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  The Wrath of David

  by Sean-Paul Thomas

  Copyright 2017 Sean-Paul Thomas - All rights reserved.

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  For Bianca - My heart, my soul, my everything.

  PART 1

  Caged Fury

  Chapter 1

  David slept naked and alone. It was an unusually humid early summer's night in the town of Douglas on the Isle of Man. David tossed and turned in his sleep for the umpteenth night in a row as his dreams became nightmares yet again. Even without the added heat lingering in the air, David always had trouble sleeping these nights, ever since the love of his life had been brutally taken from him almost a year ago.

  Now he was dreaming again, dreaming about that time when he'd lost his beautiful angel. His beloved Ashley. The only real love of his long and miserable existence on this planet. He dreamed of being up on that high clifftop again, not far from the holiday cottage they used to rent and hole themselves up in for weeks on end, way up in the north west coastal corner of the Scottish Highlands, whenever they could get their annual leave away together. The good, normal times before the war.

  In the dreams, David always wore a casual black vest with his favourite black jeans as he stood over the edge of a high clifftop a few dozen yards from their secluded cottage. He gazed out at the vast sea and waves and the grim, grey water that stretched out as far and as wide as the eye could see.

  After a deep inhale of the salty sea air, he turned around slowly, not to face the cottage, but to glance a little bit in front of the cottage, where a big old thick oak tree loomed beside the edge of the cliff, like something from an old ghost movie.

  Casually hanging from one of the higher, thicker branches was a short stretch of rope with a small noose tied at its end, big enough to fit a person's head inside. The noose swung eerily all by itself, back and forth, in the cool sea breeze. David breathed in another gulp of salty sea air. But all he could taste and smell was the stale stench of death that engulfed him from every way he turned.

  Above, the clouds had turned a thick grey, mirroring the sea below, getting darker by the second. A big fuck-off storm was coming, that much was clear. But to David, in that hollow dreamlike moment, it didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore. The storm could take him, engulf him, chew him up and spit him back out again on the rocks of the distant beaches below. He. Did. Not. Give. A. Damn.

  David turned his attention back towards the rough grey sea that stretched onwards and outwards like a never-ending blanket. Finally, he closed his eyes and did not open them again. Gradually he extended his arms, turning his entire body into a cross-like figure as he perched upon the edge of the cliff.

  He remained firmly rooted in that pose. Only the sound of the sea and the waves crashing off the base of the cliff rocks way below rang through his ears. It felt like only a few moments, but darkness had suddenly swept in like a plague, covering the sky across the land. Suddenly, David leaned into the wind, right over the clifftop. After an agonising pause, he let himself fall down the side of the steep cliff face, towards the crashing sea waves and hard, jagged rocks below - waves that seemed to be calling his name every time they crashed against the rocks and stones, over and over ... David ... David ... David...

  Halfway into his descent, David's fall became a majestic dive as he soared like an eagle, raging ferociously straight for the sea. Just before he smashed into the rocks and crashing waves like some violent force of nature... He awoke.

  With a start, he sat up in his bed. He was sweating profusely and breathing deep and hard, in and out, like he'd just come back from one of his long morning runs along the coast of the island. It took him a few deep breaths to realise just where the hell he was. Who he was. Where he'd been. Where he'd come from. And hardest to fathom of all, just what he'd lost during this new and great tragic shift in the world.

  After some time spent wrestling with the same guilt demons and emotional pain and anguish that always kept him awake these days, he fell back to sleep again.

  ***

  David woke up early. The sun shone hard as it did most mornings at the beginning of those long summer days in the old United Kingdom, or the Un-United Kingdom as most people referred to that chaotic and lawless hellhole on the other side of the water. But only the lucky ones. The lucky few who had gotten out in time.

  David jogged to work like he did every day. Always wanting to keep himself fit and alert and his heart rate up, just in case ... just in case something happened. Just in case some slight missed information was found on his behalf. Something for him to act upon so he could finally unleash that pent-up demon rage and fury of vengeance that swished and swirled around inside him like a never-ending hurricane. Only then would his constant fight, desire and struggle to stay at peak physical condition be worth all the sacrifice.

  David worked as a forklift driver down at the docks. Paid jobs were few and far between in the new world, but special vacancies were always open for retired or ex-military servicemen or sometimes even those who just happened to be related to one.

  He'd been working there for the better part of a year now, ever since he'd left behind the tragic horrors of the mainland and reached the safe zone of the Isle of Man – horrors that were still happening and increasing in frequency to this very day.

  The Isle of Man had become a temporary safe/quarantine zone for most immigrants – any immigrants fleeing the countries of England, Scotland and Wales after the brutal and violent uprising of the British White National Extremists.

