Chapter 60: 427,499 People |
“This won’t do.”
Before I could fully descend into the sewer, Wilson held me back with an urgent voice.
“What’s the problem?”
“Moving through the sewers is dangerous.”
“As you well know, our target is most likely beneath these sewers. And the streets above are burning. You still think we shouldn’t?”
He nodded, his expression grave.
“You might have more combat experience than I do, sir, but I pride myself on knowing London’s sewers better. I’ve tracked beasts of Whitechapel through these tunnels several times in the line of duty.”
As he spoke, his face contorted into a grimace, clearly recalling unpleasant memories of the sewers.
“It was utterly horrific. Those narrow, dark passages weren’t made for grown men. Children with their smaller frames would have a distinct advantage over us down there.”
“If you feel that strongly about it.”
“It would be safer to move above ground to our destination and then descend into the sewer directly above it.”
Wilson said this, then hesitated, clearly aware of the flaw in his logic. The truth was, we had no idea where we were supposed to go.
It was plainly impossible to explore the entire vast sewer network spreading throughout the city in just a few hours. With our limited time, we could only investigate one location.
“Somewhere in the sewers, they must have a base where they gather. Whether it’s the child thief or the Pied Piper of Hamelin, that’s where they’re most likely to be found.”
I stated with conviction.
“Would such a place exist?”
“As I mentioned before, this is a mass uprising planned over a very long period. Controlling hundreds of thousands of children, rationing supplies, and conveying plans without information leaks would be challenging even for a systematic organization like an army. At minimum, it would be impossible without a fixed command headquarters.”
“Then we’re looking for a spacious location.”
“An astute observation. Any ideas come to mind?”
Wilson nodded.
“There are several plants including sewage treatment facilities throughout London’s sewer system. The facilities are quite spacious—large enough to accommodate hundreds of people.”
“We need to pinpoint the exact location.”
At that moment, a powerful gust of wind swept through. The waters of the Thames, flowing alongside the road, churned violently with the wind. Eastward. Every natural element in London except the sun and moon seemed oriented only eastward.
“East,” I murmured, almost to myself.
“Yes, east. The East End contains what was once Londinium. They still use the original Roman sewage facilities there. I’ve heard they’re narrower than sewers built in later eras, so only children can move through them freely. If they’re hiding in such a place, they wouldn’t be discovered even if adult sewer workers ventured down.”
I found myself convinced by this reasoning. Though I had no concrete evidence, a peculiar gut feeling told me there was no other answer.
“Are there any sewage treatment facilities in the East End?”
“There is one.”
Wilson spoke with undisguised revulsion written across his face.
“That place is likely the filthiest facility in all of London. Situated at the lowest level of London’s sewage system, it’s where all the city’s pollutants eventually collect.”
The farthest edge of the East End—where all incidents both begin and end.
“Beckton Sewage Treatment Plant.”
The stench of a foul easterly wind that had no business blowing lingered in my nostrils.
We walked eastward. Meanwhile, the flames grew ever more ravenous.
The putrid miasma that had blanketed London for two centuries now mingled with the scent of burning, creating an offensively creative stench unparalleled anywhere else in the world. A violent contradiction of sensations.
The wind came from the west. With our backs to it as we headed east, it carried countless sounds to our ears.
“How could such misfortune befall us…”
The whispered lament of a woman weeping before her burning home.
“It must be the work of the Irish…”
“Before we suffer an even worse fate…”
The unsettling conversation of gentlemen who stared at the riverbank with bloodshot eyes while drawing heavily on their cigarettes.
Those who hadn’t completely surrendered to despair shuttled frantically between wells and buildings, hauling water to pour on the flames—but this inferno was far beyond what such meager efforts could quench.
In the end, those who realized their helplessness simply hurled curses at the heavens.
But they were among the fortunate ones.
The violence and madness consuming the city center had not yet reached the riverbank. The deeper we ventured inward, the more the streets displayed their grotesque innards.
We arrived at a square.
A fountain stood at its center, once giving life to many—now serving as a sanctuary amidst this crucible of chaos. Survivors huddled against its base, panting with exhaustion etched on their faces.
From among the crowd, a gentleman spotted us and rose to his feet.
“You there! Quickly, come this way!”
He gestured with such urgency that we approached despite knowing there was no real need.
“I don’t know where you’re headed, but it’s best not to leave this square. It’s safest here.”
“Why is that?”
His fear seemed to extend beyond mere concern about the fire. He reacted nervously even to my straightforward question.
