by Tyler Danann
Natalie Neville was a person given to progressive goals and causes. When the Northampton Refugee Center had come into view she felt her heartbeat increase with the excitement. She had been raised on a rich diet of Cultural Marxism espousing the greatness of charity and generosity. A natural-born liberal Natalie was easily swayed by her like-minded friends. They yearned to help the third-world people. During college the notion of altruism manifested into full-blown liberalism. After university she proudly entered into ranks of the Anti-Western Alliance, or the AWA for short. A political faction of the hard Left-Wing. Even Alfred Neville, her brother thought over-the-top. The interlude of the Colonels Coup, instead of interrupting her had only engaged Natalie into being more active. When the AWA had been disbanded she regularly attended the protest marches. Then when the refugee hordes had begun to show up in France she found her new direction. She and her band of friends became swept up into a new, underground faction. The Unite Against Racism group were massive and radical proponents of a multicultural society. They were not content with the former colony subjects of the United Kingdom having a place on the island. The Jamaican, Indian and Pakistani ethnicities that made up a majority chunk of non-Europeans living on the island were just the beginning. They had notions of a globalist island with as many people from non-European countries as humanly possible receiving shelter and a new life. Africa and the war-torn Middle-East were the new life-blood for the UAR. Nearly half of them were either mixed-race or self-critical Britons. The rest, like Natalie Neville and her friend Gemma Waters were idealists, driven to try and make the world a better place.
When several thousand of the New Europeans were admitted and detained at Northampton it was a cause for celebration. For the UAR the lack of attention the refugees admitted to the country were receiving was a cause for action.
Alfred Neville, her brother, had always been uneasy at his sister’s various travels and adventures. Something felt more than wrong though with the Refugee Crisis. It did not escape his eye that many of the so-called refugees fleeing various parts of Africa and the Middle-East were not all they seemed. Many were not old, injured or with children. Most were male, of fighting age and with a look about them. Like many middle-class people outside of Yeoman territory, he had faith in the security services sorting out the good from the bad. Neville only wished his sister to be careful when she went off with her friend Gemma on the train to Northampton.
She did not return that night and he assured himself that she’d probably gone to Gemma’s for the night. The next morning there was still no word, her phone did not answer and he left voice-messages, emails but still nothing. Then the house-phone rang, it was from the hospital in Northampton. Over the phone they’d only told her she’d been attacked, but once he arrived Neville learned the truth.
Natalie had been viciously gang-raped and almost beaten to death by unknown assailants at the Northampton camp. Her friend Gemma was in a similar condition.
When he’d arrived his sister was conscious but almost catatonic. Her voice was weak and what seemed like bites and marks covered what he could see of her neck, arms and hands. One side of her face had a fresh bandage covering the gaping wound from the hard asphalt.
“No, no no…” she would say faintly for a time. Her eyes had lost their spark, and she barely even recognized him.
Her memories were infested with dark faces peering down at her, strong arms holding her arms and legs. Her own underwear was stuffed in her mouth preventing her screaming out. All the while a thrusting body on top of her invaded her most private place. Dark and dirty hands stroked, touched and scratched. Very noisy muttering, almost mantra-like could be heard along with commenting in languages utterly alien to her. The stink, sweat and odor was over-powering. Natalie could not see the rapists properly, for her head was forced to the side by more than one brown hand. Her cheek almost buried in the concrete almost had a pain that drowned out the other more shameful ones. As soon as one man’s filthy urge was expended another pressed down upon her to take his turn. Then came another and another for what seemed like hours.
