CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BATTLE OF WATERLOO STATION

Richard Maxwell remembered very vividly why he hated the Bakerloo line. It reeked of sheer defeat. The pallid beige was everywhere. Only the poorly maintained air-conditioning panels broke it. The ocean-colored seats had turned to puke over time. Insurance ads urged you to invest in Bitcoin, but warned you that your capital was at risk.It was the only thing he couldn't get a grasp on, as Prime Minister. Transport. The only complaints he heard were about the trains and buses. No one cared about the chlamydia they caught on them. It was absolutely beyond him. Now, trudging along the tunnels, he realized those were terrible as well. At least the tube was air-conditioned. Here, it looked, and felt like where hopes and dreams came to die.Colline suggested a route through London. It was less infected with survivors, blighters, and the like. So, they had walked. They took the Overground from Hampstead Heath to Piccadilly Circus or Kilburn Park. Richard hadn't the faintest idea. They had descended into the tube network on a Tuesday. He had no idea what year it was even nov. of course, it wouldn't have taken so long if Collins knew his way around London. Both Richard and Johna did, but Collins insisted that he take care of navigation. Johns had a growing suspicion that they had walked a lap around the Circle Line on Wednesday. Richard wholeheartedly disagreed—it was Thursday, he was sure of it. Eventually, the two had enough of being suspended in such a foul labyrinth."Sergeant?" Richard started, in a sort of outrage he only reserved for press conferences."Yessir?""Next station we see, we're getting out. I can't stand these tunnels anymore." Collins only shook his head in a no-can-do manner."No can do. Do you want to get shot up there?""You're forgetting that we can defend ourselves too, Sergeant," Johns murmured."I don't care. Going up there is a risk.""Going to Derwent's was a risk, but you didn't care then either, did you?" The apy chapped.This seemed to give the sergeant pause for a second. He nodded stiffly. "Fine. Next station, we're off. Where are we headed?""Up," Richard said. "I don't care what station, even if we pop up in the middle of marauder territory. From there, we can work our way closer to central.""Central? Central London's going to be just as bad as it is down here. Do you know how many lunatics are running free up there?" This time it was Johns getting all worried.-rried."No, not precisely. Can you go give me a number?""I'll do better; I'll give you an example: Howard Piers?""Wait, I thought he was still in Scrubs."Johns squinted at Richard. He opened his mouth, but no words came out for at least five seconds."You thought he was still in jail—you know what, I'm not going to ask. You amaze me, Richard, really."Then, a long silence fell. It was broken only by the dull thud of the Sergeant's boots and the measured clicks of John's tailored shoes.Well, lads," the sergeant began, "here we are: Waterloo Station."He tried doing an impressive flourish of the hand; instead, he pointed to a nearby sign. The station was another hundred meters away."We still got to walk it, mate." Richard smiled before halting. He heard something he couldn't be sure of until he listened closer. A bang. Or maybe a thump. Then a shout, "Grenade!" and another, louder bang. The sound took all three men by surprise, all of them reaching for their guns in perfect sync."Is that marauder territory enough for you?" Collins asked, slapping the mag home in his pistol."I reckon so. What do we do here, then? The safe option, or...?" Richard asked no one in particular. They were all thinking the same thing - to see what's going on at Waterloo station.Without so much as a shared glance between them, the men began to walk down the tunnel, armaments in hand. Richard had a cricket bat on him, as well as a S&W the agent had lent him for self-defense. He wondered how the bandits would react to seeing their Prime Minister. Especially when he was cracking heads with a cricket bat.Echoing down the tunnel was the ping of missed shots, and the screams that signaled a hit. There was also the clang of metal on metal. What, Johns thought, are these people sword fighting?What they saw down the tunnel only confirmed that, much to Johns's confusion. People in rags tried to kill each other with whatever they had. One such individual was wielding an army surplus machete, another a wooden club. It was brutal, like an old battle fought with horses. But, it had a strange jolliness, like a pub brawl.As if on cue, a man ripped a chair off the platform wall and tried hitting another man over the head with it. Were they not in Waterloo Station, the three men might have considered asking for a pint.