PRIMAL Unleashed (2)

by Jack Silkstone

  “Are they all dead Sir?” Mirza asked as he pushed past the pickup to scan the jungle ahead.

  “Yeah, you did well Corporal,” Bishop replied, trying to sound confident. “There were only three of them.”

  He holstered his pistol and knelt next to the corpse of Terminator, hands shaking as he stripped ammunition and equipment from the body. Bishop avoided looking at the lifeless face of the teenager. This kid looks like he should be in high school, he thought. What the fuck was he doing out here? What was he doing with a gang of animals like the West Side? Did I have to shoot him? He shook his head and shoved the thoughts from his mind; now was not the time for questions. He was now committed to saving the refugees, even if it meant he had to kill more.

  Bishop was aware he was blatantly breaching his rules of engagement. The UN Mandate hammered through this brain, again and again, the inhumane futility of it. In the distance a woman screamed. A long, shrill scream. Fuck this! he thought. His mind was set and he was not going to dwell on the consequences. Instead he grabbed the ammunition and weapons from the other slain gunmen and hurried back to the UN vehicles.

  Chapter 4

  Refugee Camp

  Colonel Kapur stood in shock as Bishop speed-sorted his equipment on the hood of the Land Rover. Checking his map, he identified a concealed route into the refugee camp and stuffed the document back into his thigh pocket. He swiftly stripped the battered G3 assault rifle he had taken from Terminator’s corpse, checking its serviceability. As he methodically inspected the components, Mirza and two of the other soldiers approached.

  Bishop scrutinized the rifle as he spoke, “You know what I have to do.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Mirza murmured, glancing over at the Colonel, then back to Bishop.

  “I can’t ask you to come with me.”

  “Three of us will go with you. The others will stay here and look after the Colonel and the driver.”

  “Be ready to move in two minutes.”

  Bishop reassembled the rifle, satisfied that it would work reliably. He slammed home a magazine and cocked it, placing the other four magazines into the pockets of his shirt and pants. This is the first and last time I go outside the wire without body armor and a rifle, he reminded himself. Hastily, he tied a short length of cord around the stock of the weapon, allowing it to hang from his shoulder. Finally he changed the magazine in his pistol and re-holstered it. Ready for action. He glanced at the Colonel and tossed the thick wad of bribe money at him.

  “Stay here, Sir. If we don’t come back within the hour, leave for Freetown.”

  Kapur nodded, staying silent, horrified at the calm demeanor of the young man who had just slain two teenage gunmen. It was clear what Aden was going to do next.

  Bishop gathered Mirza and the two other soldiers in front of the Bedford truck. “OK, men, we don’t have much time.” Gunshots still echoed intermittently from the direction of the camp and ominously, the screaming had stopped. “We’re going to the camp and we’ll do whatever we must to protect the refugees. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sir,” they replied in unison.

  Bishop looked the group over and continued. “I appreciate you all backing me up.” When this was over, Bishop knew that Colonel Kapur would punish them.

  “Sir, we wouldn’t let you go on your own.”

  Bishop gave Mirza a nod, then pulled out his map. “Alright, we’re going to move down this track through the jungle, avoiding the main road. Stay with me, I’ll lead. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Alright, job's on, let’s roll.”

  Bishop, weapon ready, eyes scanning the thick vegetation, moved swiftly despite the steep slope of the track, sliding through the dark soil and rotting leaf litter. The three other men kept pace, patrolling silently behind him.

  At the bottom of the slope they splashed through a shallow creek before coming to the edge of the jungle. As they reached the thick bushes bordering the camp, they crouched, watching for movement. The first ramshackle wooden huts and white triangular UNHCR tents looked deserted. Behind them, row after row of similar dilapidated shelters stretched for over five hundred meters, bounded on one side by the jungle and on the other by a dirty brown waterway littered with rubbish and plastic containers. In the distance Bishop could make out the hazy green mountains of Guinea, a safe haven for the anti-government militias.

  The screaming had started again and echoed in the distance, but the camp looked empty. It should have been filled with hundreds of refugees.