“Rioters. Mobs of them roaming the streets downtown. They’re the ones who set the fires. Anyone they catch gets dragged into the alleys, horribly tortured, and killed.”
“Torture?”
The gentleman lowered his voice, casting nervous glances toward the alley leading downtown.
“Indeed. You haven’t witnessed it yet, but bodies of their victims lie strewn across the streets. The one fortunate thing is they avoid approaching large groups. If my assessment is correct, the army will mobilize soon. We need only wait until then.”
He spoke with the confidence of someone who believed he understood everything. An intelligent man with quick judgment, but clearly lacking imagination.
The truly horrific events were scheduled to unfold only after the army’s arrival.
“Thank you for your concern, but we have matters that require our attention.”
“Then I wish you luck.”
Caring for strangers amid such chaos wasn’t easy. In the end, the gentleman merely feigned concern for a moment before letting us go.
We ventured into the alley he so dreaded.
The flames grew ever more voracious.
The heat merely sapped our strength without posing any real danger. Compared to artillery shells that arrived without warning and tore bodies apart, these flames were almost merciful.
What proved truly unbearable, however, was the light and sound.
The crimson glow flooding in from all directions left our eyes parched and shriveling without respite, while the repulsive noise—like thousands of insects frantically fluttering and buzzing in unison—threatened to rupture our eardrums at any moment.
The Haussmann-style apartments, once elegant symbols of urban planning, had been reduced to characterless monstrosities beneath their shrouds of flame.
I realized with dismay that I had completely lost my bearings.
This was a vast labyrinth where ashen clouds replaced ceilings and blazing buildings served as walls. With each step, I experienced the unsettling sensation of my spatial awareness—something I had always taken for granted—simply evaporating from my mind.
The streets defied all logic. Some roads were impassable, consumed by fire, while certain walls had burned away entirely, creating new passages where none had existed before.
The intricate mental map of London I had cultivated was now utterly worthless. I found myself glancing about nervously like a child separated from its parents in unfamiliar surroundings.
“I have no idea how to proceed from here,” I admitted with frustration.
The confession was humiliating after my forty years of living in London.
“You lead the way now.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Wilson turned to me, his expression equally bewildered.
“I believe I’ve lost my way as well.”
In that moment, a startling realization dawned on us both.
Just as I had been following him, he had been following me. Neither of us had any confidence in our destination, yet we had been marching forward with unwarranted assurance.
We stared at each other, unable to conceal our embarrassment. Wilson glanced back into the inferno and asked:
“Should we look for a street sign?”
“No need. If we pretend to know our way, we’ll just end up wandering aimlessly again. Let’s rely on the wisdom of our ancestors instead.”
With that, I removed my gloves. Wilson observed my actions with curious interest, clearly puzzled by my intent. When he saw what I did next, he silently furrowed his brow.
I moistened my finger with saliva and held it up to read the direction of the wind.
“That way must be east.”
Wilson seemed about to comment but thought better of it. We proceeded with uncertain steps, lacking any real confidence.
How long we walked, I couldn’t say.
Gradually, I grew more certain we were heading in the right direction. Signs of human presence increased, as did the number of structures completely consumed by fire.
As this thought crossed my mind, I spotted something unnatural beyond the street and frantically yanked Wilson’s shoulder.
“Hide!”
We pressed ourselves flat against the wall, cautiously peering around the corner through the heat-distorted haze.
“Poor James, poor Mary.”
Beyond the wavering air, a group of shadows chittered as they moved within the walls. In their unnaturally elongated, spindly hands, objects resembling torches and metal implements gleamed with an ominous light.
Whether from the crimson glow of the fire or because they were truly drenched in blood, the fleeting glimpses of the children appeared hellishly red and unnervingly sinister.
Only after they had completely vanished did I tap Wilson’s shoulder and say, “It seems we’re heading in the right direction. Let’s proceed.”
From that point onward, the streetscape underwent another grim transformation.
We encountered corpses strewn throughout every alley. Not in great numbers—merely the unfortunate few who had been caught. Curiously, none showed signs of fire damage.
In truth, professional butchers are among the world’s most merciful killers. They perfect techniques to dispatch even humble creatures like pigs or chickens without causing undue suffering. Their act of compassion lies in the swift strike to vital points, extinguishing life in a single breath.
But the bodies abandoned before us had clearly not been granted such mercy.
