As the group begins to pick up pace she can see their weapons more clearly. Several appear to have machetes, crowbars and knives and at least two that she can see have rifles, hunters ready for the kill.
She scours the group of men as they approach. All in black, faces half-hidden, she struggles to recognise Hamed and scrutinises each figure until she recognises his gait, the breadth of his shoulders, and the slimness of his frame. She takes a breath and steps out into the road. He doesn’t see her. As the group approaches, the urge to run back to the safety of the shadows is enormous, but she has to try. A pair of eyes scowls at her from between black cloth. The butt of a rifle jabs into her shoulder. Knocked back, she steadies herself then steps forward again.
“Shame on you!” Another shouts. “Get back to your house.”
Anger overwhelms her. “This is a free country. I can go where I want.”
“Nareen!”
“Hamed, come-”
Angry, he grabs her arm and pushes her back onto the path. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here? These men are monsters.”
“They’re soldiers of Allah.”
“Satan more like,” she hisses.
“Shut up!” he says with a furtive look back at the throng of shambling men. “They’ll hear you.”
“I don’t care if they do. They’re monsters—murderers.”
“Shut up!”
“Come home, Hamed,” she pleads and grabs his arm. “Think of your moth-”
“Hamed!” a rough voice calls. “Leave her.”
Hamed pushes her towards the wall. “Go home, Nareen,” he hisses. “Go back to your child.” Hardened against her, he turns and re-joins the group.
Undeterred she runs to walk at his side. In one last, desperate effort she grabs his sleeve. “Hamed, I’ll-”
As he jerks his arm away steel fingers wrap through her hair. Pain sears her scalp. Yanked from Hamed and pulled backwards, her only view is the blue sky until it is blocked by a bearded and scowling face above hers.
“Go home, whore.”
She twists and screams for Hamed to help as the hand tightens through her hair. Thrown with force, her head hits the wall. She screams as the first vicious kick lands on her thigh. A second kick sinks into her buttock and she pulls herself tight against the attack and curls against the wall.
“Stay down, whore. Go home and wait for your husband.”
She recognises him—the same man preaching hate in the video Hamed had watched just two weeks ago. Instinctively she knows to keep still; if she stands to defend herself he’ll have no mercy. She curls tighter and waits. His eyes bore into hers until she looks away and then he’s gone. As she watches the men walk to the end of the street she shouts her defiance. Hamed doesn’t look back.
The pain in her legs makes her wince as she stands, but she walks up the road to an area of scrubby land littered with bottles strewn near a low and broken wall. She picks up a brick and a glass bottle and follows the group. Within minutes she catches up with the men. She hangs back, not wanting to be seen either by them or with them. Holding the bottle tight in her grip she wavers. What does she hope to do? How can she stop them alone? She can’t, but she can warn the people ahead. She takes a breath to calm the hammering in her chest then picks up her pace, first running then sprinting past the men, ignoring the painful hurt of her thigh.
“Nareen!”
Forcing herself to ignore Hamed’s call, she runs ahead, heart pounding, legs burning. He’s had his chance. He let that man attack her. He can never be the husband she needs. Their marriage is over. All she can do now is save people from his hate.
Back on the street where the apartment block still burns, smoke billows from the entrance. The street is full of people. Running into the crowd, she grabs the arm of a large man standing with his arms folded looking up at the building. His muscles bulge beneath his t-shirt.
“They’re coming!” she gasps.
He looks down at her with a frown, rings of decorated iron glint in his beard. “Who?”
“Terrorists—extremists. They’re armed and they’re coming. They’re trying to kill anyone they find in the streets.”
His face drops as she speaks and he looks over her head to the street beyond.
“Where?”
“A couple of streets away.”
“How do you know.”
“My husband—he’s with them—they’re the ones setting fire to the buildings.” He looks at her with incomprehension. “Please ... you’ve got to help me warn everyone.”
A woman with pillar-box red hair, skin a rich and milky coffee, steps next to the man, a deep frown between her brows. “What did she say?” Her eyes are piercing, blue.
Nareen is suddenly small next to the towering pair. “The men who set fire to the building,” she explains with a glance towards the smoke-filled entrance, “they’re coming up the road. I think they’re going to attack you all.”
“Terrorists?” she asks. Her eyes widen as she spits the words.
“Yes!”
Red hair glints in the morning light. “Harry!” She grabs his arm. “Let’s get out of here!”
He shakes his head. “I’m not going to run, Jenny.”
“We can’t stay here—they’ll kill us.” She tugs again at his arm.
“Not if we kill them first,” he replies with grim determination. “Maz! Jake!” he calls across the road then strides away.
The woman with red hair stares down at Nareen for a moment then follows Harry. Standing in the middle of the road among the chaos of injured and terrified people Nareen is alone. Time slows as she watches the men talk then become animated. Any second a murderous gang will walk around the corner and start the bloodshed. The men nod, stare down the road then stride across to the restaurant across the road. They try the door and when it doesn’t open they break the glass and step through to the dark interior. The red-haired woman runs between the survivors on the street telling everyone she meets about the threat marching towards them. Tension rises. She points at Nareen and then to the restaurant. The crowd thins as people run away or break through the windows of shops and disappear inside.
