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 exposed 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.
The black flag waves in the sun.
The flash of white-blonde catches her attention again. The girl—the daughter of the huge blond, is in the doorway—alone! She stands with her eyes screwed shut, hands on ears. Running towards her, arms raised, machete in hand, is a terrorist.
No!
Run!
“The girl!” Alex shouts.
He releases an arrow as Jessie reloads. It clatters at the man’s feet. Oblivious, he thunders towards the girl. Hate sneers across his face, his dark brows pulled together in an ugly V. His teeth bared white, he snarls. Animal!
The girl screams.
No thoughts. Just the man. Jessie takes aim with her last bolt. He’s nearly there. She follows his trajectory and shoots. The girl presses herself into the deepest corner of the doorway.
He stumbles.
The bolt slices through the air, stabs at the tiled shop entrance and clatters to the floor.
No!
On his knees, at the edge of the pavement, he pushes himself to stand.
Jessie sprints.
The man raises his machete.
The girl screams.
He swings it down. Jessie throws herself onto his back. Clamps her arm around his neck and snaps it closed. Her hand clasps around her closed fist and she squeezes. He grunts and grabs at her arm. She squeezes harder. The girl curls into a ball. Jessie yanks at him, pulling him back to the kerb, leaning back as a dead weight as he scrabbles at her arm. He’s strong, but without any real muscle, not a man trained for action. He staggers. She pulls at the weapon. He twists and wobbles on the edge of the kerb. She twists him over. He falls to the ground on his belly.
Pain! Scraping, scratching, deep pain.
Her hand is trapped against the tarmac.
Warm. Wet.
The hilt of the machete is in her hand, the blade sunk deep into his stomach. He gurgles and writhes in agony. Pain in her hand as it is scraped against the rough tarmac. She rolls back and pulls at the man’s shoulder, releasing her hand. Warm liquid seeps over her skin. She pulls her hand free. Scratched and gouged with grit it drips with his blood.
As blood pools around him, she runs to the child and grabs her. The girl screams, struggles and pulls into the corner of the doorway.
“I’m here to help,” Jessie shouts above her screams and grabs her about the waist. She hasn’t got time to soothe the child. The girl kicks at her thighs as Jessie scans the street for her mother. Black top. Golden blonde hair. There! She’s squatting behind a black
Mercedes banked onto the kerb. Her face is blotched and blood runs down her cheek. “I see your mother,” she tells the girl as she presses at the shop’s door handle. “But it’s too dangerous for you here.” The door is locked. The girl writhes in her arms. Jessie holds her a little tighter. “Hold still,” she shouts her temper flaring. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Let me do that,” Alex says as Jessie kicks at the door.
Jessie steps to the side, letting Alex squeeze past. She scans the road as the girl struggles in her arms. The mother lurches forward then limps across the road.
“Viktoria!”
The blond, crouched across the street, shouts as the woman nears the middle of the street. She stumbles as a man falls into her, his knife catches at her torso as he hits the ground. She lurches forward, her eyes glued to the child as the man’s attacker stabs at him.
The blond stands as the attacker turns his attention on Viktoria. The child wriggles. Jessie’s last bolt lies feet away. The figure runs at Viktoria. There’s nothing Jessie can do.
A shot rings out and he falls to the ground. Viktoria stumbles into the shop’s doorway and grabs for the child as Alex kicks at the door again.
“Anna!”
The lock breaks and the door swings open.
“Go inside and close the door! Find something to defend yourself with. Don’t come out until it’s over,” Jessie shouts at the woman as she catches her breath.
A woman runs out onto the street, bleached blonde pony-tail swinging against her shoulder.
A man shouts a warning.
A blade catches her arm. She staggers. A knife stabs at her.
Jessie grasps for her bolt and reloads. Steel shoots through the air and stabs into the attacker’s throat.
“The gun, Jessie. Use the gun.”
“There’s only one bullet,” she replies. “Cover me,” she shouts and runs out into the road.
The terrorist scratches at the road as she approaches. He gurgles as she bends to him. She reaches for the bolt. He swats at her arms. Her fingers grasp the end of the metal rod and she pulls. The man chokes as it withdraws and bats at her. Blood flows from the wound as she stands. Wiping it against his clothes she runs back to Alex.
Thwack!
A figure drops behind her.
“What you playing at?”
“I’ve only got this bolt!”
“So you’re going to go around and collect them? Is that it?”
“If I have to.”
“What about that gun?”
“I’m saving it. For later,” she replies and motions for him to follow her.
Squatting down behind the black Mercedes they reload their weapons. The cacophony of noise from the street has reduced to a racket of grunts and the scrape and clank of metal. Another gunshot sounds and the blond walks into the middle of the road. He’s got some balls on him!
The street is strewn with bodies. Some lie still others writhe and judder. A man sprawls across the tarmac with his hand inches from his arm. The hand still clutches a knife. Jessie’s stomach wretches as his body jerks.
Alex jumps to a stand and fires his bow. The arrow stabs through a terrorist’s neck and pins him to a car door.
“Nice shot!”
Liquid pools at the man’s knees as his bladder empties.
Jessie reloads. Surveys the road.
Another man jumps out from behind a car and charges at the young Asian woman. Jessie shoots and his scowl slackens to a questioning O. He staggers with the bolt in his sternum, arms flailing before falling to his knees.
“Cover me!”
“Again! No. Jessie!”