Earlier that day, she and her friend Gemma had separated from the others and gone deeper into the camp, away from the main gateway. A beady-eyed man who spoke a little English made his presence known to Gemma who’d been handing out bundles of food and sweets from a backpack. Natalie was just beginning to record an interview with the man using her smart phone. Every now and again the man would glance out of the corner of his eye. A crowd of young men had surrounded them. One snatched away her phone. Natalie had asked for it back but they demanded money. Gemma, always the louder, more butch one of the two, shouted and argued. She punched and lashed out at the sneering thief but this only excited the crowd now closing in. Hands began reaching and pulling and before either could think of escape they were pulled to the floor. Natalie’s memory train reached a long circle and once again it returned to the terrible incident. In front of her eyes she was barely aware of her brother now with his head in his hands and the foreign doctor.
“She’s in deep shock Mr Neville but her wounds will heal, they aren’t life-threatening now,” the Pakistani doctor said blandly. As a short-staffed hospital he was one of only two doctors and went over his list for the next patient to visit. He looked once more at Neville. “She’ll come around eventually, but will need therapy and care. Someone will be around shortly to talk with you about this.” Once he’d finished speaking the bald slender man trotted off leaving the room.
Specialist police tried to interview her later that day but she could provide no information. There were no cameras at the camp he learned and over one thousand ‘visitors’ as the refugees were euphemistically called. Some of Natalie’s UAR friends visited and were both puzzled and shocked.
“This is terrible, I hope they catch those responsible without coming down hard on the others,” said one who had her hair dyed purple and wore a peace symbol around her neck.
“They probably didn’t understand our culture though and misread her intentions,” said an apologist with tattoos around her neck. “After all it’s our racist colonial history that’s brought this about.”
Neville shook his head and looked away from her.
“Don’t be angry Alfy,” said another, this one with the letters ‘SJW’ in purple on a grubby gray t-shirt. “Natalie’s bravery and courage will inspire the UAR. She’ll be empowered by it in the end.”
The words were like seeing a heart self-inflicted with thorns and barbed wire. “Get out! All of you cretins make me sick!” he snapped. A nurse came in and ushered the UAR women out of the room. Shortly thereafter he was alone again.
“I vow to whatever god, mechanism or force is out there that this will be avenged Natalie,” he hissed. “It isn’t what our ancestors fought for to see our people like this!”
He stayed the whole day until nightfall before leaving for home. That night he felt wave after wave of sorrow, rage and heartache wash over him. It was like a surging stream, but one that rushed back and forth.
Growing up he’d known a few people from ethnic minorities, most were Asian, one or two were African. The nearest newsagent shop had an Asian family living there and were onto their third-generation. Although none were his friends, he did not consider them foreigners, nor enemies either. His civic-nationalist view being that, while their parents were foreign, their children were not. This, by his reasoning, made them no longer foreigners. Somewhat different but no longer national outsiders. The new wave of foreigners challenged all that, and Natalie’s attackers only reinforced the illusion-breaking moment. A racial reality was dawning within him.
It was like a vision struck him, almost pushing aside his other thoughts and self-awareness. The images and large-scope screamed in its intensity and clarity. He saw now the armies of so-called refugees camped out in France were like a weaponless organism. Unlike the invaders of old these were utterly foreign in both racial origin and mindset. There were others like them throughout Euro
pe but the largest contingents seemed to prefer parts of Germany, Sweden and France. One of these moved en-mass across the English Channel. Time seemed to pass as he envisioned the population being intimidated then dominated and breed into submission. He saw a quarter of native-born females being wives, girlfriends and unwilling receivers of the dark hordes in a few summer seasons. Some would raise families that were of their own blood but most would be mixed and mingled, destined to their own lineage forever skewed. Like pages in a book he saw the next three generations slowly morph into a brown people nearly as a whole. The cities seemed to show the greatest signs of the change, but even the countryside was not spared. Long columns of the foreign invaders set out keen to take what was before them, aided and helped by others in authority. The numb feeling in Neville was strong, yet even with it there was a sense of despair and inevitability.
