Chapter 7

Thursday, November 25, 2027, The White Tower – Julian

Everything seemed so bizarre. Julian stood stiffly, watching the Leader and his high priestess deliver their fiery sermons, their voices carrying across the courtyard with confidence and menace. The speeches were impressive, even if their content left him sickened—racist ideology thinly disguised behind compelling rhetoric. They’d put on quite a spectacle, especially with the dramatic flair of fire and ceremony, which would undoubtedly sway most of the frightened survivors.

He could hardly process the reality: how had he ended up trapped in something that felt increasingly like a fascist cult?

Only yesterday, Julian had been holed up quietly in his Covent Garden flat, grieving his flatmates’ deaths, venturing out only occasionally. Despite the isolation, he’d begun forming cautious friendships with surviving neighbours, a fragile but comforting sense of community in a disintegrating city. There had been safety in that quiet anonymity.

Early on, violence had taught them harsh lessons. Four armed Asian men had arrived one afternoon, wielding swords and knives. Sue and Fleur had tried reaching out, their kindness turned violently against them. Julian still carried deep shame for hiding, helplessly listening as the encounter spiralled into screams. He had glimpsed enough through a crack in his curtains to understand the horror of what had happened. Fleur, terrified and silent, had been dragged away. Sue, left battered and broken, had died alone, betrayed by her own compassion.

From that day, hiding had seemed the only choice—survival meant staying invisible.

Before society’s collapse, Julian had proudly stood alongside friends at counter-protests, opposing hatred and racism. He’d taken pride in confronting bigotry head-on. Yet here he was now, standing silent among murderers, barely recognizing himself. Was he already compromised?

When the scouts from the Tower arrived, Julian first mistook their efficient searches and friendly demeanour for genuine aid. Hearing distant gunshots had unsettled him, but their calm reassurances had been convincing enough. They’d promised community, warmth, and safety—a tempting lifeline after weeks of isolation. Only once he joined did the full truth reveal itself.

His blood had gone cold as he saw the bodies stacked onto carts, recognizing some familiar faces among them. His stomach clenched, nausea overwhelming him. The shots he’d heard weren’t accidental—they had executed people he’d considered friends. He glanced desperately around, noticing almost no men among the survivors and, even worse, none of his Black or Asian male friends. Julian braced himself against a lamp post, feeling physically sick.

Yet despite his horror, he said nothing. What good would it do? He knew now that resistance would only lead to his own corpse joining the others.

Strangely, they didn’t treat him like a captive. They immediately integrated him into a squad clearing houses. Julian soon understood what “clearing” actually meant. At first, he’d hoped it would merely involve removing the dead—a grim but necessary task. But soon the brutal truth emerged. His team moved methodically, knocking politely at first. If no one answered, they broke in without hesitation. If someone responded, the woman on their team usually charmed her way inside, presenting their offer as safety and community. Julian soon realized it was a selective offer.

White people, and most Asian women, were usually welcomed warmly. Muslims were asked to remove their head coverings—refusal sealed their fate. Non-English speakers faced uncertain mercy, their chances rising with their attractiveness or whiteness. Children followed their parents’ fate. Julian felt a shudder of revulsion, silently dreading the moment they’d find a mixed-race child caught on the wrong side of this twisted criteria. Thankfully, it hadn’t happened—yet.

Every flat cleared, every murder he implicitly condoned by silence, ate away at him. Julian could barely meet the eyes of survivors who joined, afraid they’d see the complicity he felt so keenly. Was he a collaborator now? Was mere survival enough justification to lose himself entirely?

At the Tower, his unease grew. Electricity and hot food greeted him—luxuries he hadn’t experienced in weeks. The warm meal was intoxicating, making it dangerously easy to forget the morning’s horrors. He was interviewed efficiently, his engineering background with Facebook deemed valuable, along with more trivial skills like his basic Spanish and paddleboarding certificate. Even painting houses in Australia, an almost laughable skill now, was dutifully noted. He was given a bed in the barracks, surrounded by strangers, safe yet far from comforted.

The evening’s ceremony in the courtyard was an unsettling revelation. He observed, captivated but repulsed. The Leader and his priestess orchestrated their new faith expertly. Their sermons, rich with drama and fire, seemed to resonate deeply, their racist message cloaked in religious zeal. Julian could see the transformation: ordinary survivors reshaped into fanatics before his eyes.

He had always thought he’d be strong enough to resist propaganda like this, yet here he was—doing nothing, blending in to survive. The shame burned him deeper than the cold evening air.

The celebration afterward was strangely intoxicating, with music, laughter, and alcohol flowing freely. Julian couldn’t help but admit it was more vibrant than any party he’d attended before—and he’d attended plenty. Sipping beer, he caught sight of the Leader surrounded by adoring followers. The disgust twisted again inside his chest.