Ignoring Alex, she sprints across the street and pulls the bolt from his chest. Air escapes as it withdraws. Lungs punctured. Blood wets his shirt. Jessie kicks at his chest and he falls to the pavement.
The flag waves.
Enraged Jessie strides towards it passing Alex as he punches a man to the floor. Another extremist looks on, eyes darting left to right. As Jessie advances he catches her gaze and turns to run.
“No way,” she shouts. The bolt slides easily into its home and Jessie takes aim. He drops as the bolt slices through his skull and into his brain.
The flag waves.
Jessie strides then runs. The flag-bearer sneers, scowls and holds the flag higher.
She wants to tear the flag to shreds. Its message of hate and intolerance has no place in her country.
Time slows as their eyes lock. She drops her crossbow. He sneers and waves the flag, shouts and jabs it in the air.
Jessie reaches down mid-stride and grabs a bloodied machete.
His eyes narrow and he shouts.
Around her the world spins, the noise of the fight sits at the periphery of her senses. She sees only him and the black fabric shouting its hate.
She picks up her pace, machete held high.
His eyes narrow and he lowers the pole to a javelin, its sharpened point ready to run her through. He runs at her.
“Allahuakbar.”
“He’s not listening!” she screams.
Metal glints at the end of the flag pole and the blade wedged into the wood catches her arm as it slices past. She knocks it aside. She’s level with his outstretched arms. She swings the machete down. It chops into bone. He screams. She pulls the blade back and grabs it with both arms then swipes at his throat. It cuts through the flesh. Blood spews and spatters the street, spraying Jessie red.
His body drops with a thud to the tarmac, his head crashing against the edge of the path. The flag pole clatters on the road, its black fabric limp. A lighter drops from his pocket as he bounces against the path and Jessie grabs it. She flicks the lighter’s lid and a flame, small and steady, burns. She reaches for the black flag. It smells of petrol. Within seconds flames are devouring the cloth. Jessie stabs it at the sky. Victorious, joy, deep and guttural, erupts from the depths of her belly as she stamps her boot down on the man’s back and waves the burning flag.
The noise around her quiets. Bodies lay bleeding and still. The flag-bearer stares at the burning fabric. That’s right! A woman is burning your flag. A bloody woman! She jabs it again at the sky and her roar fills the air.
Uri replaces his gun in its holster. His hands shake.
The girl is waving the burning flag. Her war cry reverberates between the buildings and seems to fill the street. The bodies lie still and silent.
The young blond passes him and he grabs the man’s arm. “I have to thank you.”
The younger man pulls at his grip.
“Sorry!” Uri apologises. He offers a tentative smile. “I saw what you did.” A questioning frown. “For my Anna, and my wife. You—and your girl—you saved them.”
The boy nods. “I saw you too. You killed a good few yourself.”
“Da. I wish I killed all of them.”
The boy nods.
“There are many people injured.”
“Too many.”
Uri nods. The boy hadn’t many words, but then again, neither did he.
“The girl—she is fierce—like a warrior.”
Alex nods but doesn’t speak and Uri turns away as Viktoria peers out of the shop’s window. He raises his hand to her in recognition. Relief washes over him but his hands still tremble. It could have been so different; he could have lost them both.
Jessie throws the flag pole and its burning cloth to the floor and walks back to Alex. Still alert, she scans the street. Smoke billows from the apartment block as the fire burns but calm has descended. The large man with the copper beard seems to be taking charge.
In the middle of the road a woman sits cradling the head of a man. Her face is obscured by her dark hair, but her pain is obvious as she rocks to and fro hugging him to her belly. It’s a heart-breaking scene and Jessie turns away. There’s nothing the woman can do. The man is dead. Jessie killed him.
Chapter 9
Uri stares at the dark-haired girl with admiration and a knot of fear.
She is a skilled and ferocious killer, and the daughter of the target he’d failed to kill. She’d also saved his Anna from a death he can’t bear to think of. As she’d walked toward them he’d been sure she would recognise him and he’d fingered the trigger of his gun in anticipation. In time she’d recognise him—when things settled. He’d be ready.
He’d recognised her as soon as she’d run past them in the street. Their eyes had locked for a moment and he’d stared at her expecting the sickening reaction of recognition but it hadn’t come and now here he was thanking her for saving Anna’s life when only yesterday he had tried to end hers. How odd life is. If he had succeeded perhaps now Anna would be dead. A chill creeps along his neck as Viktoria continues to talk to the girl. Uri strokes Anna’s silky hair calming himself, the touch reassuring. She’s alive. She’s safe.
“We should get away from here, Viktoria,” he urges as soon as there’s a lull in the conversation. “This is not the place for Anna.”
Viktoria pulls Anna closer. “You’re right.” Viktoria’s eyes are red with the tears she’s barely able to hold back. Her face looks haunted and pale. He has to get them both to a safe place.
“We should leave this city.” Her voice trembles as she looks at the body-littered, smoke-filled street. “Can we go to the country, Uri—like we said?”
He knows she’s right.
“We’re going to the country.” Alex’s eyes are in earnest but Uri picks up on Jessie’s annoyance—she hadn’t wanted the boy to tell them that.
“Oh? Where are you going?” Viktoria asks before Jessie has a chance to warn Alex to be quiet.
“Up north.”
“Yes, north. It’s safer up there.”
“You think?” Uri asks. He’s not so sure. From what he’s seen today this could happen in any of the cities or towns across the country.
“There’s safety in numbers,” Viktoria adds. “We could travel together—up north.”
Nights of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 2) Page 6
