Lost And Found

The Junkyard

15 Years Later

The Junkyard

Alpha's POV

The weak dusk sun travels through my thin, cloth-like curtains creating a subtle yet vibrant flame colour in the small space. The gentle breeze wafts them, allowing the sun to occasionally peek through the gaps, casting strips of light that stretch across the dirt floor. It's much like a dug-out you'd find in a trench but the only difference is that this is a den built inbetween old, crushed cars in the middle of an abandoned junk yard. Skulls hang down from the ceiling, twirling in the breeze that manages to pass through the cloths.

I lie horizontally across the cracked leather chair, breathing in deeply while watching the dust dance in the last few specs of light.

This place is one of many rebel groups in the South East, each having different living conditions, members and leaders. This one is located in the disused junk yard on the outskirts of London called Homebridge, but we know it as HQ. It's home to some of the best spies and criminals if I do say so myself. We are the people that can actually outsmart the shop-owning, law following scum that live everywhere.

Here, we have a different code to all other rebel groups. We use old fashioned communication, no technology-you get caught so much easier when you use technology-and finally, army terms. We use the alphabet names to be able to stay as classiified as possible like Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Kilo etcetera. I am Alpha, meaning I lead this group. Nobody leaves unless I tell them to. Nobody enters unless I tell them to, and lastly: nobody eats unless I tell them to. Simple as that. If anyone, and I mean anyone decides to go off and do what they want, they're whipped...or starved until they're nearly dead if I'm feeling nice.

Like I said, we use code to communicate, most of the time it's morse where we use flashing head lights on the newer cars. The South West group register them and send caesar cyphers back by letter. They occasionally send information about good steals and kit that are worth nicking and we do the same vice versa. But sometimes, the morse code doesn't work, and somehow the North Eastern group found us. It's coming on ten years since that last happened. There was fire, destruction, guns, shouting. One of our best spies, Foxtrot, was killed on that night along with many others. The rest of us escaped, including the five year-old daughter of the spy. And that's when I took charge. People needed someone to follow.

But anyway, speaking of communication, we have recently recieved information about an artifact that has been found, and is currently being held at the Museum in central London.

"Quebec!" I bark and shortly after a huge, hulk-like man enters through the curtains.

"Yes, sire?" He growls, flexing his back making all of his tattoos stretch and temporarily deform.

"Fetch the girl."

"Right away, sire."

Elizabeth's POV

Steam pours from the pan as the water slowly evaporates. I stir in circles gingerly, desperately trying not to ruin the sweetcorn. This is the first food we've had in a few days as one of our guys managed to smuggle some while in the city. One might think it would make sense to spend our earnings on food, but no. We get equipment such as wireless radios for security. We also get medical supplies, but only bandages and paracetamol. Just the superiors in this place get access to them so I.E, If you get seriously ill, you're basically dead. I can never decide whether living alone in a den is good or not. It's very quiet most of the time I'm here, but my job here is to check the batteries of the radios and mark out the morse code messages so they are ready for the light operator.

The fire crackles underneath the small pot and starts to die out.

"No, no come on." I exclaim, blowing the fire in hope that the extra oxygen will bring it back to life before it completely goes.