Before the vision began to fade though a wall-like obstruction with fairer folk manning it seemed to be discernible. On one side were the lost and confused, on the other, those that were clear-headed and defiant. Yet he seemed far from them and wandering in areas of hostility, a lone warrior at his side. They were like a constant in the world of shifting change to resist the rotting decay. He saw the luckless ones trapped in cities, so dependent on the welfare, yet so vulnerable to the invaders as well. Seeing women claimed and seized upon made him think of Natalie. She was one of the first of the ones to feel the touch of the new settlers but would not be the last. The look of one strikingly attractive woman about to be preyed upon by several invaders was almost too much for him to bear. By now though his normal vision returned and the numb feeling faded to that of a cold fire which seemed to replace his appalling sorrow.
Until that day of Natalie’s horror and his vision Alfred Neville had, by almost every facet of his life, a productive law-abiding citizen of Britain. He was a member of a wealthy gun club that he paid into each month, had no criminal convictions or outstanding charges. His house was fully-paid for and far from any trouble and ethnic minority folk. He drove a top of the range BMW which was his pride and joy and had a more ordinary second car as an everyday workhorse. In his job as an IT manager he was secure and prosperous. He had reveled in being a single man, womanizing his way around the dating sites and bars. The opulence and attraction of his materialistic lifestyle now paled. The attack on his kin and the looming threat felt like a great shadow was falling into his world. Alfred Neville had never been in a fight, had no military training and was considered a typical meek middle-class Briton. Yet in his target shooting hobby which he excelled at, he was incredibly discrete. None of his neighbors would have guessed that he was a gun owner either as he practiced vermin control and clay-pigeon shooting on nearby farmland. Almost all of Neville’s life and views were beyond reproach, almost all that was, apart from his illegal firearms collection.
Going to his gun cabinet he removed the entire contents onto the living-room carpet. Carefully and diligently he began packing two large sports bags. Into these went his rifles. One was a large caliber .303 Lee Enfield with scope and the other was a much smaller rimfire carbine. His Ruger 10/.22 had a folding stock and was very light. Magazines for both weapons were next and these two went into the bags.
Removing a few loose bricks from his garage wall revealed a dark secret from the days before weapons were restricted. Once, similar types were recognized as licensed section 1 firearms. Now though they came with a prison sentence of 5 years minimum for those caught by the police with them. His first illegal weapon was an unlicensed war-trophy, a Walther P-38 pistol wrapped in oily rags. After he checked the ultra-reliant working parts for function he reached in and removed a longer, heavier object from the cavity. Unwrapping the rags revealed a zippered gun bag. Inside it was a seldom-used AR-10 in 7.62mm. Unlike the Lee Enfield the AR-10 was semi-automatic and of a much more deadly caliber than the Ruger. As an illegal import it too was under the radar. Ammunition in two steel ammo boxes for both weapons was the last to come out.
Neville mused on what was to come. Part of him had been intending to cast both of the section 5 weapons in the sea or a deep quarry. The other part speculated they’d be useful if there was a total breakdown of society or foreign invasion. Now though they would be put to a more personal, directed purpose.
As Neville suspected, there were no arrests made at the Refugee Center, some enquiries were made but with no way of knowing who was who it was a thankless task. Some of the newcomers, thanks to their continental handlers, knew they could claim it was ‘racism’ if they felt they were being victimized. To a man they had destroyed their passports and identity papers. None of them claimed they could speak English, nearly all claimed to be from Syria, the latest war-zone. The delaying action wrangled on as they demanded translators. Had the inhabitants been native-born Britons the police had options and powers to separate, bully and cajole. As it was though the overworked police of Northampton were powerless to do anything except keep the center contained.
As night fell a solitary car slowly approached the rear fence with its lights off. It went parallel for a time to the chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Then, after making a ninety degree turn the vehicle faced the back gateway.
