Babylon Working - Part Three: A Dystopian Sci/Fi Dark Fantasy Horror

CHAPTER ONE

AARON

"Broadway" was the main supply trench, wide enough to seat all Aaron’s platoon. They lined up along each side as Lieutenant Weedon spoke. His face was set in its usual grim frown.

So here we are, my platoon. Looks like you lost seven boys today, but don’t dwell on that. None of us know where they’re gone, but it can’t be any worse than this world, right?

Aaron glanced around. Laz nodded, staring into space ahead. Walsh was the same, his face set in stone, eyes wide and staring ahead. Aaron couldn’t shake a nasty dip in his stomach, telling him this was a terrible mistake. He’d be more help at home using his education to make Union a better place.

So this is the end of the line for me, boys. Sergeant Sutton will be taking the reins… Weedon continued, indicating Sutton beside him, …you got a special mission, and I gotta take Bravo Company out… he said, indicating behind with his head, …up over the top. We gotta push those mother fuckers back.

A wave of surprise spread around the platoon. A dull sadness compounded the sinking feeling that tugged at Aaron’s heart. The way Weedon spoke suggested he didn’t hold out much hope for the rest of the Company.

I’m gonna miss you Limey idiots, but that’s the fucking army. Get used to it. You do what you’re told, Weedon said, catching Aaron’s eye and nodding.

But rule number one is you look out for one another, right? Weedon added. For the first time his frown broke, a small twitching of the upper lip. Aaron nodded then looked away around the trench.

Sandbags, corrugated iron and nets with green sheets of canvas forming shelters stretched out onto the desert floor. Soldiers moved all around, hauling boxes and bags, or stretchers with wounded and dying people. Aaron shuddered as he saw one such bloody mess. There was no struggle or screaming, the wounded soldier just gazed in the sky, a gurgling cough splattering blood across his chin. Aaron turned away, heart thudding as he tried not to think about taking a bullet in the throat.

So follow the Sarge and onto the Choppers. From there…well, may God be with you, who, or what ever the fuck that is, Weedon said.

Yes sir! mouthed Aaron, his lack of voice unnoticeable behind the others. Weedon saluted the platoon then Sutton, and turned away. He headed past them back into the main Support Trench network. Aaron was getting used to the sound of the constant explosions in the distance, and the sporadic earthshaking force of the shells falling closer in. He wondered if a man even noticed dying if one of those hit.

Right men, Sutton barked, with much the same inflection in his voice as Stubbsy, …there’s eighteen of us left. That’s six in each ‘copter. Get prepared, we’ll be rendezvousing with the Wolverines in three minutes.

The platoon broke into a bustle of activity and chatter. Laz was still comforting Walsh, which gave Aaron a twinge of jealousy. He sighed. A cheery London voice broke him from his thoughts.

You all right Styles?

Looking up, he recognised Private Ogebule, aside from Laz and Aaron the only other black soldier in the platoon. Short and stocky, he could be identified with his rumbling boom of a laugh. His face seemed to default to a big smile, large flat nose wrinkled up, losing his brown eyes to the creases around.

Oh. Hi, Ogebule. I… Aaron said, the words fumbling from his mouth. The truth was he felt like crying and calling for Doctor Forrester. Ogebule sat on the trench floor next to Aaron.

Fucking hell, did you expect this then, Kin? he said in a London accent, removing his helmet. Aaron shook his head, looking beyond Ogebule at another stretcher. This time its female occupant reached up to the sky, wailing in agony. Ogebule pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered to Aaron. Aaron returned his smile and took one.

It’s like hell, or somewhere, innit? I mean, who the fuck are we fighting anyway, you know what I’m saying? You see them too didn’t you? When we were runnin’ into that trench, Ogebule said. Aaron looked up, shocked. Ogebule smiled and in one swift movement struck a match down his boot. It flared up and he shielded it with his hand and brought it to his mouth. He lit up his cigarette and offered the flame to Aaron.

