by Michael Bray
"Why not?" Akhtar said, terrified at the idea of going back to the surface.
"Because eventually they will find us, and when they do we're sitting ducks."
"What do you suggest?" Hamada asked, happy to keep a fragile peace for the time being despite his differences with Branning.
"I don't know yet, but we need to move soon. I think we can both agree those pictures on the TV change things for all of us. It's obvious we're dealing with a group who don't have limits, and whatever they want, it can't be good for any of us."
"I agree," Hamada said. "This is unlike anything I have ever seen before."
The others standing around the television screen gasped. Hamada and Branning only saw the end of the collapse of the west wing of the White House. Fire crackled, smoke billowed and mushroomed into the air from the structure.
"Jesus..." Branning muttered.
On the TV coverage, the reporters were in frenzy, showing a replay of the collapse, the windows filled with a flash of light before the building collapsed in on itself.
"We have to do something," Branning said.
"What can we do?" Hamada replied. "We have no power to affect the outcome of this attack."
“I mean here.”
Hamada looked at Branning, brow furrowed. “What can we do here, Branning?”
"We can fight and take back the city."
"That’s impossible. All you Americans are crazy with your grand ideas."
"You call it crazy, but this is how we do things. Not behind people’s backs or involving civilians in our disputes, but face to face. Man to man."
"Do you not remember how close we came to death before we escaped to the sewers?" Hamada said, shaking his head. "We were fortunate to survive."
"I refuse to sit here and wait for them to find us."
"So what do you say we do? We have nothing." Hamada was clearly frustrated but was holding back from starting another argument.
Branning hesitated, and then looked Hamada in the eye. "We can fight back."
"You and I?"
"All of us."
Hamada frowned, trying to figure out if Branning was serious. "We have nothing to fight with. No weapons. No vehicles" He said cautiously, looking at the frightened faces around the two who were now more interested in his and Branning’s conversation rather than events in Washington. "Besides, these people are not soldiers."
"That doesn’t matter," Branning countered. "Earlier you said about getting involved in the wars of others. Just look at the news. This isn’t just happening here, it’s happening all over the world. Whatever this is," he pointed to the television screen for emphasis "Now involves all of us. It's everyone’s war."
"These people are civilians, peasants for the most part. It would be like herding sheep to their deaths. That’s no fight, Branning. That’s slaughter."
"Not if we train them, show them what to do."
Hamada shook his head. "Listen to yourself. Train them? Show them? All we would show them is death and a swift and merciless one it would be. We don’t have the time, and even if we did, it would be fruitless. Look at the television, Branning. You think we can battle against a force which is capable of that?"
"At least, I’m trying to do something," Branning snapped, slamming his fist on the desk. "It's better than just staying down here and waiting to starve or be captured."
"You think any of us want to die?" Hamada countered. "Like it or not, these people don’t have the training. They’re not like us Branning. They don’t know what it means to fight and know your life could end at any moment. They don’t know the taste of fear or how to overcome it. You would be condemning them to death."
"Okay, so what do you suggest? If you have a better idea I’m sure we'd all love to hear it."
"I do actually have a suggestion," Hamada said, choosing his words carefully.
"Go on."
"As I mentioned, of everyone here only the two of us are soldiers. Sure enough, we fight for a different cause, but we still fight." He paused, waiting to see if Branning would interject. When no objection came, he continued. "Outside of the city in the mountains of the Anbar province, my men wait for me. Good men. More importantly, good soldiers, fighters willing to die for their freedom."
"No," Branning said, shaking his head. "I won’t work with terrorists. I won’t have them here and jeopardise these people."
"Terrorists? Did you not just say how this is everybody’s war now? You choose to label them as terrorists, I choose to see them as men who are fearless, trained and disciplined. They are exactly what we need."
"I won’t bring them here. I won’t give you the power to take control."
"Come on Branning, you talk as if it’s still you against us. You think the fact that you are an American soldier makes any difference? Much the same that my allegiance now matters little. From the second we were forced to flee here to the sewers, we have been engaged in a private war of our own, perhaps stupidly. Now we must work together. If you want to fight, if you want to try and take a stand like you say, then you need my men to do it. There is no other choice."
Branning paced, heart and head screaming different instructions. He turned back towards Hamada. "Assuming I agree, how will you get word to them to come here?"
"We can’t get them here, Branning. I have no means of contacting them. We will have to go to them."
"You expect me to go with you into Anbar province? Do you think I’m so stupid? I know what your people would do to me. Prisoner of war, fucking beheadings. I've seen it."
Hamada waited, calm and patient. "If you had suggested such a thing a few days ago, then yes. I would say you were correct. Things have changed Branning.” He spoke next in Arabic. “عدو عدوي هو صديقي , it means -"
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend." Branning cut in.
"Your Arabic is quite good," Hamada said with a small smile.
"You can guarantee my safety when we get there?" Branning replied. "If not for me, for these people?"
"You have my word, Branning. As unlikely as it seems, it would appear an alliance is in all of our best interests. We need each other, Branning. Neither of us may like it, but that is the situation we are facing.”