-----------The drive to London had been long—not overly so, but enough to keep Roland on the edge of his seat most of the way through it. For the umpteenth time, he checked his bag for a weapon that needed polishing. He was asking Roger if they were there yet."Are there any yet?""Mate, look out the window," Roger sighed. He chewed on something branded as spearmint gum. It tasted like expired Colgate."I am.""Do you see Tower Bridge?""Nope," Roland said, taking a moment to inspect his Mossberg's grip."Well, there you are. "Meanwhile, Clark sat back, half-asleep, with Father Nicholas's book resting on his face. It took him roughly twenty minutes to register what Roland had asked. "Whuh-huh? We're in London?"Roger stopped chewing his gum-paste for a second, looking up at the rear-view mirror. "More or less. I'm gonna find a place to park, and then you'll be headed off." "So, you're saying that the ride's just gonna leave us in London? Where it's rife with loonies?" Clark asked."But why? Why would anyone do something so stupid?""I decided that, genius," Roland mumbled, feeding a few shells into his shotgun. "Is that for me?" Clark gestured to the Mossberg. "I ain't shootin' you just yet, if that's what you're askin' me. But you," Roland paused, fishing a strange little thing out of the bag, "Get this.""What in the world is that?""Summin' called a trench spike. They used it in the trenches.""I gathered that much." Clark took the thing into his hand, leather for the handle and steel for the 6-inch-long spike."Fast learner, aren't you? Just stick it in someone's head if they try anything funny with you, yeah?" Roland smiled, like a granddad offering his grandson a model of a plane they flew in the big war."Do I look like some sort of psycho to you? I'm not trying to lobotomize some fella for looking at me the wrong way.""Well, welcome to London, where that's how it is. I'm sure you won't need to use that, especially with us around.""Look, mate - no offense, but you look like Father Christmas's biker cousin. People might ask you for a toy or something, you know."Roland smiled again. Then he sniggered. Before he knew it, he was wheezing. At the wheel, Roger couldn't help but smirk."Blimey, you're a funny one, aren't you? Last time someone tried messing with me, they got a faceful of lead. But really, Clark, don't worry yourself too much. You'll be all wrinkly, like me."Clark nodded, just looking at the spike. Sooner or later, Roger killed the engine. "Ladies," he announced, in a poor impression of a stewardess. "This is your pilot speaking. Thank you for flying with Roger Airways. We sincerely hope you enjoy fighting for your life in Eaterloo." He cleared his throat, returning to his normal voice. "Oh, Roland? You owe me some Marlbone's for this. The Extra gum isn't enough. It tastes like a tube of Aquafresh.""What a goodbye, eh? Anyway, Clark, get out. I don't want to keep Jolly Roger here waiting.""Course—thanks for the ride, mate. You've got to tell me more 'bout that book later." There was the thud of the car door, and the yellow Chevy convertible barreling down the road.---------A walk from Yorkshire to London is roughly three days. On a bike, that gets cut down to roughly a day. On a train, it's two hours. In a car, it's four. Arthur learned this fact, the very former one, the hard way. The first day of walking was grueling at best. Blighters lurked in every nook, eager for some poor soul to stumble their way. Fortunately for Arthur, he hadn't forgotten about the gun in his pocket. It was a small Dart MK 11, chambered in .38 special. It worked, but that was the highest praise he could give the thing. It liked to jam just despite Arthur, and was very funny with how the mag was fed into it. For a product from his own company, he didn't much like it. He would have preferred to fight the blighters with a belt.Ah, but Mercy had cut it in half to get to him. Of course.So there he was, stuck in the middle of the moors, with only a rusty, blasted old gun to protect him. How was he supposed to get to London? Good question, he thought to himself. Only he had no answer.It seemed that someone else did, though."Hey, bud," a smug, smooth voice from the bushes—rustling as someone stepped through them, "miss me?"Arthur barely held back a groan, looking at a nearby shrub to see none other than James standing in front of it."Do you want my honest answer?""Sure, go ahead. Honesty's the best policy, isn't it?""Okay then, my