a couple of Barrett M107 sniper rifles. I grab another duffle bag and begin filling it with weapons. First I grab the massive sniper and place it in the bag. Next, I grab a couple of sub-machine guns and a shotgun. I’m not a fan of shotguns but it might come in handy. I then grab an M4 off the wall and dress it to my liking—a 4X scope, a front grip, a silencer, and a convenient strap.
I turn to Paul, and like a kid in a candy shop I ask him, “Which one do you want?”
He examines the wall and points, “The bulkier one next to the M4.”
“G36,” I say as I take one off the wall.
“Yeah, that one,” he calls out from behind me.
“What would you like on it?” I ask.
“A scope?” he said with an upward inflection.
I laughed, “I’ll attach what I can.”
I attach a low-range scope and a grenade launcher. I set the gun down and see what else I can pack. I take extra ammo, for all weapons, from the work bench’s drawers. I bagged two of the four parachutes hanging next to the pegged wall. Several different tactical vests were hanging as well—all olive green. I took a smaller version, with a leg holster for my pistol, and strapped it on. I threw one, another of the smaller versions, to Paul.
When he finished with the clothes he walked to me. He was wearing the same thing, only he wore a black short sleeved shirt, and a plain olive green hat.
“You look cute,” I joked.
“Shut up.” Laughing, I handed him his G36. “It works like any other assault rifle,” I told him as he examined it. He was fiddling with the grenade launcher, so I took it from his grasp and showed him. I slid it open, taking fragmentation ammo from a drawer, placing it in the grenade launcher, and sliding it back shut. I held the gun up and showed him the trigger, “Pull this and you can kiss whoever or whatever you’re aiming at goodbye.” He nodded in reply.
“I was hoping this was a bathroom,” he told me with disappointment.
“Just go over there in the corner,” I tell him.
“Screw that! What if some guys bust in here half way through? I’m not going to get shot with my dick hanging out…”
“If you hadn’t started your pointless ranting and started pissing instead, you’d be done by now.” He looked at me with a pained expression and turned to the corner mumbling something unintelligible. It was a second or so before I heard the urine splashing against the floor.
The door was kicked open, crashing against the wall, jerking our attention toward the source. Two British soldiers ran through the door pointing their G36 rifles at us. They were yelling in unison—making it impossible to understand with panic flowing through my mind. Paul had his head cocked, looking behind him, and still urinating while yelling ‘whoa’ and ‘hold it.’ I had one arm up and the other still on the trigger of the grenade launcher. They took a tiny step toward us every few seconds or so, still yelling at us to demand who we were and what we were doing. This went on for a good twenty seconds. They were by the wooden desk, and I finally heard Paul’s zipper, when I said ‘screw it,’ and pulled the trigger. I aimed the shot at the desk, hoping not to injure them too bad. The force of the shot launched the two soldiers into the lockers, and slamming me into the work bench. Debris and chunks of the desk flew in every direction. I ended up on my backside, sitting up, against the work bench with a blinding ring in my ears. Disorientation sucks. I look over to Paul and he’s rolling around on the ground with his hands covering his ears.
I slowly make it to my feet, but immediately fall on my face. I crawl over to the downed soldiers. One isn’t moving, and the other is just moaning with pain. I search the pockets of the immobile one and find his wallet. I’m not too proud of sticking several twenty pound notes in my pocket, but we need it—if this is like the States then some folks probably still take regular currency. I scramble to my feet and walk over to Paul. He’s now lying in a supine position breathing heavily. I force him to his feet.
“We got to get out of here. Fast.” He started wobbling toward the broken door before I tell him to grab the clothes. I dig for the bag with our weapons and throw in a couple more frag grenades. I then quickly search for my bolo blade. I find it and tuck it in my tactical belt before heading for the door.
We ran, across the length of the locker room, to a door that was facing us. Still disoriented, Paul fell a few times before making it to our destination. Cold, comforting, air hit us when we emerged outside. We took a minute or two to gain composure. Breathing heavy, hands on our knees, covered in dust and debris, and carrying more weapons than an arms dealer—we don’t blend in too well. The building we came from was as plain as its insides—white, square, and four stories with continuous windows wrapping all around the building.