The scene recalled Wilson’s ordeal and that of the American. These corpses, savagely mutilated by children ignorant of human anatomy, presented a grotesque tableau. Protruding features—ears, noses, fingers—had been systematically removed, and the cause of death appeared to be cardiac arrest induced by sheer agony.
The gentleman’s earlier warning proved no exaggeration. Witnessing such brutality, one could only think of torture.
“What could possibly be their purpose? Revenge?” Wilson asked.
I had no answer.
Even amid this chaos, the children’s objective remained entirely opaque to me. They didn’t appear driven by fear or ideology, nor did they seem brainwashed by supernatural entities.
The only connecting threads were the white flowers they all followed and that popular nursery rhyme.
Such childish, unsophisticated symbols seemed absurdly inadequate as rallying points for such a catastrophic uprising—symbols that might only persuade the most innocent minds.
Were these children truly exacting revenge upon the world?
Had they gathered over weeks to orchestrate this riot? As preposterous as it sounded, no better explanation presented itself for London’s current predicament.
We squeezed into a narrow passageway.
The alley epitomized the East End’s notorious thoroughfares—barely wide enough for one or two people, its unpaved ground uneven and sloping. I felt a surge of relief that we were indeed on the correct path.
It was then that we heard it.
Clatter-clack, clatter-clack…
From around the winding alley came sounds resembling horse hooves striking cobblestone. Naturally, at such a time and on such a constricted path, no carriage could possibly pass.
Clatter-clack, clatter-clack.
A mounted policeman, perhaps? No—the riding seemed too erratic for that. The horse sounded as though it was galloping so frantically it might collapse at any moment.
As these thoughts crossed my mind, the sounds rapidly approached.
Before I could fully comprehend the situation—CLATTER-CLACK, CLATTER-CLACK!
───WHINNY!
What emerged from beyond the alley was a horse engulfed in flames.
Its entire body wreathed in fire, a parched tongue lolling from its mouth, and bloody tears streaming from its eyes, the maddened beast charged directly toward us.
“Look out!”
I shoved Wilson aside with all my might. We tumbled in opposite directions, crashing to the ground.
The burning horse thundered through the exact spot where we’d been standing moments before, its agonized shrieks lingering as it disappeared beyond the alley.
“What in God’s name—”
Clatter-CLOP! Clatter-CLOP! Clatter-CLOP!
Whipping my head toward the renewed sounds from ahead, I saw two more maddened horses charging toward us, their flaming bodies scraping against each other as they barreled forward. There was nowhere to dodge.
We faced certain death beneath those pounding hooves. Still sprawled on the ground, I raised my rifle and took aim.
───CRACK!
With deliberate calm, I struck the lead horse in the neck. It collapsed with a sickening thud, bloody foam spraying from its mouth. Though not yet dead, its violent convulsions caught the ankle of its companion, sending the second beast tumbling.
“Wilson! Now!”
At my command, Wilson sprang forward. With methodical precision, he fired his pistol repeatedly into the fallen horses’ heads.
───BANG! BANG! BANG!
The first horse, protected by its thick skull, thrashed wildly despite the bullets. Wilson fired once more, ending both creatures’ suffering with a third shot.
Blood bubbled up from the bullet wounds like a grotesque fountain, pooling around the massive carcasses.
I struggled to my feet, my body protesting every movement.
Approaching the dead horses, I prodded their bodies with my cane, turning them slightly to assess what had happened. The cause was immediately apparent.
“They set fire to the tails,” Wilson observed grimly.
“A childish prank. Like watching an insect burn,” I replied.
The poor beasts had been running frantically, desperate to escape the flames consuming their tails. Death must have come as a blessed release. The perpetrators were obvious. We stood in silent horror at the cruelty humans could inflict under the guise of childish innocence.
Suddenly, I raised my hand, detecting another sound.
“Wait.”
I cupped my palm behind my ear, straining to listen.
“Do you hear that?”
…Poor Tom born in the morning…
“It’s the children singing,” Wilson whispered. “Another group passing by.”
…Buried in the ground by evening…
A moment later, his expression changed dramatically.
“No. They’re not passing by.”
The blood drained from his face.
“They’re coming toward us! From every direction!”
…Poor Jenny born in the morning…
“The gunshots! They must have heard them! We need to get out of here immediately!”
…Becomes an orphan by evening…
We scrambled forward, leaping over the smoldering horse carcasses.
Beyond this macabre barrier, the scenery transformed from London proper to the squalor of the East End. Even this wretched slum hadn’t escaped the inferno’s reach—in fact, the charred remains of its inhabitants littered the streets in even greater numbers.