What do you mean? Aaron asked, releasing the smoke from his lungs. The cigarette felt good, yet tasted horrible. Smoke pulled on his throat as he exhaled, but the resulting rush was relaxing, and well worth the pain.

Well, Bruv, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t no expert… Ogebule paused to have a drag, …but they were weird looking dudes. I mean positively strange, man, he finished, the big smile on his face. Aaron shuddered, a flash of the memory of strange ambling figures in No Man’s Land in his head.

Uh, no, I didn’t see really. I mean, Terrorists are pretty bad things you know, anyway, so I think I would have expected something to be… he paused, and took a drag, …a bit odd, he finished, screwing his face up and giving Ogebule a hopeful look. Ogebule’s smile withdrew to a half smirk, and he chuckled, rolling his eyes at the same time as dragging on his cigarette. He rubbed his hand through a short layer of black hair, which flattened his round face at the top.

Nah man, these seemed like they were different you know? Terrorists, they're just the same as us, see? he said. Aaron’s eyes widened and he pulled in a small drag with an audible hiss. He’d never heard anyone say that before. Ogebule seemed spurred on by his curious look, and sidled a little closer, his voice lowered.

Yeah, Kin, we always been told that where I come from, Stonebridge Estate, you know? North London’s own… he grinned, then took a drag and nodded his head. Aaron smiled, smoking to disguise his complete lack of street credibility.

Okay, anyway, so your usual man don’t be doin’ that, you know? They don’t stand around, while flippin' other men’s shootin’ at them from afar? he said, waving his hand as if batting off a troublesome fly. Aaron giggled.

Yeah, I suppose.

Yes, suppose you are right, Kin, suppose you are right. Then I want to know what the fuck is goin' down here. Men standing in the way of gunfire, swaying like a flippin', I dunno, Bruv, some flippin’ zombie. You heard of the zombie, yeah? Ogebule said, broad grin showing his teeth, reflected white in the sunlight. Aaron nodded. He’d seen zombies in one of Forrester’s DVD movies, where the world ends because everyone becomes one, except for a few people. They all hide in an amazing shopping centre with everything you could want in it. Only the world had ended, so it wasn’t wanted by anyone.

Yeah. The zombie, man... Ogebule continued, emphasising the word zombie as though it was forbidden, …he’s a voodoo thing you know? He ain’t alive, nor is the poor soul dead. He’s in between you know? In between.

Aaron couldn’t help but be enchanted by Ogebule’s manner, his voice changing between accents, every word colourful and alive. Both boys took a drag, but Ogebule seemed desperate to get his lungful out first.

You know voodoo? Black magic man, black magic you get me? he said, pulling at the skin on his arm. The he indicated to Aaron’s exposed arm.

That’s Black magic, see? he said, then lowered his voice and pointed out towards the front of the trench, What I’m saying, is that out there is the Dark shit, Kin, Dark. It ain’t good. Black magic is good magic, you see? It's the end of Whitey and all this fucking oppression, yeah? But this thing is Dark. Something I don’t want anything to do with, do you? he asserted, big grin still on his face, pointing at Aaron, who shook his head and chuckled.

Nah, Bruv, you know what we got here? Ogebule continued, …Dark magic all around, man. All around in the air of this place is death and destruction. Man this is the Dark place, Ogebule finished, the grin fading as he put the cigarette back to his lips.

Aaron didn’t know what to say. The last thing he needed to think about was zombies. He concentrated on the cigarette.

Kin, you promise me one thing, yeah?

Aaron looked up.

Promise? he said, surprised.

Yes, Bruv. We look out for each other, yeah? You and me? We have to, Kin. Black magic, man. Black magic, Ogebule said, looking serious for once. Aaron felt guilty. He already had a best friend, and was already on a promise. Too many promises seemed to be a bad idea, making it more likely he’d break one. Looking at Ogebule, it was hard to turn him down.  Sergeant Sutton yelled, taking everyone’s attention.

Okay, Three Platoon. Wolverines are landed. Let’s go.

