He’d moved relatively freely from place to place, taking whatever he liked from the shops, stuffing his pockets with money (it never occurred to him at the time that it would be useless later on) and generally having the time of his life... while everyone else was losing theirs.
And he encountered more like him, young men who saw opportunity in the wake of this new turn of events. Granger befriended a few – like Ennis, who he found working his way through the entire stock of beef burgers in a deserted McDonald’s: it was where he’d used to work before it all hit the fan. Others he gently ‘persuaded’ to join him. Just having the pistol helped in that respect, though later they found all the weapons they needed when the men in yellow suits who were supposed to be cleaning up the streets came down with the virus too. Their numbers grew, all with a common goal – to help themselves to everything they’d been denied before. Granger finally had a gang to call his own and, though he knew there must be more in other parts of London, beyond that even, they ruled the roost in their little corner of the world. They called themselves ‘The Jackals’ and operated out of Barnet’s council offices in Whetstone. Granger liked the irony of that; sticking it to the owners of his former home.
Girls, the ones that were left alive – and the ones who needed protection from other dangers on the streets these days – suddenly found Granger irresistible. Some of them were pretty good looking, as well; the kind he wouldn’t have stood even the remotest chance with before.
At last they were the ones on top. None of them, especially Granger, would ever have to take another order or do as they were told ever again.
Or so they’d thought.
Then came the night of the attack. The first Granger knew about what was happening was when he got a garbled message over his walkie-talkie. It was Ennis, on watch outside, screaming that a bunch of men had come out of nowhere and taken down a handful of Jackals at a stroke. Granger, who was in the middle of making paper aeroplanes out of old council records, rushed to the window to see.
Men on bikes were shooting at the building, making passes and picking off the Jackals on guard duty downstairs. They were much better trained than his gang. Older too, nothing like the punks they’d fended off in the past.
“Ennis...” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “Ennis, get back inside and bring the rest of the guys with you! We’ll hold them off from up here.” But, even as he said it, he heard windows smashing from several different directions at once. The men were entering the building right now, giving them no time to prepare. Looking back, Granger would realise just how amateurish The Jackals had been – how much more they could have fortified the building in readiness for just such an attack. Though even then, he doubted whether they’d have stood a chance against merciless professionals like these.
Granger called to the rest of his ‘men’ further inside the open-plan office, telling them to group at the stairwell, just by the lift doors. There were hardly any replies.
By the time he got down there it was all over. Those Jackals who hadn’t been shot were on their knees in the entranceway to the office itself, hands behind their heads. Yet more were being marched down the stairs, along with some of the girls who’d been keeping them company. Granger raised his pistol, the one he’d taken from Jez so long ago and which he always kept about him – mainly as a reminder that he would never be pushed around again.
Several automatic rifles swivelled in his direction, clacking, ready to fire. Granger’s gun hand began to shake.
“Gentlemen... Gentlemen... Écoutez !” came a voice from the doorway. There was a distinct accent that Granger recognised from those French lessons with Mr Dodds. “Hold your fire. This is obviously the very person we have come here to speak with.” The man
And he encountered more like him, young men who saw opportunity in the wake of this new turn of events. Granger befriended a few – like Ennis, who he found working his way through the entire stock of beef burgers in a deserted McDonald’s: it was where he’d used to work before it all hit the fan. Others he gently ‘persuaded’ to join him. Just having the pistol helped in that respect, though later they found all the weapons they needed when the men in yellow suits who were supposed to be cleaning up the streets came down with the virus too. Their numbers grew, all with a common goal – to help themselves to everything they’d been denied before. Granger finally had a gang to call his own and, though he knew there must be more in other parts of London, beyond that even, they ruled the roost in their little corner of the world. They called themselves ‘The Jackals’ and operated out of Barnet’s council offices in Whetstone. Granger liked the irony of that; sticking it to the owners of his former home.
Girls, the ones that were left alive – and the ones who needed protection from other dangers on the streets these days – suddenly found Granger irresistible. Some of them were pretty good looking, as well; the kind he wouldn’t have stood even the remotest chance with before.
At last they were the ones on top. None of them, especially Granger, would ever have to take another order or do as they were told ever again.
Or so they’d thought.
Then came the night of the attack. The first Granger knew about what was happening was when he got a garbled message over his walkie-talkie. It was Ennis, on watch outside, screaming that a bunch of men had come out of nowhere and taken down a handful of Jackals at a stroke. Granger, who was in the middle of making paper aeroplanes out of old council records, rushed to the window to see.
Men on bikes were shooting at the building, making passes and picking off the Jackals on guard duty downstairs. They were much better trained than his gang. Older too, nothing like the punks they’d fended off in the past.
“Ennis...” he shouted into the mouthpiece. “Ennis, get back inside and bring the rest of the guys with you! We’ll hold them off from up here.” But, even as he said it, he heard windows smashing from several different directions at once. The men were entering the building right now, giving them no time to prepare. Looking back, Granger would realise just how amateurish The Jackals had been – how much more they could have fortified the building in readiness for just such an attack. Though even then, he doubted whether they’d have stood a chance against merciless professionals like these.
Granger called to the rest of his ‘men’ further inside the open-plan office, telling them to group at the stairwell, just by the lift doors. There were hardly any replies.
By the time he got down there it was all over. Those Jackals who hadn’t been shot were on their knees in the entranceway to the office itself, hands behind their heads. Yet more were being marched down the stairs, along with some of the girls who’d been keeping them company. Granger raised his pistol, the one he’d taken from Jez so long ago and which he always kept about him – mainly as a reminder that he would never be pushed around again.
Several automatic rifles swivelled in his direction, clacking, ready to fire. Granger’s gun hand began to shake.
“Gentlemen... Gentlemen... Écoutez !” came a voice from the doorway. There was a distinct accent that Granger recognised from those French lessons with Mr Dodds. “Hold your fire. This is obviously the very person we have come here to speak with.” The man
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