The deeper Harvey moved through the network, the more he realised that fear was changing shape. It was no longer the fear of deforms, hunger, or the frozen world above. It was the fear of silence.
A traveller had arrived from Kentish Town carrying nothing except exhaustion and a warning nobody wanted to hear. People had begun disappearing. Women, children, the elderly. Not during patrols, not during attacks. They simply vanished.
The station sent scouts.
None returned.
Then they sent soldiers.
They disappeared too.
Soon, doors stayed locked through the night. Families slept with weapons beside them. Nobody trusted the tunnels anymore.
Harvey listened without interrupting while the cold air moved through the corridor around them. Somewhere beyond the concrete walls and the dim lights of the station, something was changing beneath London.
The surface had already died years ago.
But the darkness below was still growing.
And maybe, somewhere in that endless labyrinth of abandoned platforms and forgotten lines, the Tube had started keeping its own secrets.
Inspired by Chapter 7 of The London Tube, a growing post apocalyptic universe beneath London.
When Harvey approached the sealed gate, neither Tom nor Mark moved.
Tom remained upright, eyes fixed ahead, palms pressed against his thighs. The old urgency was gone, the familiar rush with which he used to unlock the mechanism the moment Harvey appeared. The quiet understanding between them had disappeared as well.
He had been corrected.
Not through shouting. Not through punishment.
Mark had done it without raising his voice.
That was what made it worse.
It had not been an argument.
It had been a sentence.
Calmly delivered, precise, cold enough to stay inside a man long after the words had ended.
Every phrase had landed exactly where it was meant to.
Tom carried that discipline now like armour.
His movements were controlled.
His breathing measured.
His eyes no longer searched.
“Open the gate, Mark. I’m going out this time.”
Without another word, Harvey adjusted the gas mask over his face.
Each movement felt ritualistic.
Heavy.
Final.
Inside his rucksack, sealed against moisture, rested Adam Stewart’s letter for the President.
It was not just paper.
It was direction.
Perhaps the last attempt to stop something from breaking inside the network forever.
For a moment Harvey looked back.
The dirty light.
The damp concrete.
The people breathing beneath the station like trapped shadows.
I’m currently working on a post apocalyptic novel called London Tube 2033.
The project was inspired by the atmosphere and idea behind Metro 2033 by Dmitry Glukhovsky.
Years ago, the Metro universe encouraged writers from different countries to imagine how humanity might survive after the collapse of the world in their own underground systems.
That idea stayed with me.
Instead of Moscow Metro, I chose the London Underground.
I built a story beneath abandoned stations, tunnels, ruined sectors and isolated communities trying to survive underground.
I’m looking for a few people willing to read the opening chapter and give honest feedback.
Not praise.
Real feedback.
Atmosphere, pacing, characters, what works and what doesn’t.
Harvey moved alone beneath Canary Wharf, leaving the station behind. The music faded first. Then the voices. Then the warm light of the gas lamps. Only the echo of his footsteps remained.
The Underground never truly slept. It breathed through rusted pipes, forgotten platforms and narrow galleries carved into darkness. Entire lives had been built beneath the dead city above.
But something had changed.
People were disappearing.
Messengers.
Scouts.
Entire families.
Stations that once felt safe had begun to fall silent.
Kentish Town.
Southwark.
Old Street.
Names carried through the tunnels in lowered voices, spoken more like warnings than places.
Some talked about shadows moving between stations.
Others spoke of things seen in the dark that left no footprints behind.
Harvey did not trust stories.
He trusted evidence.
Missing people.
Empty rooms.
Unlocked doors.
Objects left behind.
Signs that something was moving through the network.
Ahead of him waited Green Park.
Maybe answers.
Maybe only more questions.
The beam from his headlamp cut through the darkness while water echoed somewhere beyond the tunnel walls. London still existed.
Adrian could barely distinguish anything through the endless howl of the wind.
The gusts struck with brutal force, tearing him off balance and throwing him in every direction, forcing him to fight for every step. Cold seeped through his wet, thin clothes and buried itself deep inside his bones, a dull ache that refused to leave. Snow fell in dense spirals, each flake striking his clothes and exposed skin like a tiny needle of ice.
The gas mask and the black sack pulled over his head had turned breathing into torture. Every breath came hard, filtered through cold rubber and damp air, while his field of vision had narrowed into a suffocating haze of darkness.