answer is no. Not in the slightest," Arthur said."Playing hard to get? Suit yourself. Anyway—what are you doing out here, Stitches? Mercy discharges you early or something?" James asked, dusting the leaves off of his overcoat.Arthur's face reddened at the comment—stitches? Who on earth was he to call him such a thing? "I insisted that he let me go early. I have business to attend to in London, that's all. Why aren't you scalping more expired meds to Mercy?""Care, I'm a nationwide purveyor of goods, ya know. Travelling merchant, even. And now my trades's bringin' me to London. Got an arms deal to cut with some bandit types. You know a guy called Piers? Or Xing? They're tryna scare some of the other idiots. Out of Central." James said, knowing he was practically guaranteed to pique Arthur's curiosity with that."Piers—yeah, I know him. The lunatic in Scrubs, right? I heard he fortified the place after the outbreak started. Nasty piece of work. Why would you sell to a guy like him—forget I asked that.""Uh- why?""Because you're exactly the type to sell weapons to a serial killer bandit chief. "Who's the other person?" Arthur asked, with a tilt of his head. He began walking, continuing along that dirt path that led closer to London."Xing. I've heard he's a Chinese guy who invests in foreign firms. His country wants a say in things. Y'know, People's Republic this, socialist principles that. He got stuck here on a business trip just as the outbreak happened." James kept up with Arthur, half-stumbling along at roughly the same pace."Right where was he then? I assumed he holed up somewhere pleasant, like Piers.""Nah, you'd be surprised. Fella's staying in the Hippodrome Casino. Y'know, Leicester Square, right across the street from M&M World, wouldn't ya know it."That name brought back memories. Back before he got big, he drank and played craps. It was a way to stay afloat. Then he came ambling through the door, at God knows when in the morning. His wife, Jane, was bemused. She never liked his "gambling problem." In hindsight, he saw no issue. You win some, you lose some. In the end, when you're especially bad, lucky, or just plain miserable, you take what you get and leave."I know the place. Is he in league with Piers?""I think so, Xing acts like Piers' arm in Central. They're clever ones, both of them. I think selling to them is the best idea. You know where I'm coming from, Arthur. Businessman to businessman, eh?"Arthur nodded slowly. As annoying as James may be, he is right."I get it. Siding with the winners, are we?""Wouldn't ya know it."And so the two men walked on, thinking of London—a city of opportunity still, so it seemed.-----------Meanwhile, in Waterloo station, it seemed, things were only just picking up. Jehne stayed back in the tunnel. Richard scrambled to the other side of the platform and took his position in the other tunnel. The Sergeant had climbed onto the platform. He wanted to push a path through the fighting, out of the station. He didn't have any idea what the fighting was about, nor did he think better of getting involved in it. Or so he tried.But Collins was only human. So when someone hit him, he was bound to get angry. So, a bandit had been grabbed and thrown onto the rail. The other had been made into a projectile weapon, used as a battering ram. They both ran through a crowd of warring marauders.Richard and Johns could only watch, awed and shocked. Collins was forging a path through the crowd with his bare hands. What a man, Johns thought. What a mountain of a man. By then, he had climbed onto the platform, covering Collins from behind. This gave Richard and Collins some breathing room.БIn the very upper floor of the station, two men sat waiting. One wore a navy parka, waistcoat, and shirt. Many survivors knew them well. He sat next to the Oyster gate, smiling ear to ear—hearing the screams echoing up from the platform. At the information desk stood a tall, thin man. He wore a charcoal suit with a bulletproof vest under it. A pink tie was tucked neatly into the vest. He was focused on nothing in particular, radiating a sort of patience that the other man lacked.In walked Roland, in all of his father Christmasly glory, and Clark right behind."Took your sweet time, didn't you?" asked the man closest to the oyster stand.At this, Roland merely shrugged. He was getting paid to be here, not to be early or late or bang on time. Their fault for not specifying. "I've been all over the place. Picked up an old friend, torched a church, blasted Mr. Langdon in the face. It isn't the biggest deal that I'm here now, anyway.""I'm sorry, you blasted who in the