Fahrenheit 451 Book 3
Total Page:16
File Type:pdf, Size:1020Kb
FAHRENHEIT POSTDATE 2025 A NIGHTMARE QUARTET OF THE FUTURE OF EUROPE BOOK THREE: THE DIRE WOLF FENRIR BY J.E.F. ROSE Text copyright © 2017 J.E.F. Rose All Rights Reserved June 2017 - Version 1.0 Digital book produced by Christopher Freyer Dedicated to Major Law A good Son A good Husband A good Father A good Grandfather A good Mustang Marine A good Patriot A good Christian A good American And the incarnation of the West and why it is the Best AUTHOR’S FORWARD This fan fiction is a free non-profit Amazon e-book and a fan tribute to ‘The Time Machine’, ‘David Copperfield’,‘Soylent Green’, and the iconic book ‘Fahrenheit 451’, combined with the Myths of Ragnarok. This fan fiction cross over tribute is set in 2025 Eurabia which envisions Crown Prince Rudolph’s beloved Europe and Great Britain as nightmare states if events presently occurring in Europe and the UK continue to their tragic conclusion. This is a dojin transformational crossover tribute and reinterprets the great masterpieces in a frightening new context while acknowledging the original genius of the original creators. While based on research and present day events this is a speculative work of crossover fiction and imagination projecting just one hypothetical vision of the near future. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons or places or events living or dead are entirely coincidental. TABLE OF CONTENTS Author’s Forward Table Of Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Other books by J.E.F. Rose CHAPTER ONE The fireman desperately marched down the violent war zone formally known as Piccadilly. Desperate to try to make the second rendezvous. Desperate as he wiped blood off his face and arm before feeling more blood trickling down his side inside his uniform. Blood and cold sweat mixing. His face clammy despite the foul cold wind. One black gloved hand unconsciously stroked some precious thing secreted away in a cunning pocket inside his sinister black tunic over his heart. Then the gloved hand held the butt of his pistol lodged inside the flap of his jacket. But by the rapidly vanishing sunset on the far horizon and the growing shadows of twilight he knew the odds were against him. “If only! If only! Perhaps Marlowe wanted to extract me! If only! If only!” But the livid smear on the far horizon said he was running out of time. More helicopters roared across the rapidly darkening sky. He ducked behind another burned out bus as machine gun fire peppered the foul street as if hail. Sewage and garbage spattering. Blotted corpses exploding as bullets punctured the gross black flesh. Starving migrants screamed as they were hit by random fire. Rolling in the rotten filth as they bled out. Other migrants huddled on the filthy sidewalks tried to crawl into the gutted out store fronts only to be greeted by other migrants with sticks and crude clubs. Every hiding place already taken as the growing darkness unleashed criminal anarchy. In the far distance there was a cry of a Feral. “God! My blood will draw the Ferals right to me!” The fireman paused and panted, his starvation, fear, and pain mixing to make him wobbly. “Jasper was trying to warn me to find a hole to hide in!” He stared at a gutted church. There were shadows moving inside of it. He flinched. It was odd. Usually the gutted churches were abandoned. The Muslims avoided them even to inflict spiteful desecration because rebellious Cockneys deliberately sacrificed their beloved dogs so their bones would guard eternally the desecrated places with the loyalty of death which Muslims interpreted as taboo Najis. And now the Cockney Cockroaches were notorious Morlocks. So they would not be there. The Baby Boomers discovered their long neglected faith too late to dare to practice a banned religion. And the Identitarians and Generation Zers were away in Wales waging war. As for the Snowflakes. They were mostly dead. And they had been raised to hate Christianity, Great Britain, and themselves. So who were the shadows moving in the shadows? The fireman’s skin pricked. But the shadows were deepening. The shadows in the shadows sinister. Not ‘D’s cowering. Something worse. Something more dangerous. He strained his ears to hear any clink of a gun bolt. Did he hear it? The clink of a gun bolt? He could not be sure. But his skin pricked. “I might still get there in time. The second rendezvous. It would be my only hope to survive this night!” So the fireman resumed his desperate march toward the rapidly receding sunset in the darkening sky as lengthening shadows crept toward him