He made a show of glancing at his watch. “We’ll have to wait here until the sun goes down,” he added, “so we may as well have a brew. I hope you bought some teabags from outside…?”
“And a few army-issue packed lunches,” Chris said, with a grin.
“Bastard,” Bongo said, without heat. “Anyway… what have you been doing with yourself since Westminster?”
It was an hour before Bongo decided that the night had fallen far enough to allow them to slip out onto the streets. The aliens and their collaborators had put a stop to London’s once-celebrated nightlife by enforcing a curfew, but they didn’t really have the manpower to keep it firmly in place outside Central London. Bongo and the rest of the resistance could still move about with impunity as long as they didn’t go too close to the aliens, who had night-vision gear and a willingness to open fire without confirming that the contact was actually hostile. Most humans knew to give them a wide berth.
Chris had grown up in London and had loved the city, even though he’d left school with few qualifications and little hope of a worthwhile job outside the army. Looking at the city now tore at his heart. Buildings had been destroyed, or reduced to blackened shells of what they’d once been; the once-endless traffic had been driven off the road, leaving London’s population forced to walk from place to place on foot. Burned-out cars were everywhere, a reminder that the aliens sometimes used them for target practice; others had bullet holes through their windscreens or superstructure. He saw a handful of dead bodies as they slipped onwards and wondered just how many had died in the weeks since the aliens had landed. London had had a huge population once, but now… now there was no way to know how many were left. He only saw a couple of living humans as they walked through the gloom.
Bongo had said that many of the gangs had wiped each other out. They’d been dependent upon selling drugs to customers, drugs that were no longer available because the aliens had sealed off London and destroyed world shipping. The gangs had been reduced to fighting over the last few bags of cocaine or heroin, while their customers had been forced to go cold turkey, weaning themselves off the drugs the hard way. Chris had nothing, but contempt for those who became enslaved to the needle or snorting powder, yet many of the addicts would have suffered greatly for lack of their crutch. One more crime to blame on the Leathernecks, he told himself, as they reached what had once been a large housing estate. The locals probably knew that the resistance had a base there, but hadn’t breathed a word to the police. They’d probably felt that having the resistance there was good for them. The resistance certainly didn’t waste time taking protection money or all the other tricks the gangs used to pull.
“Come on,” Bongo hissed. Inside, the massive block of flats smelled faintly of urine. “I’m sorry about the stench, but we can’t risk standing out from the crowd.”
Chris nodded as the doors closed behind them. “Welcome to one of our staging bases,” Bongo said. He nodded towards a team of four people who had been waiting for them. “Abdul — SAS dude, very brave or thoroughly crazy. Jake — local volunteer, smart-ass. Janet — our… ah, contact with some of the police. And Fatima — our doctor.”
“Welcome to London,” Abdul said, dryly. He might not have been wearing a proper uniform — none of them were — but he managed to look as if he was dressed for parade. “I think you’ll hate what we’ve done to the place.”
He shrugged and stood up. “There are places to sleep here, so get some rest,” he added. “In the morning, we will start checking out our targets and planning the final stages of the operation. And then we’re going to send a lot of people out through the tunnels before the shit hits the fan.”
Chris nodded. “Let the CO know that we got here,” he said. “How do you plan to check out the targets?”
Abdul smiled. “Let’s just say that we had a little help and leave it at that,” he said. “You don’t need to know the precise details.”
The following morning, after a breakfast that mainly consisted of the ration packs they’d carried through the tunnels, Abdul led Chris and a couple of others out into the city. They’d all been issued ID cards that noted their occupation as workers, people who moved from place to place to do manual labour for the alien overlords. London had simply too much damage to clear up and almost everyone who wasn’t in a priority occupation had been tasked to help with the work — or starve. It was an attitude that Chris found rather understandable — it would certainly have helped clear up many of Britain’s inner cities and housing estates — but the aliens didn’t care about the niceties. From what many of the resistance fighters who’d stayed in London had reported, the aliens pushed the workers as hard as they could.
Dozens of work gangs roamed the city, clearing up smashed or burned-out cars, carting away debris from fallen buildings and even picking up dead bodies from where they’d been abandoned. Chris wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that Londoners had an epidemic on their hands as well as everything else, just from the number of dead bodies that had been left to rot for a few days. The teams that cleaned up the dead wore NBC suits and were apparently granted special privileges by the aliens. Chris doubted that anyone could be given enough privileges to make the work worthwhile.
And there were policemen everywhere in Central London. Chris watched them checking ID cards as they patrolled, remembering the stories he’d heard about the French Resistance and those who had collaborated with the Germans. The police might have started to collaborate out of a desire to keep the public safe, but now they were nothing more than a millstone around London’s neck. Some of the men wearing police uniforms reminded Chris of the torturers he’d pulled out of the Detention Camp and executed, men who wanted to indulge their dark tastes and were willing to serve the aliens in exchange for having their way with their victims. Others looked ashamed and tried to do as little as possible.
The aliens themselves were very much in evidence. Chris watched as they ran armed patrols through London, waiting for one of the resistance fighters to take a shot at them. When they were engaged, they threw back a hail of bullets, with an alarming lack of concern for civilians who might be caught up in the crossfire. They didn’t seem to recognise that some people just wanted to get on with their lives and ignore politics; anyone they caught close to the resistance fighter was often dragged away and dumped in the back of an alien vehicle.
“They go outside the city to one of the camps,” Abdul muttered, as they busied themselves carting away rubble. “The Leathernecks sometimes press them into service, but mostly they just seem to leave them in the camps. We don’t know why…”
“We don’t know a great deal about them,” Chris muttered back. They’d been studying the alien base they’d built on the remains of Buckingham Palace, a base that was heavily guarded, without any humans allowed to pass through the fence. The intelligence briefing had stated that the alien commander charged with invading and occupying Britain was based there, which explained the precautions. They had to feel more isolated than the Americans in the Green Zone in Baghdad had felt during the war in Iraq. “It’s not going to be easy to get in there, not if they don’t let humans into the building.”
“There are some humans allowed in,” Abdul said. “Their collaborator-in-chief, for one. I don’t think he’d help us unless we pointed a gun at his head and I think the aliens would probably notice if we did.”