He was blind.
Hands bound.
Dragged through the storm by men he did not know, men whose intentions remained hidden within the same darkness that had swallowed the city.
The thought of the deforms appearing at any moment gnawed at him without pause.
If his captors abandoned him up there, on the surface, he would have no chance.
He did not know who they were.
He did not know what they wanted.
And the unknown weighed more heavily upon him than the cold or the ropes cutting into his wrists.
His mind built darker possibilities with every step.
Deserters.
Madmen.
Men who captured survivors only to throw them in front of deforms, unarmed, for amusement or filthy wagers.
He imagined tunnels soaked in blood, laughter hidden in darkness, people forced to fight until nothing remained of them.
Yet if they had wanted him dead, they would already have done it.
In the tunnel.
Quickly.
Without hesitation.
Mason had been shot.
Adrian was still alive.
That meant they needed him for something.
Perhaps only for a while.
Perhaps until they reached their destination.
The thought brought no comfort.
Quite the opposite.
It tightened his stomach harder than the cold and the wind lashing across his body.
The captors moved with cold discipline, without wasted gestures, like men accustomed to controlling such situations.
While the wind screamed through the ruins and snow lashed his face, Adrian continued forward almost mechanically, driven only by instinct and the brutal desire to remain alive.
“You haven’t been around for a while,” Jack muttered.
“I was starting to think you’d built yourself a cabin on the surface and forgotten the rest of us down here among rust, mould and whatever still moves in the dark.”
Harvey let a tired smile appear.
“Really? And where exactly do you think I would disappear to? If I found an island, I’d take you with me.”
From the shadows, another voice joined in.
“Kensington Gardens,” the man said quietly.
“I heard there’s still an empty bench near the fountain.”
I don’t really have a problem with cold weather. I actually prefer cold over hot. My perfect temperature is somewhere between 18–22°C, especially when I’m working here in the UK.
If I’m on holiday though, I enjoy warmer weather too. I’ll happily stay in the sea or pool all day and drink cocktails hahaha.
This might sound strange, but sometimes I really enjoy cloudy and rainy days as well, especially when I’m driving. There’s something relaxing about it.
Harvey Hunter is not a king, not a soldier, and not the strongest man beneath London.
He is a survivor.
As a child, Harvey lost everything during the collapse that forced thousands into the Underground. Separated from his family during the chaos at London Bridge, he grew up beneath the ruins of the city, carrying memories that never truly left him.
Twenty years later, he becomes a scout of North Greenwich, a man trusted with dangerous missions through abandoned tunnels, forgotten stations and territories where few return alive.
Harvey is calm, disciplined and observant. He notices details others ignore. He trusts slowly, speaks little and carries responsibility like a weight he never puts down. Even in fear, he keeps moving forward.
He protects people.
He remembers.
He keeps searching.
For truth.
For those he lost.
For the fragile hope that London still has something worth saving.
In a world where civilisation has collapsed and London survives underground, a scout named Harvey Hunter is about to uncover secrets that could destroy what’s left of it.
London Tube 2033 is a 32-chapter, 225,000-word post-apocalyptic novel set in the labyrinthine remains of the London Underground. Two decades after the collapse, Harvey is haunted by the memory of his family, lost in the chaos of a Tube station overrun by panic. But when two messengers vanish, his search for answers ignites a journey through fear, betrayal, and the rise of a violent underground force known as the Iron Legion.
From ruined bars and black-market zones to the military shadows of King’s Cross St. Pancras, Harvey must navigate deformed monsters, corrupt leaders, and old allies long presumed dead. He’s not just chasing the truth, he’s trying to find Fiona Blackwell, a woman shaped by trauma and resistance, whose presence might change everything.
This novel is more than a survival tale, it’s a deep dive into guilt, fractured loyalties, and the question that lingers in every tunnel: What would you do to protect what’s left of your world?
📖 The first 4 chapters are now available to read on the website.
🖋️ If you’re drawn into the story, I’d love to share more, just let me know!
💬 Your feedback, likes, and shares truly help this project grow.
👉 Visit the site, dive into the darkness, and if you enjoy what you read, please give it a like and spread the word.
Together, we can bring this book to life, chapter by chapter.
Follow, like, and stay close, more is coming soon.