Harry re-appears from the restaurant and strides to the middle of the road. He lays a bundle of cloth onto the tarmac and opens it. Kitchen knives, chopping blades and other utensils, sharp and damaging to flesh, spread out with a clank. Another man holding a small kitchen flame thrower joins him. Another carries a large red fire extinguisher. Within minutes the men and women that remain on the street are armed. Silence falls. In the distance the thud of marching feet can be heard above the low buzz of chanting. As the terrorists draw closer the survivors are armed and ready for battle.
Beside Nareen a woman with long dark hair and skin similar to her own, shrugs off her rucksack and drops it to the ground.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“They’re here then,” Jessie says to Alex as her bag hits the ground. The young Asian woman disappears after the tall woman with red hair. It reminds her of a glace cherry as it glints in the sun.
“Sounds like it,” Alex returns. His face is ashen, riven with fatigue, but the determination that glints in his eye is unmistakable. “I suggest we get these people to move back then ...” his voice peters out as movement at the end of the road catches his attention. Figures, dressed entirely in black shamble out from the side street and onto the road. They lack the cohesion of a trained unit but Jessie doesn’t underestimate their murderous intent.
“Everyone back!” she calls.
Alex shouts at the men, women and children standing in the street to run back up the road. As he shouts his orders a young boy darts from a side street. His chest heaves, his face flushed.
“They’re armed. They’re going to attack!” he shouts, arms flailing as he runs.
Jessie grabs his jacket and pulls him to a stop. “Tell me what you know,” she demands staring into the black of his brown eyes.
He l
ooks back in alarm at the advancing horde, pulling against Jessie’s grip. She holds firm. “I need to know.”
“I walked up behind them and listened,” he pants, catching at his breath. “They were talking about killing as many people as were in the streets. They were shouting about dancing in the blood of the English.” Jessie’s stomach clenches and he yanks his sleeve from her grip. “They’ve got axes and knives and machetes.” She lets the boy go and turns back to the crowd of men. The boy was right—they’re armed and even if they were untrained they could cause horrific injuries with those weapons.
At the back of the group a black flag rises. Words in white, indecipherable to Jessie, are printed on the black cloth. She may not be able to read what they say, but she recognises the flag with a surge of anger. The enemy, and it was on her streets!
“They’re going to kill us.”
“They’re going to try.”
Jessie turns to the voices. The man with the beard and the woman with red hair stand just feet away. Beyond them are a bank of people armed and standing their ground.
A shout rises from the advancing horde of black-clad figures. The flag thrusts higher.
“Get ready!”
The terrorists slow to a stop.
The thud of feet stamping vibrates behind her.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Beside her a man, his over-long hair pulled back into a pony-tail drums a crowbar against a car’s wheel. He stares out at the terrorists, cheeks flushed, a glint in his eyes. He’s enjoying this!
The terrorists hang back and shuffle. The flag bows and waves. Jessie scours the men. Most have knives. Three have machetes and one an axe. Two have rifles; one looks like a hunting rifle but the other is a military grade automatic.
The thud of feet on the street behind grows louder.
Jessie throws her rucksack to Alex. “The survival bow—it’s inside.” She unzips the crossbow’s bag.
Crossbow clear of its bag, she loads it with a sharpened bolt.
“Allahuakbar!”
He’s not listening!
A wave of black surges forward, machetes held high. The rifles stand behind, weapons raised, sights focused.
The automatic would be her first kill.
A roar erupts behind Jessie as she raises the crossbow and then the street bursts with screaming, shouting men and women. She stands her ground. Raises her bow. She has the automatic in her sights. She fingers the trigger. A body knocks against her. The woman with red hair runs past.
Damn!
She rights herself. Focuses. Catches him in her sights. No! It’s not him, it’s the hunting rifle. Damn them to hell!
Crack!
A body jerks, thrown backwards by a bullet.
Crack!
Blood haemorrhages across its belly. It stumbles and falls.
Jessie pulls the trigger as the rifle shifts its focus and takes aim.
The bolt slides through the air, its silver shaft glints in the morning sun and pierces the man’s left eye. He falls to the ground, disappearing behind the jumble of thrashing arms.
The automatic fires a chatter of bullets. They hit a woman only feet away from Jessie. He’s seen her. She could be dead if he was a better marksman. Get cover!
Jessie twists and runs to the side of the street, vaults over the bonnet of a car and reloads as she waits for the car to be sprayed with bullets. Another bolt locked into the crossbow. The bullets don’t come. She looks out over the car’s boot. The automatic has disappeared. She searches the crowd. Nothing. Where the hell is he?
Movement across the street catches her eye.
A figure jumps to the roof of a car.
It’s him!
The roof of the blue BMW buckles as he stands. He points the gun into the fighting men and women, shifting the automatic to his hips and stops.
Jessie fingers her trigger.