as if fingers of death. As the fireman marched away the shadows in the ruined church resumed their brisk efforts. Some checking their guns. Some double checking their ammo. Others checking their maps to confirm the location of the targets. London had changed drastically and the Morlocks had been underground so long they felt as if they were invading a strange city rather than preparing to reclaim their capital. Another Morlock watched the shadows deepened. Then the Morlock moved into the growing shadow and heaved up the manhole cover. More Morlocks climbed out to slip into the ruins of the fire gutted church. Some curious to see the surface after so long. Others curious to see the surface for the first time. After the last Morlock emerged from the depths the officer gave the signal and a Cockney Cockroach inside the manhole briskly heaved the manhole cover back into place and secured it. Then the officer slipped back into the ruins. Captain Knoll Sterling prepared to wage war when the Chimes tolled at Midnight. “That half starved fireman in his dirty uniform who hovered before the church looked so familiar. Why can’t I place him? A sad, starved, dirty, gaunt face creature. His thin shoulders hunched over, hugging his bony chest. One hand stroking something inside his dirty black tunic as if something precious. But what could he have which could be precious? He looked so starved I doubt he has anything except his old banger of a gun such as used to be issued to firemen when they used to be the elite. Obviously not elite anymore considering his ragged and dirty condition. Even his helmet so battered as it dangled from one arm. His huge dark eyes so desperate in his prematurely aged face. As if a lost child. It is true then. The Eloi are starving. Their pleasure domes are crumbling away. Their arrogance is evaporating. Their conceit as the ‘Best of Peoples’ is unraveling. I am sure I know him. Yet I can’t recognize him. The only fireman I ever meet personally was that extraordinary kid Jasper Sylvester invited to spelunker the Guildhall during our grand adventure kidnaping the first and last Paki mayor of London to hold over for trial for high treason. Well! The chap was not exactly invited to our shindig. Rather, he invited himself! What an extraordinary youth he was! There to save Gog and Magog! And bland as could be to find himself in a lost Roman temple buried deep underground As if that sort of adventure would happen to anyone What a surprise it was to see his face pop up at the secret temple of Minerva. What a tale that was I wonder if he is still alive? That audacious young Apostate? .......” *** *** The madwoman held her gun to her bony chest as she paced back and forth. “By the pricking of my thumb something evil this way comes! Why do I think I am going to die tonight?..... Meanwhile, Mr. Mole paced nervously before MIMIR as the massive network of cobbled together computers crunched intel. “Where are you Gjallarhorn? Where are you? Where are you? Will the Sooty Crow screech out the Fall of the Gods? The Death of the West? Odin’s Decline and Fall? Or else the Rebirth of Albion?....” At the same time the Minister of the Left and the Minister of the Right computers crunched the same intel as they guarded the mysterious domed Japanese garden. Sentient Robots silently paced between the ultra modern stainless steel bastion located deep underground and the wondrous organic garden under glass on the surface in which one of the last Organics dozed in her throne- like wheel chair. The Sentient Robots were busy using gaming algorithms to project the probability of survival, victory, defeat, or else annihilation. “The Red Rooster. The Golden Rooster. And the Sooty Crow” one particular Robot mused as he watched the two key computers calculate the survival or else the destruction of Japan. Instead of a Noh Mask and exquisitely rich couture of courtly Japan the Robot wore a simple black Samurai tunic and no mask to conceal his robotic features. As the other Robots fluttered as if butterflies in their large billowy sleeves, he reclined on the wooden bridge between two worlds. One robotic hand casually scratching his steel visage as if scratching a stubble of a beard. “Why don’t we just throw dice to see if it is Ragnarok or else Ragnarokkr?” At the same time Brigadier General Narcissi prepared to move his soldiers from their holding position into the most dangerous position on the surface of occupied London. He studied the map. “The location is impossible to defend. Yet the human sacrifices who perished there requires us to risk all in a desperate attempt to save it.