I examine the road where we stood, and it looks like any other cityscape—busted and broken. Litter flooded the streets along with crumbled buildings and other debris. The gloomy weather adds to the depressing sight.
“Damn, that thing is huge,” Paul wheezes. I look at him and follow his gaze to the impressive Shard building. The Shard is a silvery structure which came to a pointed top from its square base. The largest building in London—a beautiful behemoth.
Across the street is a small local pub with several people inside. I give Paul a nudge, “Let’s go across the street to that joint.” I grab the bag of weapons and trek my way across the street with Paul on my heels.
Our presence signaled for an awkward atmosphere. As soon as we walked through the door the twenty, or so, people stopped and stared at us from their small round tables, which were scattered throughout the pub. Only our heavy breathing was breaking the silence. Directly in front us was a burly man, with his arms crossed, standing behind the bar. I pressed on toward him. Each step we took shook off the dust that clung to our bodies. We looked like a couple of jets in the sky with our cloudy trails.
Paul and I took our seats among the stools along the bar.
“Fish and chips?” I asked.
“That it?” the bartender asked back.
“Two fish and chips with water,” I confirmed. He stared us down for a few seconds before making our plates. He had a thick coat of fat, which covered his huge muscular figure. He was bald, had thick eyebrows and a thick goatee. He was wearing a dirty white t-shirt with jeans and black boots. I must admit, he was pretty intimidating.
I turn around to study the people who are burning holes in the back of my head. Every face was staring back with fatigued, yet fierce, eyes. They’re all similar in that they’re all dirty. They wore ragged clothes and had black smudges covering their bodies. Their ages ranged, what I guessed to be, from twenty to forty years old. Most notably, they were all drowning their sorrows in pints of beer.
I turned back around to see the bartender returning with our plates.
“Check this out,” Paul whispered with a smile on his face.
“Nothing stupid,” I croaked.
The bartender placed our plates in front of us, along with two cups of water.
Paul whispered, “We’re looking for the Reed brothers.”
The bartender bent down closer to Paul. “What?” he said with a booming voice.
“The Reed brothers. We are looking for them,” Paul repeated.
The bartender straightened his back and put his hands under the bar. “The Reed brothers,” he said.
When Paul nodded, the bartender was lightening quick—from under the bar he had two sawn-off shotguns which now pointed at Paul and me. All the while, moving chairs and furniture behind us also got my attention. Paul was in shock and I could only sigh. I don’t even get to have a bite of my fish and chips, and they smell so good. I took a glance behind me to see everyone in the bar was now pointing some kind of weapon at us. I look at Paul and he’s still in shock, staring down the barrels which have the potential to remove his face from existence. I look at him for a while and whisper, “you idiot.”
“If you want the brothers, you’re going to have to go through us. And I don’t thin
k that will turn out too good for you,” the bartender told us.
“We’re friends of theirs, that’s all,” Paul said in desperation. A series of arms and hands grab me, and drag me to the front door. As I’m being wheeled away I see a few of them, mostly women, beating Paul to the ground—I laughed. In one heave, I’m launched through the door and into the street. I’m still laughing by the time Paul is thrown through the door. Paul groans each time the thrown duffle bags land on him. I get to my feet, humor still washing over me, and bring Paul to his feet. His nose was bleeding and he had a nice cut over his left eye. I grab one of the bags and make sure my M4 is still strapped to my shoulder.
Through pained eyes and heavy breathing he says, “I didn’t mean for that too…I didn’t think…I mean, I know you’re hungry…I’m sorry man.”
I toss the other bag to him and say, “totally worth it.”
8. Ignorance
We were walking…actually more like dragging ourselves, aimlessly down the street and over the Thames toward the Shard Tower.
“This would be much easier if we had food in our stomachs,” I accused Paul.
“I said sorry damn it. How do you think I feel?” He replied.
“Like an ass?” I said with hostility. He didn’t reply to this. I hope he’s as annoyed as I am. Once the laughter passed, I wanted to kill Paul. Not really of course.
We finish crossing the bridge and the destructive