That Day

George was enjoying a delightful Egg McMuffin when the dragon descended upon London.

The creature's belly, scaly and filled with half-digested accountants, two German Shepherds and someone's husband, cast a towering shadow over the entirety of Tooley Street, part of London Bridge City Pier and George's greasy booth.

A dragon was quite possibly the last thing on his mind when George noticed the darkness spilling through the windows and onto his breakfast. Instead, he felt his mood turn sour at the thought of an incipient storm cloud looming over London. His weather app had promised sunny spells and scorching heat.

George had simply had enough of broken promises. He cursed the clouds and the brat that created that weather app, he cursed his joints for having failed him (they usually predicted bad storms with a creak and a crack and a pop), and then cursed Martha.

Mostly Martha.

Damn you, Martha.

In George's humble opinion, there wasn't much left to look forward to as a sixty-three year old bank teller teetering on chronic apathy, hypertension and isolation. He was the kind of man that worked a shrug into any conversation and developed fondness for the term ‘whatever’. The concept of retirement terrified him. Once all mandatory activities were plucked out of his routine, he wasn't sure which unsettled him more - the expectation of hearing every one of his thoughts, or hearing nothing but a deafening silence, an emptiness that now had free reign to engulf him. What if he'd then throw questions into the abyss, striving to put together a picture of George, but the void would stare back?

What if the abyss would remind him that no memories have taken root, that he'd lived for no one and nothing of value, that his very core was made of Egg McMuffins, the occasional sunny spell and fish suppers shared with Bob Hughes from flat 3C?

Yet, ever since Bob's grandkids gifted him that ruddy Labrador for his seventieth birthday, he’d stopped waving him in for supper on Saturday evenings. "We'll catch up next week, yea?" Bob would grin absentmindedly as he'd pass George by, his mangy-looking beast following him smugly downstairs. "It's a promise. Martha here needs a bit of fresh air." Bob had been breaking that promise, along with George's Saturday routine, for a full month now. The void extended inch by inch every passing weekend.

But he was in luck that day, because if scorching heat had been a promise, the dragon was about to deliver.

He noticed the smell of boiling blacktop and sizzling rubber before he heard the screams. The arched windows that lined the south-facing walls shattered from the heat, shards plunging into George's left cheek. He yelped, instinctively diving away from the sharp assailants. The move cost him several bloody gashes, his knees scraping against the broken glass that now littered the tile flooring.

The neighboring russet brick walls of London Bridge Station were now part of the McDonald's furniture decor, having landed on tabletops, counters and a poor bloke's head. He looked around, hoping to find answers in other people's faces. Their wide eyes, gaping mouths and calls for God answered no question George had in mind, so he peered over his booth towards the streets. There was a golden glow framing what was left of Hay's Galleria across the road, talons of fire reaching for the skies, clawing at the clear blues. A cat darted through the rubble, until something that George could only describe as a chicken claw the size of a double-decker snatched it, pulling it upwards in the air.

George darted to his feet, as fast as a sixty-three year old that had worked a desk job the entirety of his adult life could, and moved towards the jagged holes in the walls, leaving behind grunts and sweat and trickles of red. Once outside, he took a moment to scan the one-way street. Tires of charred, indistinguishable cars bubbled and melted into the tarmac, smoke swirled from multiple sources inside buildings, staining the red bricked walls black. George noticed that the buildings lined across the opposite side of the road got the brunt of whatever it was that had exploded - or had been purposefully incinerated?

He tested the pavement as he pushed past rubble and screaming tourists, taking cautious steps at first. Thankfully, the sidewalk by London Bridge Station was cool enough to sustain his cheap loafers. There were howls, shrieks, wails and screams seemingly bouncing off every wall in the city, and George noticed most people scanned the skies with bulging eyes. He, too, looked for colossal chicken claws diving from the rooftops, but saw nothing of the sort; though the smoke made it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes alert and fully functional.

He rubbed his eyelids roughly and wiped away fevered sweat from his temples just as he stepped foot on Tower Bridge. Everyone seemed to have the same idea - crossing the river towards St Katharine's & Wapping docklands, where there seemed to be less smoke, less heat and a sliver of hope for safety. George's pace was slowed by a mob of frightened folk, shoulders slamming into his collarbone, elbows knocking into his ribs, forcing him to stop and catch his breath every few steps.

He started distinguishing words from the wave of shrieks and wails.

Help! Oh no! Mum! Dear Lord!

But there was one word that didn't quite register the first few times he heard it, despite hearing it more often than all others.