Ogebule winked at Aaron, leaping up and stamping on the cigarette as he went. Aaron looked over to see Laz and Walsh waiting for him to move.

Come on Styles! Sutton barked.

Laz and Walsh looked at each other and moved over, reaching down and hauling Aaron to his feet. He put his helmet on as a smiling Laz shoved the rifle onto his chest.

Okay boys, let’s move, he said, and led the way.

The helicopter waited behind the supply trench, protected by walls made of crumbling yellow sandstone. Machine gun emplacements surrounded the compound and G.D.A. personnel scampered in all directions, on their way to whatever personal hell awaited them.

Aaron followed Laz, sitting two seats away from the open door on the side of the chopper. The whole machine shuddered as the blades whirred into action, seeming to be plucked from the floor by some invisible hand. They swirled left then right, getting higher all the time. Aaron kept his eyes on the unfolding scene below. The compound became a smaller, model sized structure. The Support Trench was connected by a vast network of smaller trenches running vertical to the front line trench system, each one meandering through the desert floor. They must have extended for miles. Explosions rocked the trenches and beyond, in No Man’s Land, he could see figures, almost dots, darting forward. A streak of fire flashed from the Frontline trench and a figure erupted in a ball of flame. Another reached the trench and disappeared from view. Ever more distant as the chopper pulled away, the mountain side spewed artillery fire onto the G.D.A. lines. The helicopter lurched to the left, behind a rocky hillside, obscuring the terrible scene.

Aaron concentrated on the featureless desert floor below, trying to force Ogebule’s words out of his head.

CHAPTER TWO

THE DOCTOR

Andy I mustn’t go. I can’t! You know I have no ID card, Shirl said.

Shirl, you have a chip in your wrist, the Doctor exclaimed.

Yes, yes, but you have a card. Any suspicion aroused now could ruin everything. You know as well as I do if I have no card they’ll be interested in what we are doing. You, alone, with a card and the right attitude…well, Andy, they’ll hardly bat an eyelid, she insisted. Forrester sighed. He knew she was right, and besides, she was eighty five and could hardly be expected to walk two miles. He had three years on her, and after his lack of action as a young man this was his chance to make up. He nodded.

Yes, you’re right of course, Shirl, he acceded.

Shirl hurried Forrester as he put on his scabby old blue anorak. A baggy, lifeless thing, it had served to keep him warm in the strange English winters, which verged from blinding sunshine in mid-day, to frostbitten evenings and mornings. Many times Forrester found himself sweating as he wandered the local streets in the day, wrapped up against the cold. Then as soon as he stopped, the biting cold would be nagging at the end of his fingers.

You must hurry Andy, but please be careful, Shirl said. He smiled.

Of course, Shirl. See you later, he said, and opened the front door. It seemed like an age since he’d been further than the local shop in the middle of the recreation area. It served the four surrounding grey blocks of flats, each one over twenty storeys high, their tops touching the layer of cloud that hung over the London skyline. Forrester lived on the thirteenth floor, and he had never seen the levels above.

He walked the dank corridor, like everything else in the flats dusty and in ill repair. The matted, worn down green carpet was frayed at the edges, and afflicted with pock marks and tears. He came to the lift, which he avoided, and headed for the stairs. Remaining in an enclosed space with a faceless A.T. Guard would be too much. The guard would take delight in asking questions, looking at ID, full of suspicion and annoyance at catching an old man wandering the flats. It could be disastrous. Forrester headed for the cold, white stone of the stairwell.

There was no sign of life. Most people stayed in their flats when they weren’t at work. He’d been retired for ten years, but employment was never easy to find after his breakdown. He’d never taught again until Aaron appeared in his life, instead doing shifts in local super markets, or one of the factories that operated in the area. There had been a year at the munitions factory in Willesden, just after he was certified fit for work and provided with State accommodation. That was after the contract for making Jaguar-Lockheed Destructor tanks came to London, bringing full employment. Prime Minister Collins played that one up for years.

The stairwell was dark and dank, the sort of place he’d expect to be mugged by a gang of kids fifty years before.