The East End’s ramshackle structures were far easier to distinguish than the uniform Haussmannian apartments of central London. Wilson seemed to have found his bearings as well, pressing forward in a determined straight line without further hesitation.
All the while, the children’s singing voices grew louder rather than fainter, closing in from every direction like a tightening noose.
“Are they herding us?” Wilson asked anxiously.
…Poor Tom, poor Jenny…
“No, that’s unlikely. They have no command structure. They’re simply pursuing us individually after discovering our presence.”
…If you ask where they went…
As I ran, I cast my gaze upward at the sky.
The heavens burned a complete crimson, like a sunset with the sun still blazing at its center.
The inferno enveloping London had triggered a massive flashover, flames surging upward as if determined to consume the entire city. The fire had abandoned the ground, instead forming towering pillars that reached toward the clouds.
In this chaos, a terrible equality had emerged.
In this world of 900 degrees Celsius, everything was reduced to merely carbon or oxygen. Even light and sound were nothing but waste products of combustion.
The disorder rushed headlong toward its cataclysmic peak.
Wilson halted abruptly. Lost in my contemplation of the burning sky, I nearly collided with him.
“Why have you stopped?”
“We’ve arrived.”
…The angel…
He gestured toward an open manhole at his feet.
“This manhole leads directly to the Beckton Sewage Treatment Plant.”
…The angel…
Unlike the scorching crimson world above, the hole gaped like a well of darkness and silence.
“I’ll descend first.”
…The angel…
With those words, Wilson disappeared into the abyss. Moments later, a muffled cry echoed up: “It’s safe!”
I perched on the edge of the manhole and dangled my legs into the void.
Just as I prepared to drop down, I hesitated—suddenly remembering my vow, made merely half a year ago, never to venture beneath London’s streets again.
“They’ll say the angel took them!”
The children’s laughter rang out like broken glass.
Without a backward glance, I plunged into the darkness.
Falling.
───Drip…drip…drip…drip….
Underground.
In the sewer’s absolute darkness, nothing was visible—only the stench assaulted my senses with brutal clarity.
“God above…”
Wilson had evidently landed safely beside me; I could hear him retching in the blackness. Then came the sound of him fumbling through his pockets, followed by the dry scratch of friction.
───Fssst.
A tiny flame bloomed in the darkness, illuminating Wilson’s grim face behind the small match in his fingers.
“Is this the place?” I asked.
“Somewhere nearby, I believe. With more light, we could get our bearings properly.”
We scanned our surroundings and discovered fragments of ancient timber. Rusted nails protruded from the wood—clearly once part of some larger structure, perhaps remnants of the old Thames dock that had long since vanished beneath the city.
This grim evidence confirmed we had indeed reached our destination.
Wilson grasped one of the larger wood pieces and carefully touched the match flame to its end. The damp sewer air made it reluctant to catch; the wood smoldered and smoked before finally surrendering to a wavering but serviceable flame.
“Who’s there?” a voice called from the darkness ahead.
Wilson and I exchanged a wordless glance, instantly alert.
“Is it you? Is it finally over?” the voice pleaded.
Wilson shifted the makeshift torch to his left hand while drawing his pistol with his right. I brought my rifle to bear and cautiously advanced.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
Fetid water had flooded the passage, soaking through our shoes with each step as our movements echoed ominously through the dank corridor.
We navigated the narrow passage in single file until it suddenly opened into a vast chamber. The sheer scale of this underground cavity seemed impossible—a cavernous space where none should exist beneath London’s streets.
As we entered, our flickering torchlight revealed the chamber walls, covered in crude inscriptions:
“CHALLENGE AUTHORITY”
“DESTROY THE SYSTEM”
“DENY PHENOMENA”
“DISTRUST FAITH”
“RESIST CUSTOM”
“ESCAPE REALITY”
The words were scrawled in jagged white lettering, and beneath them, a distinctive symbol: a white flower superimposed over a red one.
“Ah, you’ve finally arrived.”
Before us stood a massive iron portcullis, its bars forming a wall between us and what lay beyond.
The structure resembled nothing so much as a prison cell—which, evidently, was precisely its purpose.
“Please,” came a desperate voice from within, “even if I must remain here longer, at least tell me when I might be released.”
Behind the bars, naked women huddled in the shadows, their eyes fixed on us with desperate, pleading expressions.
Above all the other slogans, one phrase dominated the wall in larger letters, like a decree from some twisted authority:
“TRUST NO ONE’S WORD”