  He signaled the men to move in. “Listen up. I’m on point, you need to cover the flanks and the rear.” He used his finger to draw their positions in the dirt. In diamond formation they could deal with a threat from any direction.

  “I want the bastards dead: no prisoners, no wounded—dead!” Bishop’s hushed voice was sharp with anger and the Indian soldiers all nodded nervously. “Alright, men, let’s do this.”

  The small team pushed forward cautiously, moving across the bare ground that separated the jungle from the camp. The fetid stench of human refuse and rotting garbage hit them as they reached the first line of patchwork tents. Carefully stepping over piles of rubbish, they kept their weapons ready, eyes continually scanning.

  As they penetrated deeper into the camp, the conditions didn’t improve. Bishop noticed bullet holes in a sheet of corrugated iron used to patch a hut; the blood splattered across it looked fresh. The distant yelling and screams grew louder as the team moved forward. Women’s terrified shrieks were punctuated by gunshots.

  Bishop signaled a halt. He crept forward looking for a vantage point to observe the centre of the camp. As he stepped across a narrow drainage ditch, the soft dirt gave way, dumping his boot in the raw sewage and splashing it up his leg. He swore as he clambered out of the mess and into an abandoned hut. Parts of the walls had been scavenged, leaving Bishop with a clear view beyond the shelter. Crouching, he peered between two sheets of rusted iron.

  Not more than thirty meters from him, ten heavily armed militia had herded a large group of refugees together into the clearing. Huddled on their knees in the mud, they looked like terrified animals waiting to be slaughtered. Some wept silently, shivering despite the fetid heat. Others clutched at each other with skinny arms, eyes wide with fear.

  Scattered about the group were mutilated bodies. Drenched with blood and missing limbs, the corpses were a savage warning against resistance. To the side was a bloodied pile of amputated arms and legs, testament to the gang’s inhumanity.

  Unaware of the demise of their sentries, the RUF fighters screamed with lung-bursting ferocity, fired their weapons into the air and lashed out at the prisoners. Bishop watched as two young gang members dragged a screaming woman into a blue UN medical aid tent. “Bastards,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

  Two gunmen trained their weapons on the wide-eyed refugees while the rest gathered around a huge man wielding a machete. My god, Bishop thought. He’s a bloody giant. The RUF Commander moved like a predator. His scars marked him as a veteran killer; old gunshot wounds disfigured his bare muscled torso and a vicious scar twisted round his throat. His clothes reflected his status, the closest to any form of military uniform worn by the gang. Camouflage pants were tucked into a shiny pair of black jungle boots and a tangle of talismans dangled from his neck. The ensemble was topped by a dirty blue UN beret.

  The RUF fighters gathered around their leader, cheering as he waved the bloodstained machete above his head. He grabbed a young boy and pinned him face down in the mud. He rammed his boot into the child’s back so his arms splayed out either side of him.

  Bishop was transfixed on the grisly scene. He knew exactly what was going to happen next, but he couldn’t move. Fear paralysed him.

  The Commander’s biceps bulged and he swung the blade like a broadsword. The machete sliced through the skinny child’s arm with a sickening crunch of bone, burying itself in the thick red mud. The boy’s blood-curdling scream came to an ab
rupt halt as he fainted.

  Retrieving the severed arm, the big man held it high for the terrified refugees to see. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he raged in English, “You spineless bastards, we fight for your freedom and you force us to do this!” He flung the arm into the growing pile of limbs, a thick cloud of flies lifting from the congealed, bloodied flesh as it landed with a wet thud.

  Bishop collapsed to his knees in silent revulsion. Vomit sprayed from his mouth, his body wracked with dry retches and eyes filled with tears. He didn’t notice Mirza enter the hut; it took a firm grip on his arm to snap him out of shock.

  “Sir. Sir, what now?” Mirza whispered.

  Shame gave way to fury as he wiped his mouth.

  “Now?” Bishop wiped the tears out of his eyes and looked up. His teeth clenched. “Now… now we kill them all.”