Dragon! Dragon! Dragon!

Just as he was about to step off the turreted bridge, there was a deafening thunder -

No. More like a deafening, thunderous screech growing louder and louder from above. George ducked instinctively and huddled against the nearest bodies, all halting momentarily to check the skies. And there it was: a flash of yellowed fangs, a blur of reptilian scales, chicken claws the size of not one, not two, but three double-deckers, and wings flapping with a swoosh, sending winds of dust towards George and his neighbors.

If denial could have somehow liquefied and filled a pool the size of the entirety of Britain, it still wouldn't have been enough to reject the reality hundreds of Londoners had just witnessed: a fleshy, bona fide dragon was soaring above Tower Bridge. The creature started ripping chunks out of the steel framework of the bridge with its claws, sending the granite and stone cladding tumbling violently into the waters below.

All he'd wanted that day was an Egg McMuffin, sunny spells and Bob's cod pie.

George scrambled to the edge of Tower Bridge and turned left towards the Tower of London, the nearest place that wasn't dangling over a body of water. The screeches grew louder again, the creature's monstrous shadow now engulfing the Tower, as the dragon seemed to stall right above the building.

George could swear that its shriek sounded somewhat, very much like, exactly like -

"Princess? Come out of the tower, princess!"

George noticed a handful of people huddled by the walls, hoping the beast disappeared if they didn't move, if they didn't look, if they didn't breathe. He watched in horror as the beast circled the building once, screeched at the limestone and then grabbed an old lady with its talons. The dragon ascended farther away, its shadow gradually shrinking to a dot, along with the poor woman's wails.

But soon, what caught George's attention was a large hunk of yellow fur peeping through one of the lowermost windows of the building.

To George it looked somewhat, very much like, exactly like -

"Martha?"

George furrowed his brows and squinted. The furball bobbed from one side of the window to the other, clawing at its glass, trying to get out. Its muzzle opened and closed, and George knew it was whimpering repeatedly.

Where was Bob? Was he inside? Was he hurt?

Reluctantly at first, George hobbled to the building, panting. He reached the window and peered inside, trying to catch sight of Bob, checking if he had collapsed on the floorboards -

George shot Martha a puzzled look. Through flashes of agitated paws, he noticed the purple vest, and printed on it in big, bold, block letters: DON'T DISTRACT. SERVICE DOG. A flowery-patterned collar gently dug into the dog's fur, its brass buckle engraved with a phone number and a name -

Princess.

Adrenaline must have dissipated, making space for logic and reasoning, as George realized he wasn't staring at Martha at all.

Only service dogs were allowed in the Tower of London. Of course.

Princess must have gotten separated from her owner during the evacuation. Obviously.

The Labrador pressed her paws against the window, more agitated by the second. George sighed and glanced around. Her whimpers chipped away at his indifference somewhat.

"Sorry, Princess. I'm sure someone's going to come get you s-"

George's assurance was cut short by a deafening screech, and he froze momentarily while staring upwards. The dragon had returned, slowly descending towards him, its piercing yellow eyes staring directly into his, a glare that surely threatened to rip him apart.

"Step away from the princess, vermin."

George was now sure he had heard the dragon talking before. He wheezed, pressed himself against the cornerstone nearby, and shook his head frantically.

"What? I'm-"

The dragon shrieked, bucketfuls of reptilian slobber tumbling down George's shoulders. "I heard you talking to her. I know she is in there somewhere. Some crone called for the princess earlier too. Do you know what happened to that hag when she refused to cooperate?"

Yes, yes he did. He witnessed her body wrapped in talons, then disappear in the clouds, and was now probably resting at the bottom of that beast's belly, or the Thames. But why hadn't the dragon done the same to him already? Why were they having a conversation?

"Look, I don't know the dog, okay? I'm not going t-" George trailed off when the dragon let out a deep, rumbling growl.

"Do not try to deceive me. Where is the princess?"

George turned momentarily to glance at the window, checking if the dog was within the dragon's view. Princess was still clawing at the window, though less enthusiastically as before, her attention split between the beast and George.

"I think there's a misunderstanding," George started, trembling breaths tickling his upper lip. "The dog is Princess." He pointed at the window, noticing just then how badly he was shaking. He searched the dragon's gaze for understanding, and tried emphasizing the silliness of the situation by letting out a lighthearted, yet terrified, chuckle.

Could dragons laugh? Maybe they could laugh together after clearing the air -

But the air turned rapidly hot. George watched in terror as the beast's gaze grew wild with fury, a bright orange ball forming deep within its throat, casting glowing flickers against its bare fangs.