  Their staggering increase in numbers and supporters in just a matter of months had taken everyone by surprise, as had their eventual brutal overthrowing of an out-of-touch government. This had been followed by the armed forces, who, based on their own extremist beliefs, were tragically split as to how the country should be run.

  Looking back with hindsight, it was so easy to see it coming. Yet no one at the time could or would do a damn thing to stop it or even stand up against it. Even the media had their chances to calm and ease the tensions of the people and the nation around them, promoting kindness to others and uniting all men and women of Britain regardless of their accent, colour and creed. But that was never going to sell newspapers or bring in more viewers than their rival media outlets and news channels, so the media continued to do what they did best – pouring even more fuel onto the raging fires of tension and hate for all foreigners and immigrants.

  But where was all the help from the outside world? Especially when the concentration camps were set up and anyone not looking like they were white British was callously and brutally cut down in the streets like rabid dogs, or rounded up and taken to the camps, where, if no use could be made of them, were either executed outright or put to work as slaves.

  Where was the help from the outside world?

  There was none.

  That was the cold, hard truth of it.

  Britain became the spark and igniting catalyst for most other countries around Europe, then America and then the rest of the Westernized world, for the nationalists and neo-Nazi, right-wing, racist regimes to rise up from the bi
le and take back their so-called polluted countries for themselves.

  It all happened at a time when the human race appeared to be at a point in its history where it might actually have been seen as moving forward, ever so slightly, with its humanity, especially with technology, new ideas and compassion for others less fortunate than themselves.

  But it was all just a pipe dream in the end.

  And with the second huge economic crash in 20 years, the spiralling world population and a lack of new jobs, more wars, fewer homes, fewer schools and hospitals, less land to build on and less unprocessed food and clean water to go around – something had to give.

  And instead of blaming themselves or the corrupt governments that had taken their people for granted by investing more in weapons, nuclear power and fracking, or the banks that had bled them dry for more years than anyone could remember, the people had turned to hatred of other races and cultures arriving and already living in their country. A hatred of something and someone very different from their own values and beliefs, moving into their territory to share their dwindling resources.

  No, not since Hitler and the Second World War had it been such a shameful time to consider yourself a human being.

  Then, with the overthrowing of the British government and most of the armed forces, a small remaining fragment of the British military that had sided with the government and wished for a peaceful compromise to the terrifying uprising were now running things on the Isle of Man – a small island on the west coast of England which had become a kind of gateway to the more peaceful and immigrant-friendly land of Ireland, just across the water.

  Ireland was where the survivors of the old British government and the minority British public who wanted no part of the new hateful racist uprising had fled, along with the remaining loyal armed forces and even a few surviving members of the royal family.

  People with money and stature were always the first to find the quickest and safest route out of hell.

  But Ireland had taken on more than its fair share of incoming refugees, both British and foreign, and was now at absolute breaking point.

  The world all around had fallen into carnage, ripping itself apart at the seams and from the inside out, and no one knew what to do about it or even how humanity was ever going to put itself back together again. It would take numerous lifetimes and countless generations of healthy, educated beings to even attempt to lay down the building-block foundations for a new and stable world – that was for damn sure.

  In the main dockyards of the Isle of Man, David's job was to unload any incoming cargo from the newly docked ships that came in from the mainland. He would then, with his fellow forklift drivers and ground force workers, load that cargo into the military bays on the opposite side of the harbour.

  After the newly arrived cargo had been unloaded, the military trucks would take everything to their base on the outskirts of Douglas before rationing and distributing the supplies as they saw fit. This would be to: a) the remaining white British citizens living freely on the island, and then b) the thousands upon thousands of foreign immigrants and non-white British refugees who had fled the mainland. Most of the latter were detained in processing camps on the western side of the island, where they would be held until passage could be organised back to their home countries, or to a fellow neutral country willing to take them in. Which, by the way things were unfolding all over the world, wasn't going to be any time soon.

  On rare occasions, if a parent was white British but had mixed-race children, they were offered temporary citizenship away from the refugee camps on the island, but these were very rare occurrences indeed, since the island’s own population was also spiralling out of control, along with its dwindling food supply and resources.

  Halfway through David's 12-hour shift, he took his lunch break in the staff cafeteria. He always opted to sit at a corner window table all by himself, eating a small lunch in complete and utter silence with only his own thoughts for company. Most of his work colleagues sat and talked amongst themselves, cheerfully and socially. David just didn't have the time or patience for anyone anymore. After everything that had happened to him this past year, more than anything he just wished to be left alone, to dwell upon his own musings in peace and quiet.