Neville took a few deep breaths then accelerated at full power towards the back gates. The Vauxhall Vectra’s roar and the smashing collision aroused many of the inhabitants. The heavy chain-link fence almost resisted the impact but age, fate, along with the forces of velocity and mass had their way with it. A small group of huddled men saw the gate crashed open and the vehicle plunged headlong towards them. An old Arab was bashed aside and a docile Negro had his spine shattered by the mass of metal. Neville reversed immediately. The huge, crowded Nissan Huts heard the commotion and several dark faces appeared at windows. Upon seeing the smashed gates and car’s headlights shining brightly from outside the camp they announced to the others excitedly what had happened. Like a wave of hysteria they interpreted that they were being set free and vehicles awaited them. This was the moment they were waiting for, a chance to taste the delights of western women, luxury and lay waste to the weak-westerners. The headlights flashed several times frantically, exciting the inhabitants further.
Neville had lowered his window and opened the car door. Stepping out and using it as a rest he shouldered his Ruger 10/.22. The telescopic sight was ordinary and with the glare of his headlights it made easy work of picking his targets. He let the first of them exit the gates then opened fire.
The suppressor and sub-sonic ammunition were like a near-silent death. Four young refugees were slain before they even knew what was happening. As the doors to the main Nissan Huts were thrown open he switched to them and fired without even aiming. .22LR bullets were small, but the hollow points made vicious wound-trajectories. The copper-jacketed lead zipped and dashed through flesh to ricochet at weird and strange angles as bone and tissue became vectors of ruin. Neville’s finger speedily shot off the thirty-round banana magazine and he slapped in another. The other entrance to the Nissan Hut became carnage, he paused and shot into windows and through the thin sheet metal of the Nissan Hut.
From within the crowded huts the occupants howled and screamed like animals. Outside the bases and offside from the main gateway the noise attracted the attention of the two policemen in their patrol car.
“They’re making a real racket this night,” the younger constable said not wishing to make move inside.
“Let the scum kill each other for all I care,” said the grizzled old Sergeant. “I’m sick of us having to play babysitter.” He returned to watching a video-stream of an old Blackadder comedy show as the noise outside got louder.
Back inside the base though the situation was frantic. The hard-core refugee fanatics knew that to remain in the huts was suicide and they too charged out the door. Most of them were either Arabs or Muslim Negros.
By now Neville had changed to his primary weapon, the AR-10. This rifle had no suppressor, but as it roared out shot after sho
t, the high-velocity hollow-points created their own tale of mayhem.
An Arab male who had boasted of his laying with the pretty English girl had his lungs shot out. The bullet went in through an expensive jacket and left a great fist-sized cavity as it slew the penetrated man and slammed into the one behind him. Both men fell together as they’d lain together earlier with their female victim. Through the optical sight Neville watched with a passive relief that he was taking his revenge. No law or court would ever grant him vengeance in the ancient way, but his own will of retribution would settle the matter. A crawling man with his spine severed cried out while another looked at the ruined leg that would never work again. The rapists themselves understood the danger and began to hide. At this though the ones who knew the guilty pointed and shouted at a few of them. This granted them a reprieve as his sights laid death on those they chose would receive the bullet. At first Neville, with efficient euthanasia, would slay the wounded. Then, as the horde became maddened and confused he poured an unrelenting salvo, after salvo as it surged for the gates. The weapons he used were not full-auto or burst-fire like the Yeomanry and military had access to though and the horde pressed on. The high-velocity rounds slammed into them though, blunting their intentions, but not stopping them entirely. He slew a dozen more angry invaders outright and as many were mortally wounded, more than one with the same bullet.
The attacker was fortunate that the ‘New Europeans’ mistakenly believed it was the police from the main gate firing on them. This drove them directly into the firing corridor Neville awaited them at for more vengeance. He only had four magazines for the AR and by the time the last one was empty his vehicle was becoming a target for rocks and debris.
Ignoring the missiles the somewhat rotund office-worker shouldered his Lee Enfield and fired once, maiming a shoulder. Then he worked the bolt to fire again, dropping another fatally. Now though the enraged mob was almost upon his car.
