I struggled onwards, guided only by the faint, grayscale image of the winding streets ahead and motivated by nothing more than the necessity to avoid lead-derived oblivion. I had to reach Centre Point to have any hope of safety, but I was beginning to lose my sense of direction. I had no idea where I was heading. I was lost, stuck in Soho with nowhere to run to for safety and no hero to save me. The various sections of my brain seemed to be having heated arguments with each other, yelling back and forth; ‘She’s going to die’; ‘No, she won’t’; ‘Of course she will! Have you seen the size of the lads chasing her?’ I tried to tell them to shut up, but not one part of my brain would listen. I shouldn’t have to remind them that we’re in this together.
I heard the air split once more; a bullet, yet another bloody bullet, skimmed through the air and passed my ear. My senses resumed their duties. My head had stopped debating with itself and began to actually do its job, furiously computing ways to help me attempt to evade the four pursuers left. At least I thought there were still four pursuers left. According to my eyes, which, as it seemed, had only just been reconnected to my brain, there was only one gigantic half-human thundering towards me. Seven had fallen. Eight had contracted to one. It seemed impossible. Just fifteen minutes ago, I was a prisoner, condemned, trapped in a situation from which escape was nigh on impossible. Now, though, I had the upper hand. The kinks and corners of the Soho streets had given me an advantage over the lumbering monster behind me; he couldn’t handle the corners nearly as quickly as I could. In fact, as I passed a giant plug-point hanging over a cobble-stone alleyway, I lost the last of my pursuers completely. Eight had fallen. Eight had contracted to zero, and I was the last woman standing.
Golden eyes poked around the corner. Bugger. Zero had become one once again; fine, it was a preferable situation for me to find myself in than the one I found myself in upon leaving Piccadilly Circus, but having one massive, evil, emotionless dehumanised monster chasing after me was one too many, thank you very much. I had to run, but I couldn’t; fatigued muscles were plaguing my every movement. The one remaining Faceless was gaining, menacingly stamping his boots into the ground, making every last cobble shake. I began to walk backwards, treading slowly, treading carefully, making sure to face my opponent with narrowed eyes at all times. The austere golden shimmer emitted from his eyes seemed to light up the entire street. The last Faceless standing, the last of the eight that had found me above the battleground at the Circus, had a particularly nondescript, featureless, barren face, even by their standards, marked by no facial expression, no emotion, only those penetrating, soul-destroying golden eyes. The figure facing me, the last Faceless standing, now held the advantage; he had a reloaded weapon to fire at will whereas I had absolutely nothing left with which to return the fire. I couldn’t run and I couldn’t fight.
He stepped forward. I stepped back. An evil smirk began to decorate his face, pushing his ashen cheeks aside. I stepped back again. As he stepped forward again, I flicked my head around, desperately trying to get my bearings. I was lost; I had no idea where I’d been, no idea where I was at that moment, and no bloody idea how to get to Centre Point – though getting to Centre Point was the last thing on my mind considering there was no guarantee I was getting out of this situation yet. A nervous flick of the head told me nothing; I found myself on a cobbled street fringed by small houses and shops, colour slowly fading from their facades as it had been fading from my cheeks for the past half-hour – it was like most streets in the West End. Great, I thought. I had to find myself on the most archetypal, stereotypical street in all of London. Fat load of good that does me.
It wasn’t a complete waste of time, however. A quick glance behind me told me that the end of the street was in sight, a T junction at a slight angle. ‘At last, Nox,’ I thought. ‘A chance to escape.' Unfortunately, within the few short seconds that followed, I was to find out that my optimism had been misplaced.
There were still four people on my tail. The three others, each as brutal as the one which stood before me, were blocking the two branches of the T junction at the end of the street. They toyed with me too; they took one step, paused, took another earth-shattering step and then paused again.
“Nox? Are you there, Nox?”
The radio piped up again. Oscar sounded breathless. “Have you reached Centre Point yet?” he panted
“Are you anywhere near me?” I asked hastily as the footsteps beat their way closer. “I need your help. I’m completely lost. All I know is that I’m somewhere in Soho.” I took a quick glance at the buildings around me once more, and thankfully, found a road sign. “I’m on a tiny cobbled alleyway called Newburgh Street,” I panted, full of nerves. “Are you at Centre Point yet?”
“We-We’re at Cambridge Circus,” he panted, “and we’re still fighting. We made it out of Seven Dials, but we sustained losses trying to fight off the ambush. Our opponents were far greater in number than we’d feared. We won’t make it to you, Nox. Just get yourself to Centre Point.” He paused for a split second. “They are still on your tail, aren’t they?”
Another footstep pounded upon the cobbles. “Yes,” I replied, scared out of my tiny mind. “I’m surrounded, Oscar. I haven’t got any ammunition left. I need help. I desperately need help!”
I heard boots hit the rough cobbles again. There was a pause in our conversation. Suddenly, after a ten year period of agony and fear compressed into ten seconds, a reply finally came; “Blow it up!”
“What?”
Four pairs of feet hit the ground in an eerie harmony.
“You heard me. We put explosives in every backpack. There’s a detonator in the side pocket. Set the charges to explode the exterior wall of the building on facing Newburgh Street at the T-junction, take the detonator, then run as fast as you can down Newburgh Street itself."
"Are you sodding mad?!"
"Maybe," Oscar puffed. "Just trust me, Nox. Run, and set the charges as soon as you reach the Faceless blocking Newburgh Street. The rubble will knock them out, and give you time to escape."
"You're mad!" I yelled into the microphone. "You're bloody mad! I could be killed if I tried out your plan!"
"You could," he asserted, "but you'll definitely die if you get captured by the Faceless. What would you prefer; certain death, or a chance of survival?"
Another set of synchronised footsteps hit the cobbles around me. Certain death was edging ever closer, closing the net, slamming the trapdoor shut. I looked back behind me; there was a small waterproof coat shop facing the smirking, ashen-faced creature on Newburgh Street. Another footstep pulsated through the cobbles. The three coming from the left and right were almost upon me. Oscar was right. I’d have to blow the place up and hope for the best. It was my only hope. Another harmonious group of footsteps beat down on the cobbles. I wiped the last remaining tear from my eye. It was now or never. I smashed the window and I removed the detonator. I shoved the backpack into the shop, as close to the wall as it would go. I ran, charging towards the golden-eyed monster hulking over Newburgh Street like a miniature bull at the Pamplona Run then, as his arms, his grey, tree-trunk sized arms closed around me, I ducked, the ends of his bloated fingers brushing my hair, and slammed the detonator as I slid beneath his legs.
Rubble erupted from the building like lava from a volcano. The street lit up with a haunting red glow so bright that the light beaming from the eyes of the man facing me became two simple dots in a crimson fog. I ducked to lay myself flat on the ground, allowing the debris from the explosion to leap over me. Remnants of brick wall spiralled through the dusty air to strike all four of the Faceless on my tail right in the abdomen, wiping all four of from London and into Oblivion. Eight had become zero, and this time, I had no wish to weep over the bodies.
Someone did, though.
Sniffling sounds filled the still, dust-filled air enshrouding Newburgh Street. A shrill wail followed a few seconds later, and grew louder and louder with every second that followed.
A shadow emerged from the smoke and the inferno of the shop, hunched over in one corner. I couldn’t help but stand there at the end of the cobbled street, staring, wondering to whom the silhouette belonged. In the end, I had to leave. The odds of another attack were just too high for me to stay, but for the length of the journey back to meet with the rest of the Brigade at Centre Point – assuming they made it out of the on-going skirmish at Cambridge Circus - I couldn’t help but wonder; ‘What have I done?’