The World Of Steam

13

Some hours passed by and London was transformed into an impenetrable fortress. There was no way in and no way out. Defensive bunkers were dotted all over the place and a ten mile twisting trench had been dug through the roads, branching out everywhere, turning into a labyrinth. It was a maze that was enough to disorientate even the smartest of trackers. There were miners living down below, swinging pickaxes, excavating metal and coal, preparing for the fight. A heavily muscled man grinded away at the wall of coal with a jackhammer. He wore a pair of thin trousers and a vest that may have once been white. His thick arms and the rest of his body were covered in coal. Sweat ran down his entire blackened body, but he seemed to enjoy the blistering heat of the underground. Suddenly, his jackhammer hissed steam from all sides, but he did nothing but squint a tiny bit and continued with his work like nothing had happened. Other workers loaded the excavated coal and metal into carts and sent them up to the surface, sending them off to the foundries. There were smelters, melting down iron and steel, sending the pure product off to the blacksmiths who then turned it into weapons and armour. Bladed weapons and guns were forged, racks of rifles stood by, ready for use. A worker popped the bullets out of their moulds and put them into ammo belts. Another worker controlled a crane that lowered a giant artillery shell into a pool of water. The surface spat steam from the searing heat as the burning shell made contact. The foundries were alive with work, no one wasting any time at all. Boiling molten metal bubbled away furiously in the chambers, gurgling like a giant's stomach. Workers shovelled scrap metal into a colossal crucible as it stood over a giant roaring flame that burned bright. Other workers shovelled dolomite into furnaces, lining the walls with the substance, protecting them from melting in the quadruple digit temperature. Two smelters working at a furnace were clad in dirty and scuffed coats that long since needed a wash. They mixed the molten metal as it sparked into their faces, hitting their safety visors uselessly. They continuously inserted and pulled back a long and thin steel rod into the furnace, spacing out any pieces of metal left in clumps. A small group of workers cleared away metal debris from a gigantic roller conveyor. One of them waved his hand, giving the signal. They all instantly moved away from the conveyor as a hundred ton block of white hot metal emerged from the furnace, spitting flames as it did so. A couple of workers instantly stepped up to it, throwing down handfuls of pure carbon. The black powder exploded in a flash of smoke as it made contact with the block. An instant later, the conveyor brought it back into the furnace and a roller pressed itself down onto it, flattening it by an inch. The metal emerged again and almost immediately went back into the furnace, slowly being flattened into a giant sheet of metal. Another red hot block of metal made its way down a conveyor and through a large series of rollers, slowly being compressed down in size, coiled up into a giant roll of steel. One worker wielded a thermic lance, cleaning out the layer of slag from the bottom of a tipped over furnace pot. The iron quickly melted away, bit by bit, leaving the pot clean again. Sparks flew about wildly onto his safety visor, but he was not one bit deterred from his work. London was in chaos, a civil war having erupted. Everyone wanted the formula for their own personal gain. After all, a thing such as that would only go to the highest bidder. London itself was divided into two parts, those who fought against King George VII, and those who defended him. Trucks patrolled the streets, giant speakers fixed onto their roofs.

"Join the ranks of King George VII and fight for your country!" They spouted their propaganda without pause. "Defend the king and crown at all costs!"

A civilian dashed out of an alley and threw a molotov cocktail onto his target. The bottle shattered against the side of the door, spilling licks of flame everywhere. The roof quickly set ablaze, spitting flames all around itself. The inside of the truck lit up with fire like a gas oven, cooking its inhabitant. The driver bounded out, squaking in agony as he burned. He tried to rip his clothes off, but quickly succumbed to the blistering heat, dropping to his knees and falling face first onto the ground. Meanwhile, the Lord looked out of the window of his office block, seeing the preparations taking place. What his real name was, no one knew. He was the head honcho of the London mafia, only power being his desire. He was dressed in a sharp, white tuxedo, a pleated white shirt underneath. There was a black bow tie strung around his neck, not even one inch out of place. His white dress trousers were impeccable, there not being one crease. There were a pair of diamond shamrock cufflinks on his sleeves, himself knowing that he had all the luck in the world. He was immune. Suddenly, the double doors slid open to the side and in stepped a butler, a silver tray with a martini glass in one of his gloved hands, balanced onto his fingertips. He walked over to the Lord and stood beside him. The Lord took the martini glass and took a sip, not even taking his eyes away from the window. The butler turned and inclined his head in a bow, before turning around and walking out, sliding the doors shut. The Lord stared at the carnage that was about to erupt and then smiled. No words were needed.