The Toll

“Any idea what the hell these are?” Liz pulled tight the strap on the Lee Enfield slung over her right shoulder as she grabbed a handful of tan vacuum-sealed packages from one of the crates scattered in the middle of the once busy London street. Liam cradled his Royal Army-issued rifle between his crossed arms, keeping an eye on the high up windows surrounding them while they scavenged. Without turning his shoulders, he turns his head to her.

“MREs. Americans keep dropping them in as whatever the fuck it is they call ‘aid’.” He shrugged. He looked around again at the windows, checking for barrels peeking out of frames. He couldn’t shake a strange sense of familiarity with this part of London, then again, he’s lived in the city a very long time, and been stuck here for what feels like longer.

“Nah, I get that, but what kind are they?” She insisted, trying to goad him over. His shoulders drop a bit and he lets out a sigh, walking over to her as some broken glass from a smashed car window crunches beneath his feet. “I don’t wanna take some shit food back to camp.”

“Lemme see.” Liam grabbed one of the packets from Liz and tried to read the smudged and faded writing on it. “Ugh… beef goulash.” Liam lamented. “Not the best. Definitely not the best. But there are worse ones.”

Liz shrugged and unslung her backpack, unzipping it and grabbing several handfuls of the brown packages, shaving as many in the bag as could fit past the various other supplies she carried. Liam’s head snapped around from her as the staccato of gunfire echoed a couple of blocks away. It wasn’t that close when they had gotten to the airdrop site. He uncradled his rifle and shouldered it, pulling back the charging handle to check the chamber. 7.62x51mm NATO ammunition, standard issue and easy to find with the war still raging, or at least what left there is of it. The FAL had heft in his hands as he motioned for his companion to take cover. He dropped to one knee and leaned up next to the crate Liz had been rummaging through. Scanning the end of the road at the next intersection, the white silk of the parachutes on the ground flopping ever so slightly in the wind, Liam’s breath caught in his throat as he heard rumbling.

Men in DPM fatigues scrambled around the corner of the block, firing their rifles sporadically while a larger man followed behind, letting loose a long spray from his machine gun from the hip. Puffs of dirt and tarmac popped around his feet before his shoulder was replaced by red mist. Given the sound, it was something very large calibre that hit him. The rumbling grew louder as the rest of the squad of British infantry scrambled down the street, tripping over debris and sheltering behind cars. One man got behind a black taxi and unslung a Carl Gustav rocket launcher, readying it and aiming across the hood of the car. The sergeant noticed Liam, rifle still trained at the end of the road towards the ever growing rumble and clatter of bootfalls.

“Oi, bruv, get the hell out of here!” He shouted. Liam ignored him and watched the corner they’d come around.

A handful of soldiers in different uniforms rounded the corner, all of them taking cover as quickly as possible. Gunfire erupted from both sides, and Liam stayed tucked behind the crate, the barrel of his rifle pressed against the corner of it. Breathe, squeeze, release, repeat. He contributed to the defence of the British soldiers who’d taken cover from whatever was still rumbling toward the corner. One of them jerked backwards as machine gun fire raked his cover as he peaked out to take a shot. One of the opposing soldiers dropped to one knee and angled his rifle upwards slightly before loosing small projectile that arched upwards.

“LIZ WE NEED TO MOVE!” Liam’s muscles moved before he even finished the sentence.

She was sheltered behind another crate, gripping her old bolt action rifle furiously, wide-eyed with fear. She wasn’t but 17, and she still wasn’t used to being shot at like this. He whipped around, grabbing her arm and tugging her along low to the ground as they bolted. The rumbling had finally crescendoed as a large APC rounded the corner. Liam turned around and saw the camouflage-painted monster as the small turret on top rotated around before chugging with its large calibre gun. 20mm rounds began ripping all the cover in the area to shreds. Shouts and wails of pain from the British soldiers came with the sound, and Liam ran with every muscle and fibre of his being telling him to live.

All out once, his full momentum was cut and the world started spinning and he tumbled to the ground like a ragdoll, his left hand still holding onto Liz’s arm. The British soldier who’d been holding the rocket launcher finally released the munition, the round slamming violently into the side of the vehicle. A fireball erupted as Liz fell to the ground with Liam. He panted, then looked down to realise his right leg was now gone at the knee. A grease-stain on the concrete was all that remained of it. The girl looked down and she didn’t have words. She started to tear up, caught herself, and realised the gunfire hadn’t stopped behind her.

“Come on, we have to get you up!” She shouted, trying to get his arm over her shoulders to try and drag him into a nearby building.

