Chapter 2

In short order.

Peter opened the door to his flat and walked to his room. Before he could get there, however, Nick barred his way with his arm. "Tell me what the hell is going on, or I swear to god you will not walk out of this flat." He said glaring at Peter. He pushed past Nick and set down the packs on his bed, then turned to face his friend.

"Tonight, I saw my mother and father brutally murdered by huge mass of people. I don't know why they were killed, but I do know that those mobs are headed right for us. London is going to fall to these... desecrators? They destroyed my family. I will take as many of them with me when my time comes as possible. Be that today, next week, or in a year. But they are coming mate, and here we are pissing around while people are getting killed. We should get it together. Now, if you don't think that this is a good cause, I'll leave, I'll find a defendable position. I'll make a last stand. But mate, here we go. This is it. Front row seats to the end of the world." He sighed heavily and reached under his bed for the sword that was given to him years ago by his fathers friend, a sword smith, and strapped it to his back.

"You do realize that when this happens you might very well be killed?" said Nick incredulously.

"Yes. Yes I do realize that. In fact, the most probable outcome is death. So I'm going to go find a shop and hole myself up inside of it, if it has food and things like that." He took out a holster and strapped it to his right leg, slipping the pistol into the nylon and closing the snap. For the ammunition, he took out two messenger bags and put them on with the bands crossing each other Rambo style. In one he put the Mosin stripper clips; in the other he dropped full clips of .45 ammo. Then he put the strap of the Mosin over his shoulder and turned to face Nick. He looked at his friend, and walked over to him, putting out his hand.

"Mate," he said with an odd tone in his voice,

"we've seen good and bad. But this is going to be the worst of it. Ever. Just remember, if we survive, I'll wait for you near the Eye. Goodbye." They clasped forearms and pulled themselves into a rough hug, then they let go, and both looked towards the television.

"This has just been handed to me." A commentator was saying to the camera.

"Riots have started on the east side of London. Anyone in that area is requested to leave immediately, as police are informing me that these people are unarmed, though highly dangerous. Our very own Terrence Stevens is there with a squad, Terrence, can you hear us?" the camera switched over to a scene of insane violence. Terrence was currently being mauled by a large man with blood flying from his mouth. The camera was lying apparently abandoned on the ground. The image changed hurriedly back to the dumbstruck commentator. Peter switched it off.

"I'm going to go find that shop." He walked out the door, but before he closed it, he heard Nick shout

"Wait!" after a few minutes he came thumping out, a machete strapped to his belt and a Mac 10 in his hands.

"Where on gods green earth did you get that from?" demanded Peter pointing at the machine pistol.

"You think I deliver those drugs for Damien out of charity? Nah, mate. I make him pay out the bloody nose." He said grinning. He opened a backpack and showed Peter the contents, and peter nodded appreciatively. Inside were almost twenty boxes of ammunition for the pistol, and also a set of walkie-talkies.

"What are we, seven?" said Peter as he took his, clipping it to a shoulder strap and putting on the headset.

"Well, think of it this way. If we get separated, hell at least we won't be out of touch you bloody moron." Nick replied, cuffing Peter on the ear. The two of them set out, soldiers of coincidence, to fight an endless tide of diseased and unceasing enemies