London. October 9th, 2018. 01:32AM.
The lone, dark figure crept forward, avoiding the flare of light as a car passed-by outside the alley. To either side lay dumpsters, full of stinking refuse and the odd rodent. Ahead, a short sprint across the road, down two more alleys, and then the docks. Behind lay failure and poverty.
Another passing car illuminated the walls for a moment; decayed posters and graffiti are revealed. The outlet of the downtrodden and repressed civilian class, fed up with how the Government treats – or, better yet, mistreats – the populace. It’s went downhill since 2016. A lot of minor issues suddenly blowing up into chaos. Lots of deaths. Plenty of rioters imprisoned for breaches of the peace. The Elite staying silent in their glass towers, high above the smells and cries of below. But not tonight. Tonight, they will be screaming for help. And none will come.
The figure, judging the route ahead, almost noiselessly darts across the road. A quick left down the lane, then turn right. The fence ahead is unlocked – just like they said it would be! Passing this was the easy party. Now it got tricky. Curfew Officers patrolled the area ahead, looking for vagrants or other unmentionables that might pollute the gated tower-complex of the upper-classes. Bastards. They had a reputation for over-indulging their violent fantasies. Many-a homeless runaway turned up in the cells, bleeding from all orifices, clinging to life. The charge? “Attempted burglary of a private citizen’s property; Resisting arrest; Obstruction of Justice”. The list would go on.
A quick glance at his wrist told Ricki that the time was nearing 02:09AM. He’d have to hurry. It wasn’t easy moving through the backways of the city. Especially considering the fact he was carrying something heavy. Something very heavy. Ricki had asked them for another man. An accomplice, to help bear the load. But they’d said no. He alone was to do this. Or else the agreement was off. That alone had been enough to stop him raising the matter further, and so alone he went. Besides, the others were tasked with similar deliveries tonight. The target: London.
A Curfew Officer, walking slowly through the cold night’s air, passed by the alley in which Ricki was hiding. Thankfully he didn’t spot him. Imagine the trouble he’d be in if he’d been found. Especially with the device in the bag. Ricki shivered at the distinct possibility that he might not even be alive for long after being caught. They’d make his life hell in the cells. A kick here, a punch here. “No, your honour. The prisoner resisted arrest. Took a few of our men down. Had to stop him. Damn shame he fell and broke his neck. Was a terrible accident. Nothing we could do.” It was an outcome he was keen to avoid.
The heavy thuds of the Officer’s footsteps now faded down the street. He was easily a few hundred feet away by now. It was time to move. He’d have to be even more careful now. The Isle of Dogs was one of London’s most surveilled areas. Above, nearly blotting out the stars, stood dozens of glass and steel skyscrapers – within them lived businessmen, politicians, the odd Lottery winner. People who valued their own privacy, their property and the power that came with wealth. Fourteen different buildings had been built around shores of the old Millwall Docks, now a beautiful park open five days a week to residents only. At the centre, a large fountain amidst an open granite plaza. Ricki looked around, but did not see any Curfew Officers patrolling around. Only the cameras. Big, white monstrosities on top of large poles high above his reach, with barbed wire at intervals along the shafts for good measure. ‘This is it’, thought Ricki, as he moved slowly into the plaza.
The granite slabs were damp with rain from yesterday’s deluge. The fountain trickled and splashed from a dozen different faucets. It was a curious thing; carved from marble, the figure of Britannia stood tall amongst the pool of water into which her many faucets drained. Ricki moved towards it slowly, aware that the cameras were likely following him. The men and women behind them would soon note him as a ‘suspicious individual’, and the alarm would be raised. He’d have to act. Fast. Heaving the sack down from his shoulders, he lifted it onto the stone shelf beside the fountain. “Urghf”, grunted Ricki, glad to be free of the weight of the bag. He stood up, stretching, then bent back over his package. “Right. Let’s get you open…” he whispered, as he tugged at the zip, pulling it across the length of the bag until its contents were revealed.
A Jackal insignia shone in the streetlight, embossed on a large metal case inside the bag. Many bolts and screws adorned it. At its centre was a passcode lock. Glancing around, Ricki leant forward and began to input the code. “8 digits. 7… 3… 1… 8… 2…” he began, pressing the rough numbers on the keypad. On the dial, the numbers lit up a deep red, and inside came a whirring noise of gears and motors. With a final press, the locks lifted. Ricki began panting. He’d held his breath. But the only sounds here were that of the wind, now picking up speed and rustling the trees, and the cars of the Outer City. He lifted the lid and was greeted with more number pads, and a large lever with a small switch beside it.
Ricki reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a phone. Pressing the quick-dial option, he pressed it to his ear as the dial-tone buzzed through the earpiece. “Hello?” came a voice. His employer. “I’m in position. It’s ready” said Ricki, trying to sound unafraid. “Good. Set the timer, prime the device, and get out of there. We’ve transferred the agreed amount to your account. You know where to rendezvous?” said the voice. “Yes”, said Ricki, “I’ll get it done. Just give me a minute to—“ he cut off. A gruff voice called out from across the plaza. “Oi! Raise your hands! Drop any items you’re carrying. Step away from the bag!”. Startled, Ricki turned. The plaza was alight with torches of a dozen officers; some with guns, others with batons, raised at the ready. There was no way out.
Still holding the phone, Ricki barked “T-they’re here. They’ve found me! I can’t get out. Fuck!”. The officers began to converge. They were still a good few feet away, but there was no way to run. Any gap that Ricki spied would easily be filled if he attempted to run at it. He was trapped. “Do it!” came the voice from the phone. “Do it now!”. Ricki glanced at the phone, still eyeing the approaching Officers. “What?” he asked, “You mean, I—“. “Activate the device now! Don’t let them stop you. We’ll handle your arrangement.” The voice, though loud and commanding, was cut off with a ‘click’. They had hung up.
Ricki backed into the fountain. The Officers were almost upon him, still moving slow, guard up and weapons at the ready. He turned quickly, lifted the lever and flipped the switch. The device hummed, and beeped. Primed.
As an Officer reached Ricki, grabbing his shoulder and attempting to pull him away, Ricki tugged the lever again, slamming it down. For a split second there may have been pain. But it was over in a flash of light. The device exploded into a brilliant ball of flame, shattering the windows of the nearby tower blocks, incinerating the plaza, building up its destructive wave higher and higher, above the buildings and then…implosion. The city rocked. Smoke and fire exploded from the Isle of Dogs, immense heat crossing the Thames, obliterating all in its path.
Across the city, at dozens of other locations, fireballs lit the night’s sky. The smell of smoke, mixed with the deadly chemical compound of the device, permeated the air, as London fell to the Dirty Bombs, and the spread of their lethal payload began. By daybreak, tens of thousands of people cried out for help, before grasping at their throats and choking on their own blood. No help would come to them…