Fighting Against God

The rate of change occurring in the past week had been so rapid and outlandish, it became harder to distinguish between nightmares and real life.

That factor was terrifying enough. Any perceived phantasm usually ended up being on the front-page news the next day. Mass deaths were being reported every day in Europe, with continued flooding creating ever more refugees, thousands becoming homeless each day. Alongside this, horrendous droughts were spreading through the south, devastatingly effecting Italy, Spain and Greece, just to name a few of the suffering. Food aid wasn’t making it to the Netherlands, or what was left of the country, and Belgium and Germany were slowly closing off their northern borders, restricting any form of forced immigration.

The UK had now followed suit, with Dues Mos implementing an immensely strict border policy the day after Etah had returned from America. Any immigrant who didn’t match the new emplaced points system was turned away; as popular as it turned out to be – especially with Stacey – I doubted that even I could pass the impossible tests.

This had, however, sparked a massive underground leftist movement, disgusted by the apparent stone heart of the government. Violent waves of this new group harassing new government ministers were increasing; the pressure of relaxing immigration policies in times of urgent need, stepped up each day.

They were relentless. But at the same time, as Dues Mos had correctly said, they were not thinking practically about the whole situation. There was no room in Britain left! Why couldn’t they see that? We’ll all die from floods of immigrants, stealing our houses and our jobs, if these extremists got their own way. It was a hard-line view, but these were hard times, and everyone needed to look after their own back, first and foremost. The levels of poverty in this country were to great to be ignored, and to let foreigners take their potential homes and wage was a crime against the British people.

If there was any praise to come from anyone, friend or foe of the new government, it was that Etah had successfully convinced President Young to refrain from attacking the UK. One look at opinion polls the next day showed the historic dramatic climb of Dues Mos against the other political parties – from 2% in the last election to vertigo levels of 59%. The Liberal Democrats had disappeared into the ‘Other’ category, with the newest party overwhelmingly gaining the popularity vote.

But what was actually said, or what went on, in that meeting between the two world leaders was still unknown. The two were said to have sparked an immediate friendship on arrival, which was very prevalent in a press conference immediately after the meeting.

This wasn’t surprising. They were both bible bashers.

A telephone call startled me out of thought. I looked out of the window, peeking under the blinds in mine and Stacey’s bedroom. It was of a typical of February morning, with heavy overcast clouds blocking out any sun, a light mist resting on the dewy ground.

My alarm hadn’t even gone off yet. Who was calling at this time of morning?

Picking up the old-fashioned black telephone, I felt Stacey stir next to me, letting her feelings known through an angry groan. I rubbed my eyes, yawning at the same time, as I sat on the edge of the bed and answered the call.

‘Hello?’ I responded slowly.

‘Cyrus, I am so sorry for calling you up this early, but something awful has happened that we need you to go and report on straight away.’

It was Pete, speaking words as fast and frantically as he could, clearly distressed and upset. I straightened up, my eyes widening, forgetting about tiredness.

‘What? What are you on about?’

‘We’re not sure if this is some false rumour, but we’ve had something just come in now that several members of the royal family have died.’

The news winded me.

‘Wh – How? This morning?’ I stuttered.

‘Look, just get ready and get down outside Buckingham Palace right now, I’ll meet you out there. You’ve got an hour.’

He promptly hung up the phone, which I held for a good five minutes in shock. The royal family? Dead? But who? Why? I looked at the time, swearing as I realised I only had a few minutes to put some clothes on and eat.

‘Cy?’ Stacey murmured, her face in a pillow. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Stacey, I need to get to Buckingham Palace in the next hour,’ the worry in my voice all too noticeable.

She sat up, looking at me concerned. ‘Why?’

I took time out from everything else I was doing at once, sat down onto the bed, and answered her. ‘The Queen may have been killed this morning, alongside a few other members of her family.’

She coughed, stunned, not believing what she had just heard. ‘You’re joking right?’