  The four UN soldiers peeled into the clearing from behind the derelict hut. Bishop was in front; his rifle barked savagely as he concentrated fire on the startled group of RUF. The weapon’s recoil slammed into his shoulder as he pulled the trigger, the ringing in his ears blending with adrenaline-fuelled rage. Large caliber bullets tore into the bodies of the gunmen, rending flesh and shattering bone. The three Indian AK-47s roared, laying down heavy automatic fire in support of Bishop’s single shots.

  The leader dove to the ground at the first sign of the troops, evading the deadly barrage of fire that slammed into his followers. Frantically he crawled behind the closest line of shelters.

  Catching a glimpse of the fleeing boss, Bishop ploughed forward, his weapon blazing until the breech locked open on an empty magazine. He dropped the smoking rifle, the sling around his shoulder caught it as he drew his pistol, cutting down another gunman in a volley of bullets. The RUF fighter collapsed backwards as Bishop emptied the entire magazine into his chest.

  The dying man’s ugly features contorted in pain. A frothy mixture of blood and mucus dribbled from his lips.

  Bishop slammed a fresh magazine into his Browning, and with a loud slap, released the slide, chambering a round. He casually raised the pistol and shot the man cleanly through the forehead.

  Eight of the gang members lay mortally wounded or dead as a result of the wall of fire laid down by the UN peacekeepers. Two of them were riddled with bullets, their pants around their ankles. They would never rape another woman.

  The RUF leader had abandoned them, fleeing with one of his men into the depths of the camp. Bishop gave chase, striding away from a twitching corpse. He rammed his pistol back in the holster and changed the magazine on his assault rifle. Locked, loaded, and moving, he picked up the pace, pursuing the RUF Commander.

  “Wait for us!” Mirza yelled.

  Bishop sprinted through the empty camp, his ears ringing from the gunfight. “Where is that son of a bitch?” he muttered. Running between the threadbare tents, he caught a glimpse of movement ahead. Instinctively he dropped, skidding through a pile of trash. A volley of bullets ripped through the air above him. Rolling sideways he pumped the trigger of his rifle, the rounds smashing into the firer’s position, spraying it with splinters of wood and debris.

  The shooter exposed his body for a split second as he sought cover. It was enough time for Bishop to snap off a single aimed shot. The round hit the gunman in the shoulder, shattering the joint. It sliced upwards through his neck, the hydrostatic shock almost severing his head as the round punched through the soft flesh. The corpse travelled forward under its own momentum, slamming through the flimsy wall of a hut.

  Bishop edged forward, his sights focused on the crumpled wall. A flash of movement to the left. He whipped round—too late! The RUF Commander bore down on him.

  “AAAAAIIIIIIII!” The massive warrior screamed. He swung his machete. Bishop blocked the blade with his rifle. The force jarred the weapon from his hands and snapped the improvised sling. Bishop lashed out with his fist but the blow bounced off the man’s face, the impact jarring his wrist.

  In one smooth motion the African reversed his strike, punching the handle of the machete into the UN officer’s gut, driving the air from his lungs and catapulting him onto his back.

  The machete flashed down again and buried itself into the thick red clay. Bishop rolled and snatched the Browning from its holster. The muscular African moved faster. He kicked the pistol away and pounced, forcing the machete down hard. Bishop caught his wrist with both hands. The veins in the Commander’s forearm bulged as his brute force and body weight pushed the blade down, inches from Bishop’s face.

  The RUF Commander used his free hand to grasp the smaller man’s throat, closing the airway in a death-grip. Bishop’s hands faltered as he struggled for air and the machete touched skin. The burn of fatigue sapped the strength from his muscles.

  The African spoke in guttural tones, his voice laced with animal hatred, “I’m going to chop off your hands, you little bastard, then I’m going to carve out your heart—and eat it.”

  Darkness clouded Bishop’s brain. He faintly registered the sickening crunch of a rifle’s buttstock connecting with the side of his assailant’s head. The pressure on his throat released and the machete-wielding hand was ripped away. He struggled to his feet, gasping to clear his head and regain full consciousness.

  “Sir, are you OK?” Mirza asked.