face?""Langdon. Arthur. The boss. You know, the CE-bloody-O. You get that, Piera?" Roland asked, dumping his duffel bag at his feet."I do, just making sure. "I'm voicing my partner's concerns," Piers said. "What? Can't he say so?" Roland asked, turning to the man at the info desk. Clark stayed quiet, confusedly looking at Roland, who continued. "¿No habla inglés, amigo? Parce que anglais, mon ami?""I can speak English perfectly well, Mr. Haveleton." The man said, standing up and fixing his suit. "I don't suppose the man you've brought with you is your friend, is he?""He is, actually. Clark, this is Mr. Xing. Xing, this is Clark Maxwell."Clark glared at Roland. He knew that using his full name was a big risk.He held his hand out, walking over to Clark. He was very neat. His side parting and Type 76 assault rifle were perfect. "Ah—Maxwell? Like the prime minister?""The very one.""Nice to meet you, very nice indeed. I didn't know Roland had friends in such high places."At this, the other three men couldn't help but snicker. Xing seemed oblivious, almost blissfully so."Anyway, we really do appreciate you coming here. Mr. Havelston is our best enforcer. He's the man we have been waiting for to deal with the rival gang below us.""Before you ask, Clark," Piers chipped in. "No, it isn't the trains.""Fortunately for us, all the trains are in their depots. We're using them as storage right now, as a matter of fact," Xing said, a quiet pride detectable in his voice."It's a bunch of idiots who call themselves the tunnel rats. They keep popping up from the tunnels, up through the stations, and leading raids on us." Said Piers.Seeing the problem, K only nodded. He was unsure what to make of this. He had no idea anyone still lived in London, let alone fought for it.He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the thump of shoes on metal, echoing up from behind the Oyster gates. Before he could get a single word out, three men emerged from the escalator.For the first time in three years, Clark was greeted with the sight of his brother. Richard was baffled. His brother was chatting with a mix of the Penguin and an Eskimo. Plus a council-housed and violent cousin of Father Christmas. And a Chinese businessman. Clark himself was in a similar state of confusion. There was his brother, the Prime Minister. He stood there with a cricket bat in one hand and a gun in the other, like some angry Simon Pegg character. Next to him was the least conspicuous spy ever. Or, perhaps, the most extravagant office worker. A soldier was there too. He looked like he was trying to be Rambo.As per usual, Sergeant Collins was the first to break the silence."All you! On the ground, now!" he barked. His normally gentle voice now resembled a car horn. The military would call it his "war cry." Johns looked at him in disbelief, as if he knew no one would follow such a command. As on cue, Roland slid back the bolt on his Mossberg.Piers unclipped a throwing knife from his belt.Clark took out his trench spike.Xing, however, didn't move a muscle. Despite the large assault rifle strapped to his back, he had no need for such firepower right now."Gentlemen," he started, taking a remarkably measured tone. "There's no need for any of this right now." This seemed to be gestured at his side of the room, who lowered their weapons. "If you wish to leave this room, then leave you will. But I, for one, will not tolerate you making such demands. I'm willing to let it be a one-off, as you people put it. Please, leave."Richard raised his eyebrows. He expected a declaration of war from these people."I will, but first, I'd quite like to have a word with my brother, if that's all right." He said, giving Clark a look that seemed to question every single one of his brother's life choices.Xing nodded slowly before Piers whispered something into his ear."Right, of course. We're more than willing to make accommodations, Mr. Prime Minister. 'You and your brother will have all the time you need, of course,' he said, trying to smile as he spoke. "You two can speak outside. We'll wait here for you, yes?""That'll be great, thank you." Richard nodded in appreciation. Then, he turned to Johns and Collins and spoke in a hushed tone. "Now, lads, if any one of them tries anything, it's shoot to kill. That's an order. Both of you.""And if they don't?" Johns asked."Leave them be. The moment they do so much as look outside, though, make sure they don't set one foot out there."Richard brushed past Roland, leaving the station with Clark in tow. Beneath them, the platform had quieted—no tunnel rat or one of Piers's bandits had been standing.