I didn’t reply. Stacey threw the covers off the bed and faced me, grabbing my shoulders so we were against each other.

‘How? What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know!’ I frustratingly responded, pulling away from her grip, as the severity of the news finally hit me, alongside my morning grouchiness. ‘I just need to get there and find out.’

Stacey opened her wardrobe and started taking her clothes off.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Well, I’m definitely coming with you,’ she said, pulling a thick jumper over her head. ‘You can’t just leave me here after telling something like that.’

I paused for a few seconds, looking at her back as she continued to change. ‘Fine,’ I said through gritted teeth, though she was right. How could anyone fall back asleep after hearing news like that?

I felt sick at the thought of breakfast – though for the past few days, any hint of food had my gagging reflex doing a workout. With so many recent events, my stomach was constantly twisting and turning at every single headline. This morning it may have just back-flipped.

Just about managing a cup tea, the train journey to Buckingham Palace was silent. I didn’t want to talk, and Stacey knew that I didn’t have the answers.

We got off the underground, freezing as the mist had turned into small hints of snow, starting to descend upon London. With a thick pink woolen scarf and hat, Stacey had prepared for it – instead my nose turned red, matching the intensity of my ears; as my face went numb, my hands pleaded warmth deep inside my jeans pockets. Stacey wrapped her arms around me, the white fleece she was wearing so inviting, as opposed to my leathery black jacket.

As we approached the palace, a biting wind sent wild shivers throughout my entire body, Stacey supporting me as though I was going to start convulsing madly out of control.

The sight of the army ahead sent another shiver through me, as the panic outside the gates was becoming clear.

‘Cyrus!’

Pete’s low voice caught me on the wrong footing; I was destined to hit the pavement if Stacey hadn’t been there as I slipped on a rogue patch of ice. We both quickly marched over to him.

He was surrounded by an innumerable amount of news vans and equipment, just in front of the line of soldiers, near the Queen Victoria statue. His face was bright fuchsia from the lowering temperature, his stomach almost bursting his belt buckle shooting across the ice. He didn’t smile as we approached.

‘Good to see you,’ he welcomed, shaking my hand and Stacey’s.

‘Please tell me what’s going on Pete,’ I begged, looking round seeing a lot more than just news teams. There were a large number of police cars on the inside of the gate, I saw over the top of a line of army trucks, with several ambulances accompanying them.

‘A bomb has gone off inside the palace, with everyone guessing a suspected terrorist attack,’ he answered, sternly.

‘When?’

‘About ten minutes after I called you.’

‘Why?’

‘We still have no idea. We’re not allowed anywhere past this line,’ he pointed at the row of the military, ‘and no one has come out to clarify anything. Someone heard a large explosion inside, and then the police, amblances and the army all came at once.’

‘So you want me to write this up?’

‘No. If this is true, the prime minister will make a statement later today outside of Downing Street. I want you there to report that.’

He handed me a press pass, which went automatically straight into my coat pocket.

As I did so, a rush of photographers got as close to the palace entrance as they could, the army restraining them. We all looked too see anything, before seeing an ambulance and several police cars blue sirens roar into life. The huge, magnificent gates started to open, and the vehicles pulled out, racing down The Mall road.

A single man, very old, graying, and large spectacles, followed behind them, walking, with a piece of paper in his hand, stopping just behind the soldiers. We all ran towards him, before becoming caught up in a frenzy of other journalists.

He began to speak, mumbling his words as so hardly any of us heard him, completely missing his introduction. He was audibly disturbed, with his slumped body telling a similar story.

‘Early this morning, at 6:47, an explosive device detonated inside Buckingham Palace. As of yet, no one has been arrested, though several members of the royal family are severely injured, and have thus been taken to hospital.’

Then he said it.

‘It is with great regret that I inform you that Her Majesty the Queen, Elizabeth II, was found dead on the ambulances arrival.’