  Bishop didn’t hear the man who had saved him; his mind had blocked out everything but the task at hand. He staggered to recover his pistol from the mud and turned to face the big African who sat dazed on his knees. Blood trickled from the man’s mouth and the side of his head.

  Bishop picked up the machete, feeling the weight in his hand. He looked at the pocked edge of the blade and images of severed arms flashed in his mind. Raising his pistol, he aimed at the man’s forehead.

  The RUF Commander was still stunned but managed a sickly smile. “You’re too fucking weak to kill with steel—like a real man.”

  Bishop holstered the Browning. Rage fuelled his muscles. He lifted the machete high with both hands and drove it down, his body almost pitching forward with the force. The blade smashed through the man’s forehead, cleaving it apart like a block of wood under an axe; blood and brain matter spraying up Bishop’s arms. The man’s eyes rolled back, one either side of the rusted blade wedged in his face.

  Bishop released his grip on the weapon, and with a guttural moan, the dead body fell backwards, the machete protruding from his head, limp arms splayed out in a cross on the ground. He stood for a few seconds watching the corpse spasm and shock hit him hard like a punch to the stomach. Fuck! That could have been me, he thought.

  Mirza grasped his arm, dragging him to his senses. The Indian lectured, “Sir, you can’t always rely on yourself. A single straw is useless, but together, many straws make a broom.”

  What? Broom? His thoughts muddled, Bishop rubbed at his throat, leaning wearily on the soldier. “Is that the same straw that broke the camel’s back, Mirza?” he croaked. “What are you, a fucking philosopher now?” His words sounded ungrateful but the expression on his face told a different story. “Thanks, mate.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Sir. You will be happy to know we have secured the camp,” Mirza said, “and I have moved the vehicles down.”

  “Did you get the rest of those bastards?”

  “We killed ten of them; any others must have fled. We won’t see them again, at least for today.”

  Bishop nodded and with the aid of Mirza’s shoulder, staggered back towards the center of the camp.

  The remainder of the UN peacekeepers had already moved up to assist the traumatized refugees as they tended to their injured and dead. The convoy was now parked in the camp’s central square and the soldiers were distributing what limited supplies they had brought with them.

  Wails of grief rent the air as relatives located family members, dead, maimed, or unconscious. Bishop surveyed the scattered bodies, slain gunmen lying amongst the slaughtered refugees.

  Propping himself up against a sheet o
f sun-warmed corrugated iron, he stared blankly at the armless body of the boy. One of the Indians was attempting to find the child’s pulse. The soldier shook his head; it was futilie. The ground around the boy’s body was soaked with blood. The Indian’s combat trousers stained crimson at the knees where he knelt by the boy.

  Bishop stared at his trembling hands; they were covered in blood. Tears welled in his eyes as thoughts of blame assaulted him. Could he have saved the boy with one well aimed shot? He noticed some of the refugees watching him and forced his head to clear. Struggling to his feet, he stumbled to the medic who was working intently on a small child.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  The medic looked up at him, face gaunt and pale. “Yes, thank you, Sir. This one needs a splint.”

  “Is it just his arm?”

  “Yes, Sir, his arm is badly broken and he is going into shock.”

  “OK, I’ll help him. You look after the others,” Bishop replied as he knelt next to the boy. Forgetting his own fatigue, he carefully tucked a reflective space blanket around the tiny body.

  As the young officer worked on splinting the boy’s arm, Colonel Kapur strolled over and watched. Growing impatient, the senior officer tapped Bishop on the shoulder. His voice was confident now the threat had passed.

  “Lieutenant! I’ve contacted UN HQ and we have been ordered to return to base immediately. You need to explain yourself to the Force Commander!”

  Bishop’s fists clenched and he stood slowly. Anger flared, then subsided as he looked down at the frail body wrapped in the silver space blanket.

  “If you don’t mind, Sir, I would like to make sure we can provide all the assistance we can,” Bishop said wearily.

  The Colonel nodded, content that at least a small portion of authority was back in his hands. He was happy to entertain Bishop’s philanthropic ways in exchange for a little civility. When they returned to Freetown, the trigger-happy Lieutenant would be put back in his place.