“Crazy day,” Nasrin murmured, approaching him cautiously. She had lived two doors down, studied alongside him, and was now a quiet reminder of who he’d once been.

“You can say that again,” Julian sighed, feeling drained. “How’re you holding up?”

“Honestly? Hot food and being clean feels good. But the rest ... I don’t know.” Her voice trailed off, uncertainty evident in her eyes.

Julian nodded silently. Nasrin had become close friends with Mary, their neighbour born to Nigerian parents. Mary had vanished yesterday, her absence painfully conspicuous. Nasrin hadn’t seen her murdered, but whispers confirmed the worst. They both knew the truth: no Black survivors had been brought in. Julian felt guilt gnaw at him again, harsh and relentless. He’d watched bodies carted away—friends, neighbours—and done nothing. It disgusted him how easily silence had come.

“They know how to put on a show,” Nasrin remarked, breaking his grim thoughts.

Julian forced a nod, attempting levity. “Yeah, quite the visuals. The guys getting promoted seemed happy. Wonder what the criteria are for joining the inner circle.”

Nasrin shook her head slowly. “You don’t want to find out.”

The mood around them grew increasingly wild, people pairing off, losing themselves in drink and lust. Nasrin moved closer instinctively, uneasy. She was attractive—long dark hair, athletic build, a prominent nose that lent character to her face—but Julian sensed her vulnerability beneath her confident façade. He silently resolved to protect her, at least. A small act of redemption for his other failures.

When they finally retreated to their respective quarters, Julian lay awake in his assigned bed, staring at the ceiling in restless torment. Around him, others whispered excitedly about their new lives. He envied their ignorance.

The reality haunted him: he had become a part of something monstrous, but what choice did he have? Resistance meant death, or worse, banishment to the chaos outside. Yet complicity was a bitter pill. Julian’s conscience tore at him relentlessly as he replayed the day’s violence, seeing every murder again in agonizing clarity.

He had always stood for something better—tolerance, compassion, community—and now he was part of a group founded on hatred and fear. Julian closed his eyes, sick with guilt, unsure whether he could endure living with himself.

Tonight, he was alive. Tomorrow? He couldn’t bear to imagine.

Sleep was slow to arrive. When it finally did, it brought no comfort, only nightmares of faces he’d betrayed through silence, the dark accusation in their eyes more haunting than any violence he’d witnessed.

Thursday, November 25, 2027, The White Tower – Dale

The last few days had been highly productive. Dale’s people had methodically cleared much of the City of London, swelling their ranks by another seventy-two survivors—among them forty women, nine girls, and eight children. They’d even managed to retrieve hay from the Horse Guards Parade, and now their stockpiles felt reassuringly sufficient.

But their rapid growth was beginning to strain the Tower’s accommodations, forcing Dale to reorganise sleeping arrangements. The top floor of the White Tower was now largely dedicated to command and control, complete with radios, strategic maps, and a central weapons store. Tom, Joe, and Sven slept closest to the weaponry, ready to react swiftly to any threat. Dale positioned himself slightly apart, both to assert his leadership and to maintain a certain necessary separation. Nearby, Olesia, Allegra, Natalie, and Nicole took turns rotating in shifts at his side, effectively moving upstairs permanently.

The next floor down was allocated entirely to the women, while the ground floor now served as quarters for families and their children. With the population continuing to rise, they’d expanded into the previously unused upper floors of the Waterloo Block, though the crown jewels themselves remained frustratingly locked away. That floor was now occupied by most of the men, a pragmatic solution given the overcrowding elsewhere.

Their swelling numbers allowed Dale to establish a proper security rotation, maintaining a constant guard presence of at least six individuals stationed at strategic locations around the Tower complex. He was pleased by this structure, recognising it as essential to their continued safety and stability.

Today, Joe and Sven had each taken out a group of thirty-two scouts, their target Covent Garden. Dale had instructed them explicitly to steer clear of Chinatown for the time being, instead prioritising a methodical sweep all the way to the river. He’d deliberately avoided sending scouts east and north until he better understood who was watching them from those directions. Recent reports of observers had left him uneasy, and Dale resolved it was time to gain clarity.

When a group of men appeared on a nearby hill, observing silently from a distance, Dale was prepared. Though inexperienced and far from comfortable on horseback, he mounted one of the recovered horses. Nine other men joined him, each dressed in the formal uniforms of the Household Cavalry, partly for intimidation, partly to present an organised image of authority. They carried ceremonial swords prominently, but each rider also had a pistol concealed beneath their jackets, a quiet reassurance against uncertainty.