"You will die for this trickery!" The dragon swiftly grabbed at the cornerstone where George was standing, talons digging deep into the wall. He yelped and managed to dodge the bigger stones - or rather the stones and claws missed him by an unnatural stroke of luck. He noticed the dragon had nicked and shattered the glass window as well, exposing the indoors of the Tower and an alarmed Labrador that had backed away and now stood whimpering in the opposite corner. George quickly pressed his trembling hands against the window frame and pushed himself inside, cutting his palms quite badly in the sharp edges of what was left of the windows. He tumbled on the indoor floorboards with a thud and a wince, rolling farther away from the fractured wall, and closer to Princess. He reached up for the dog's fur, staining it red, instinctively searching for comfort - he thought holding on to another living creature during his final moments would bring a semblance of peace when the dragon would eventually pierce his heart with its claws.

The already ruptured wall gave in under the dragon's second swing, its talons digging deep into the room, trying to grab hold of George. Princess gave out something between a bark and a whimper, reluctantly positioning herself between the claws and George.

"It's ok, Princess, come here." He tried reaching for her fur, but she was inching closer to the opening in the wall, her barks growing louder. George watched her baffled, his cheeks damp with defeated tears. Why wasn't she embracing certain death? Or maybe she was doing quite the opposite, volunteering to go first; but there was perseverance in her growls and tenacity in her stance.

She wasn't inching closer to her death, she was trying to defend him.

Chip, chip, chip - her barks dug deeper into his apathy, slabs of it tumbling to his feet, adding to the rubble littered around the room. George reached for her, desperately trying to grab hold of her fur and pull her back.

"Please, Princess!" She was now right at the edge of the opening. She barked, growled and snarled at the winged beast, the brass buckle of her collar shining in the sunny spells that George's weather app had promised for that day.

The ground suddenly thundered underneath them. George's eyes widened as he watched the beast land, while the dog's barks settled into a low, defensive growl. George moved closer to Princess, looking up through the clearance, noticing the dragon staring intently at the dog. A soft flicker the size of the collar's brass buckle wavered on the dragon's snout, its reflection bouncing from side to side every time Princess jolted with an occasional bark.

Knowing well it was their last chance, George pointed at the buckle where the dog's name was engraved, hoping that the dragon's ability to talk somehow implied that it could also read; reality was stretched thin already as it was.

"See? This. is. Princess," he emphasized, careful not to chuckle this time. The beast obviously didn't appreciate humor. "The dog."

The dragon's eyes narrowed. A low rumble formed deep within its throat, but this growl was infused with something that resembled annoyance and agreement at the same time.

"Where is King Edmund Ironside hiding his daughter then?"

Both George and Princess fell silent. The dragon's tone did not sound demanding this time, as if it already expected a certain answer. Its eyes were focused on the collar, scanning it as an otherworldly item (which, to the beast, it very much was).

"I think that bloke died at least a thousand years ago." George offered sincerely, his trembling fingers still clasped around his protector's golden fur.

The dragon sighed.

"I knew there was something uncanny about your garments. Master Cnut miscalculated my journey. Again." Its wings started flapping decidedly, lifting the beast away from the Tower in a cloud of dust, ash and annoyance. "My apologies for the mess."

The dragon turned its back to the fallen rubble, heading home.

The screams and wails lingered through the night throughout the city; yet the dragon never returned.

---

Bob and George walked through Battersea Park, sharing the occasional chuckle and a bag of Tesco walnuts. Martha and Princess took turns sniffing patches of grass, softly pulling on their leash whenever the men lingered behind.

"I can't believe it's been three months already." Bob shook his head, letting out a soft whistle through his pursed lips. George nodded, gently stroking his scarred palm with the tip of his thumb.

Princess' owner was never found, though George didn't put as much effort as he was required to fill in the necessary paperwork for the Labrador to officially become his. It was quite a lengthy process for service dogs, or so it had been before It All. These days people cared less about paperwork, especially for situations that directly resulted from That Day.

"Ya really did save a Princess from a Tower!" Bob chuckled happily, stopping to scratch George's new pet between her ears. "I'd say ya saved the whole damn city when ya talked to that thing. It's a shame ya didn't stick around for the cameras, I'dda be watching ya on the telly!"

George waved him off. "I only ran from here to there like a headless chicken." He cupped Princess' ear gently between his fingers, tugging at her playfully. She fondly licked his thumb in response.

"She did all the savin'.”

George was no longer terrified of staring into the void. He knew something had taken root there.