  As he finished his lunch, David took a small silver lighter from his trouser pocket. Written upon the silver was the tiniest little engraving. A blink and you'd miss it, faint love heart with the initials D and A carefully engraved on the side.

  Without consciously realising, David began flicking the lighter's steel lid, open and closed, over and over. He did this as he watched another large ferry, which had just recently docked into port, open its huge doors.

  In a matter of minutes, hundreds of ex-UK citizens, from Indians and Africans to Pakistanis, Japanese and Chinese, even Polish, Spanish, Italians and Romanians, were all escorted out of the huge ferry by the waiting military guards.

  The refugees were quickly led to dozens of waiting trucks that would eventually transport them to the processing camps on the other side of the island.

  With dirty faces with tattered clothes, they looked utterly spent, exhausted and completely beaten down. Like a cattle herd of obedient zombies, they made their way to the trucks without the slightest fuss or questions asked.

  Chapter 2

  Right after work, David made a spontaneous visit to the military police station in Douglas. It was a building the military had taken over from the regular civilian police station when they'd first arrived on the island. For the better part of six months, David hadn't heard anything from the army police regarding the investigation into the death of his beloved Ashley.

  He subconsciously knew the military had its hands full and far too much of their own shit going on to put one brutal murder out of thousands straight to the top of their to-do list. But still, if he could just squeeze them for one tiny piece of information, just a place for him to start, something to go on, he wouldn't need the army's assistance anymore, or anyone's help for that matter – the rest he could do on his own.

  David sat patiently in the waiting room. He wanted to speak to Lieutenant John Young, the man David had been put in touch with when he'd first arrived on the island. A man who had been so impressed by David's own military background, career and honours that he'd graciously bent over backwards to assist him and help him settle in with a job and a new home. Of course, John had wanted David to remain in the army. As an ex-commando, he was a handy man to have around, just in case things went tits up on the island someday soon and the shit really did indeed hit the fan. Which, quite frankly, seemed more and more likely everyday if more refugees continued pouring in from a never-ending supply of boats from the mainland, merged with a steady decline in places to keep them.

  But because David was reluctant to have anything to do with the armed forces ever again, especially after what had happened to Ashley, John imagined it would be better to just go along with whatever David did want while keeping him close at hand.

  The only thing David wanted though was revenge. Pure and simple vengeance. And he'd happily bide his time on the island, working in the docks and generally being a nice and well-behaved citizen, while the information he so desperately needed was slowly gathered and one day put in front of him. But six months had swiftly become almost one year and still no information had been attained. David was itching, in fact burning inside now for any kind of starting place, no matter how vague or remote, and if he didn’t get it soon then he feared that he would at some point return back to the main land anyway and begin his blind, desperate search, trailing through every ounce of bloodied ground until he no longer had the power to walk, move or crawl anymore.

  After almost two hours of waiting, David was finally called into Lieutenant John Young's office. An emotionless David sat down opposite the military commander, who, like David, was a tall, fit and athletic man in his late 30s.

  “It's nice to see you again, David,” said John, trying to be
cheerful. “I'm just sorry I don't have any new leads on Ashley's case for you. You know I'd come to you immediately if I did have something. You know that, right?”

  “It's been almost a year,” David said bluntly.

  “I know. And I'm truly sorry. Really, I am. But most of the mainland is still a no-go area. The south is still at war while the north has settled into a new regime of complete and utter fucking lawlessness, from Manchester right up into the Highlands. And the last we heard from Glasgow, over three months ago now, they were constructing huge fuck-off camps for all ethnic refugees. It's an absolute horrific fucking shit-storm over there, David. And it's not getting better any time soon,”

  “You don't need to tell me what it's like over there, Lieutenant,” David replied with a stinging glance.

  John hesitated. He took a deep breath and bit his tongue. If David had been any other soldier or ex-military personnel, there was no way he'd tolerate that kind of answering back attitude. But David was different. John could see it in his eyes. A ticking time bomb of destruction. Long term rules did simply not apply to him anymore

  John met David’s intense stare and held it for an overly long second. “What happened to Ashley,” John continued, “was a tragic and horrific war crime. It truly was. But the same crimes have been happening to hundreds of thousands of other innocent people up and down the country for the past few years. And the harsh reality is, David ... we don't have the time or the resources to deal with any of them. That is the absolute hard truth of the matter. And I am so fucking sorry for that.”

  David remained deathly silent. His face still lacked any kind of expression or inclination as to what he was really thinking. He continued to stare hard, drilling his eyes directly into John's. He hadn't even blinked once since sitting down.

  John didn't seem too convinced that David had taken on board everything he'd just said though. But then again, perhaps he just didn't give a shit about his or the army's excuses. Nor had he ever done.