The shooter turns away from the fight and instead takes aim at the crowd gathered further up the street. Jessie takes aim. Why didn’t they find someplace to be safe! He shifts the automatic, raises its barrel, and pulls the trigger as Jessie shoots. Bullets spray into the crowd as the bolt speeds towards him. The rifle drops, sprays into the fighters and then the roof of the car as the bolt hits home. He topples, the silver shaft piercing his temple. He falls. His head slams against the road and the bolt’s tip breaks through to the back of his skull.
Beside Jessie a woman screams, trips off the edge of the path and tumbles to the ground, her cheek scrapes against the tarmac. A man, his dressing gown gaping, bends and offers his hand. Beyond them men and women punch and slash, fall and bleed.
The huge blond, his face still soot-stained, stands in the middle of the road, a monolith of calm.
URI HADN’T CHARGED at the terrorists with the others—not his style. He had his own style and running amok among armed men with machetes wasn’t it.
He watches the men with disdain. They were shambolic—no order—grotesque parodies of humans—scowling and teeth bared they reminded him of the mangey, flee-infested dogs that roamed the rubbish heaps back home. Gun in its holster, Viktoria and Anna safe in a side-street, he fingers the blade in his pocket. A machete runs forward. The man’s eyes are maniacal and spittle flies from his mouth as he charges. Pathetic! Uri takes aim then lowers his gun. No. He would do this the old-fashioned way. Why waste bullets?
He locks eyes with the man as he runs at him. The machete is raised high. Uri fingers the blade in his pocket. This was it! The machete lunges at him. He side-steps and reaches for the man’s knife arm. In one swift movement he grabs the man’s wrist and twists his arm. The man turns, his front to the road, and Uri slams him down, the knife arm pulled behind the man’s back. He grunts and squeals as Uri wrenches at the arm and takes the machete. As he releases the man’s wrist he stamps on his back and swings the machete down with the full force of his massive body. It chops into the man’s neck and severs through skin and bone. Blood floods across the tarmac as Uri turns looking for his next kill.
Arms swing their weapons, boots kick at soft flesh, and primal anger shouts loud and guttural. Beyond the fighting, people stand in small groups too afraid to join in, too fascinated to hide. Faces peer from upstairs rooms, and curtains twitch.
A man, barrel chested, full copper beard, hair long and sandy, runs out from a passageway at the side of the road. In his hand is a crowbar. Face set with anger, his upper lip curled in rage to expose his teeth. He stands, surveys the fight, then runs into battle, crow bar held high. An extremist, long pole hammered through with nails in hand, swipes his legs. The man jumps then turns and smashes his crowbar down on the pole then swings it at the extremist’s head. The heavy bar lands with a crack. He swings again and the man’s scream becomes a gurgle as his neck breaks. The crowbar swings again. Metal smashes against bone and blood sprays the wall.
The woman with the flaming red hair staggers back as a terrorist bears down on her. She doesn’t stand a chance and Uri is too far away to help. As the man charges, knife drawn and pointing at her belly, she turns to run. The man raises his knife, his arm pulled back. Uri reaches for his gun and takes aim. A flash of silver. The man jerks. The gap between him and the woman widens and he drops to his knees. Uri releases the trigger as the man falls to the floor, blood seeping from his wound. The woman runs past. Uri grabs her arm and hands her the bloodied machete. She stares at him in fear.
“Take it. Stand behind me.”
She nods, takes the machete and disappears behind him. The girl with the crossbow is to his right, her blond friend keeps close. Both trained killers.
Looking into the crowd he chooses his next target. The axe is closest. It chops at a woman as she lunges forward. The blade cuts into her arm and she drops her knife. She screams in pain and the axe rises in an arc and chops again at her arm. Uri runs forward, blade in hand. As the axe pulls back to chop again Uri grabs the man’s hair. Tight in his hand he yanks the head back and slices his blade across the man’s e
xposed throat. His knife is razorblade-sharp and he cuts across the flesh with a hard and deep swipe. Blood sprays hitting the woman as she scrambles away, her arm dragging by her side. Uri throws the man’s body to the floor and chooses another terrorist to slaughter. Another machete gleams as it arcs and Uri reaches for his gun.
A SHOT RINGS OUT AND another black-clad figure falls his machete dropping with a clank.
A flash of white-blonde in Jessie’s peripheral vision grabs her attention just as a squat, but muscular man in a dark jacket runs past, a six-inch blade held tight in his raised hand. “For England!” he shouts as he runs towards a black-clad figure. The street is a cacophony of screams and shouts, the road and cars spattered with blood.
The huge blond runs past her and veers to the left. His blue eyes gleam with excitement. He fires his gun and another terrorist falls just as it stabs at a gangly teenager. The boy stumbles back, stares at the dying man then jumps into a doorway. His eyes don’t leave the fighting. As Jessie reloads the boy jumps down from his position onto the back of a running man, long blade held high. The boy clings crab-like to the man’s back and stabs him in the neck with force. The man staggers under the boy’s weight and falls to the floor and disappears, only the boy’s arm stabbing backwards and forwards is visible as Jessie turns again to the road.
Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series Page 24
