Richard B Riddick

It has taken a day to find a house that was abandoned and suited their needs. Set slightly back from the street it was still intact, even if a number of the other houses on the streets weren’t so lucky. That means there aren’t too many prying eyes on the street, no one to notice their rag tag bunch taking up residence. Laying low is something that Riddick is good at, and right now it seems like the best policy.

It’s been almost a week and none of them have slept through a night. The sirens are always going off, and the shelter is crowded, dank and uncomfortable. The sirens start late that night, later than they had any other. It’s late enough that the decision to not go to the shelter is easily made, even if there’s fear in some of their eyes.

Luck is bullshit, Riddick knows. If there is any sort of fate or luck it’s against him. Tonight was no different. The first bomb hits just outside the house, the explosion shattering the glass in the windows and shaking them all. The second drops not even a full breath later, hitting the kitchen in the back. The third explosion is the gas, a ball of fire exploding down the hall.

“Get out,” he roars, slamming the door to the kitchen shut. It’s wood and won’t hold up to the fire for long, but it’s something. “Get out, now.”

They’re almost out when Fry’s foot catches and she falls. Riddick goes back without question, pulling her up and pushing her out the door ahead of him. The movement barely takes a second, but a second is all the already-stressed brick and timber of the house needed. There’s a booming snap, a crack that sounds as the roof tumbles downward. The front half of the house seems to crumple in on itself, burying Riddick along with it, fire licking up the wreck from behind. At least Fry got out, is the last thing he thinks before he’s knocked out. This time she wouldn’t die. Not because of him.

October in London was usually a quiet time, in a normal year there would be plans to head to a harvest festival or to start laying wood and coal in for the cold winter nights ahead. 1940 was far from a normal year. The attacks had stopped coming during the daytime, Londoners had noticed. It wasn’t something they noted with much relief, the night attacks getting worse. Every day or night for a full month there had been an attack, and the wounds show starkly on the city.

There’s not a neighbourhood that hadn’t been touched in some way. Children were being sent north and sons and husbands had long since gone off to fight. Shops were shut and even when they opened they had little to sell. Buildings crumbled and bricks and stone lined most streets. Windows were shuttered or painted or papered over and everything has a pallor, a greyness about it.

It’s dusk now, the light fading and the skies clear. It’s those clear skies that worry Londoners rushing to their homes. Most dream for clouds and storms, for a night of uninterrupted sleep. It’s a dream that won’t come true, not for another few weeks. Heads down, they hurry through the streets, past the houses that their friends had lived in until a few days before. They ignore the craters in the road and the burnt out husk of the church that they’d worshipped in every Sunday of their lives. They’re too worried about how to make the rank cut of meat they’ve wrapped in paper palatable, or their children away in the North. They’re worried about tonight and how long it will be before the sirens have them scurrying off to the shelters again. They’re worried they won’t make it in time, or they’ll end up homeless, and worse, they know there’s nothing they can do.