams echoed off the ancient walls as flames licked higher, blistering his skin, consuming his pleas. Luna stood at the back, face pale but steady, refusing to look away.

“We’re bound by fire and blood,” Dale declared clearly, voice slicing through Josh’s weakening cries. “This is the price of betrayal.”

The execution dragged on, brutal and slow. Josh writhed, his screams diminishing to ragged moans, then silence. Dale kept his expression stony, watching until Josh was still, flames finally devouring the last vestiges of protest.

Long after silence fell, Dale’s eyes remained fixed on the smouldering pyre. He hadn’t enjoyed it, but he didn’t regret it either. It had sent the right message: betray the Tower, betray their fragile, ruthless community, and the price would be steep.

Eventually, people dispersed quietly. Some murmured approval, others looked troubled, but no one questioned Dale openly. That was enough for now.

Later, back in his chambers, Dale lay still, staring at the shadows dancing on the vaulted stone ceiling. Nicole and Natalie joined him without comment, eyes carefully avoiding any discussion of the night’s horrors. Tonight Natalie claimed him first, more urgent than before, her nails dragging softly down his back as he thrust into her, finding release fast. Nicole followed soon after, equally hungry, their shared exhaustion the only thing silencing their cries.

As sleep began to overtake him, Dale reflected briefly on the line they’d crossed. Josh’s body was still smouldering outside, a grim warning to anyone thinking of stepping out of line. Dale knew he’d sleep easier now, knowing he’d done what was necessary. Tomorrow would be another day of survival, of risk and reward.

But tonight, at least, they were safe.

Sunday, November 21, 2027, The White Tower

Dale awoke before dawn, the chill of November seeping through stone walls. Breakfast was tense and rushed, eaten in silence beneath flickering lanterns. Everyone knew this would be a critical day, a test of their readiness and resolve. Tom and Jake were left behind to maintain security, an increasingly vital task now that threats were growing beyond their walls.

By first light, Dale led his carefully selected team down to the docks. Cold fog lingered low above the Thames, cloaking their movements. They had secured two sturdy river boats—powerful enough to handle the current and agile enough for the mission. Engines growled softly as they sliced through the silent waters upstream to Westminster Pier, the city’s empty skyline looming in ghostly silhouette.

Bob stayed behind at the pier with three guards, keeping their route home secure. Dale and the others moved swiftly onto solid ground, half wearing Yeoman uniforms they’d salvaged, hoping to give any observers a convincing impression of authority.

They deliberately bypassed the Palace of Westminster, Dale’s gut tightening at the thought of encountering stubborn politicians clinging to lost power. Downing Street was similarly deserted, an eerie quiet settling in the morning air. They moved cautiously through St James’s Park, its paths overgrown and deserted, nature steadily reclaiming the manicured grounds.

Dale went ahead alone, scouting Buckingham Palace cautiously, eyes alert for movement or guards. He had no real interest in the palace itself—at least not today. His real target lay nearby, at Horse Guards Parade. At the palace, the Union Jack hung limp at half-mast. More tellingly, the royal standard was gone—likely meaning the monarchy had evacuated, taking their loyal Household Guard with them. Dale breathed easier, seeing no signs of defenders. He turned back swiftly, signalling Sven and Joe forward.

At Horse Guards Parade, the heavy iron gates yielded quickly to bolt cutters, the metal creaking as they stepped into a deserted courtyard. The lack of resistance was eerie. The interior was abandoned, horses gone, feed scattered in stale piles. They found four soldiers dead in the stable blocks, uniforms stained darkly with dried blood. Two pistols with spare magazines were carefully retrieved from stiff hands—a small but significant advantage. They pocketed various unlabelled keys, hoping they would unlock future opportunities.

Moving cautiously westward, they passed Buckingham Palace again, its vast gates locked and silent. They crossed Green Park swiftly, into Hyde Park, where horses grazed freely amid high grass, indifferent to their passing. Dale studied them briefly, considering their potential usefulness and logistical burdens, before pressing on toward the Household Cavalry barracks at Hyde Park Corner.

The barracks loomed ahead, fortified behind imposing brick walls topped with sharp anti-climb spikes. Lifeless security cameras gazed blankly at the empty streets. By some stroke of luck, one of the unmarked keys from Horse Guards opened the heavy gate. They slipped inside quickly, locking it securely behind them.

Inside, Dale’s breath caught at the scale of the place—an immense, self-contained community capable of housing hundreds of soldiers, families, and support staff. They moved systematically from the east side, beginning at the childcare centre. Inside, a weary woman in civilian clothing froze, instinctively shielding three young children behind her.

“Easy,” Dale said gently but firmly. “I’m Dale, Chief Warden from the Tower. We’re securing important sites since the collapse.”

Her relief was palpable, shoulders dropping. “Thank God. Thought no one was left out there.”

“You’re welcome at the Tower,” Dale offered. “Any other survivors here?”

“Not many,” she admitted softly. “Alice and Kendra—married to soldiers. John at the stables. But watch out for Kyle—he’s ... unstable.”

“Any help needed clearing bodies?”

She hesitated, eyes weary. “Kyle broke from dealing with that. The tower’s full of bodies. We moved to townhouses further west. Help clearing them would be appreciated.”

“Understood,” Dale said gently. “We’ll take care of it.”

Moving onward, they meticulously scoured the buildings, finding invaluable military-grade radios in silent offices. The basement revealed four hefty emergency generators—too cumbersome to move now, but critically valuable. Nearby buildings offered more gear—large military backpacks, pristine uniforms, and an entire communications array: over two hundred radios neatly connected to powerful roof-mounted antennas. Dale’s pulse quickened at the possibilities.