She managed to drag him behind a pile of fallen rubble, solid enough to stop incoming fire. Liam wheezed and panicked, trying to position what was left of his leg to try and avoid more blood loss. He was already growing pale. Liam turned his head to his right. Next to him, on the ground, was a charred corpse in what appeared to be the remains of a dress. He now realised why he’d remembered this street. Liz unslung her rifle and took aim at the soldiers at the end of the road still firing. Just like Liam had taught her. Breathe, squeeze, release, repeat. The bolt action rifle in her hands cycled, a solid pop coming from the barrel with every trigger pull followed by the mechanical clacking of her working the action. One of the enemy soldiers dropped, then another one, then a third. She was missing her shots, and before she realised it she was empty. She reached into a pouch for a stripper clip of fresh rounds, fumbling and panicking. Liam extended his hand and simply wrapped it around her arm, steadying her.

“You need to run, love...” He managed, through an almost delirious slur. The blood from his leg had begun pooling and was soaking through his pants and into the cracks of the street. “You need to go. I’m not getting anywhere and you’re not getting out of this if you’re stuck trying to carry me.”

“No, I’m not leaving you!” She let tears flow as she dropped her rifle, bullets popping off the concrete they hid behind. Liam held up his rifle, trying to put it in her hands.

“Here, run, GO!” His eyes were heavy as he struggled to get his harness off, trying to give her his ammunition.

“DAD YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS!” She cried.

A rumbling sound from the end of the street. Another tracked vehicle, bigger than the last, was rounding the corner. Another rocket careened from the few British soldiers left. The new vehicle shrugged off the explosive. Liz ducked, scared for her life and that of her father. Their eyes met, and Liam nodded to his daughter. She knew she had to, but she didn’t know if she could. She grabbed the rifle from him, thumbing the safety. She helped him get the harness off, and strapped it around herself. She slung her old rifle, getting up off her knees but staying low. She turned to run, but met eyes with her father one last time. A tear streaked from his eye, and he simply nodded. It’s okay.

She ran, clatterous gunfire behind her as she bolted. She was weighed down by all she carried; the two rifles, the food, the ammunition, and her guilt. She rounded the opposite end of the street and broke into a sprint, her lungs aflame and muscles screaming against her. The explosion of a tank’s main gun boomed behind her, but she was too far to feel the heat of the blast. She kept running.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Liz sat by the fire in the camp, her eyes studying the embers and movement of the flames. She sat on a log that had been rolled into place, the backyard of an abandoned home in Surrey. Above the fire was a rack upon which she was heating up one of the MREs she’s recovered earlier that day. The night sky had a surprising number of stars, and she counted them as in her hand she turned over a heart-shaped locket. Memories came to her, like the taste of strawberries and the coolness of summer rain in the afternoons when she was young. One of the other members of the camp came up with a cup of tea, stepping over the log she sat on to cop a squat next to her. He handed her one of the cup’s in his hands to her, and motioned his head at the locket in Liz’s hand.

“That your mum’s?” He asked nonchalantly.

“Yeah, it was.” She replied, mournfully. “Been mine for three years now.”

“Hey,” the man looked around, searching. “Where’s your dad?”

“He didn’t make it, got stuck in a firefight between soldiers today…” She sipped the tea she’d been given. The man sitting with her took a long pause, digesting the news.

“Where’d this happen? Near that aid drop you scavenged?” He inquired respectfully, his tone inviting her to not want to talk about it.

“Yeah… same place mum died.” She clutched the locket tighter in her hands. “Why us, Michael?”

“What do you mean?” The man was confused.

“What the hell are they even fighting over anymore?” Liz sipped her tea and set it on the ground next to her, angry at all that had happened that day. “I mean, are they fighting for us? For the Queen? Is the Queen even still around? Why the fuck did my dad have to die for a war he left already?” She let tears roll down her cheeks. “And why the fuck are we in the crossfire?” Micheal sat and contemplated this for a moment.

“They don’t… they don’t understand what the toll of war is anymore.” He concluded. “And we’re stuck in it. Maybe one day it will end but the world won’t be the same afterwards. It’s as close to the apocalypse as we’ll see, I guess”.

“Yeah… I guess you’re right.” She picked up her tea and sipped it before grabbing the food she’d been warming up. “Get some sleep, Michael. You’re going into the city to scavenge tomorrow.”

“You’re right.” He stood up from the log, grabbing his cup as he went. “Hey, Liz.” She looked up at him. “It’s not your fault...”