"And what if I refuse?"
"You won’t."
"How do you know?"
Hamada raised his eyebrows and held his arms out to his sides. "Look at the alternative? What choice do you have other than to wait here and die in the filth?"
Branning looked at the dozen or so people in the room and knew Hamada was right. There was no alternative. Against every instinct, he made his decision.
"Alright," he said with a sigh. "I’ll come with you. When do you want to leave?"
"Tonight. Under cover of darkness."
"If you screw me over Hamada, if you try anything at all or do something I don’t like... I won’t hesitate to kill you before you get a chance to take me out."
A flicker of a smile passed over Hamada’s lips. "Understood. I, in turn, give the same warning to you."
With nothing left to say, both men left the crowd standing around the TV screens to prepare themselves for the mission.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
KOPAR KHAIRIANE
INDIA
SUVARI AND THE CHILDREN hid in the dark, the dilapidated textile factory providing adequate hiding places from the dangers of the streets which had become places where nobody now dared venture. She peered through the grimy glass and looked out over the water to the city. It was lit by an orange glow from fires which still burned freely. She still wasn't sure what was going on, she had no reception to her phone. She was desperate to speak to Marcus, to let him know she was alright. She assumed what was going on was some kind of uprising. She had seen more groups of men seemingly attacking citizens at will as she had fled the city. Others were rounded up and loaded onto trucks headed for a fate she presumed was no better than those left dead and dying in the streets. Her stomach growled, and she glance
d at the children cowering in the shadows, their eyes wide and pleading. They were her responsibility now, and it was up to her to keep them safe. None of them had eaten since they crossed the bridge and fled the city, and like an old friend, the once familiar pains of hunger raced through her. She didn’t think it was something she would ever have to go through again, especially after all she'd done to make a life for herself, however, the familiarity of an empty stomach returned to her as if it had never left, and in a way was far more frightening than the current situation.
Headlights flashed over the window, and she ducked away out of sight, despite being on the second floor and invisible from her place in the shadows. The flatbed truck rolled towards the factory, kicking up dust in its wake. Suvari felt her stomach somersault as the truck came to a halt, and two men jumped off the back. They were joined by the driver. The two men from the back were armed with weapons, a baseball bat and machete respectively. The driver had a shotgun, which he carried leaning on his shoulder, barrel pointed straight up. All three men had their faces covered. The two from the back were wearing balaclavas, the driver wore a bandana over his mouth and nose and a grubby red baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. She watched as they spoke and gestured at the building, snatches of words making it impossible for her to understand what they were saying.
Please move on, please move on, please move on
She repeated it to herself, mouthing the words silently. Her request went unanswered, however as the three men entered the building.
"Quickly, hide," she whispered in the dark.
The children looked back at her, unmoving, perhaps through fear, maybe through misunderstanding.
"Go now, hurry!" she said, ushering them towards the hulking, rusted machinery which was long dead.
They moved, this time, not in response to Suvari, but the sounds of the men who they could now hear, their voices echoing through the building. Suvari made sure they were all hidden, then closed the door to the machine room. If anyone was to be found, she would make sure it was her and not the children. She moved to an office down the hall, papers and folders strewn across the floor and forgotten, the smell of damp and rot clinging to her throat as fear made her breathe in great ragged gasps. The office was furnished only with a broken desk and an empty filing cabinet, neither of which would stop her from being seen. She turned back, intending to try one of the other rooms, kicking herself for not mapping out the building layout or an escape route, when she heard them coming, heavy boots on steps, hushed chatter. She saw their elongated shadows appear and knew she was trapped. The only option she had was to go back to the machine room, and she wasn’t prepared to do that. Left with no choice, she waited for them to come.
She locked eyes with the first of them as he came around the corner. It was one of the ones from the back of the truck, the one with the machete. He seemed surprised to see her. For a second, there was silence, the two locked in eye contact, which was broken when the man spoke.
"What are you doing here? Who are you with?" he barked as he strode towards her.
She couldn’t move, and no words came to mind as she stood and stared. He grabbed her by the arm, his grip strong. "Who are you with? Who brought you here?"
She still couldn’t answer, and could hear the others coming now, jogging up the steps to join their friend. She tried to squirm away, but the man was too strong, his eyes glaring from the holes in his balaclava. The others had joined their friend, and were surrounding her in the corridor, all barking questions at her at the same time.
Suvari flinched away, fear hot and bitter in the back of her throat. She could smell sweat and alcohol, and beneath that something else. Something coppery. Fear took over then, and she lashed out, scratching at the face of the one holding the machete and contacting only with the fuzzy mask covering his head.
He grunted, and slapped her hard across the face, making white stars dance across her field of vision. She felt them bundle her to the floor, each goading the other on as she kicked and screamed.
"Hold her down," The one she'd scratched said as he set the machete on the floor and started to unfasten his jeans. "I’m going to teach this bitch a lesson in respect."
Suvari thought of her sister, of the haunted look in her eyes which had inspired her to escape the same fate. If she had been alone, she would have fought, but she had the children to think of. They were her responsibility and she had to do right by them. Perhaps if she let them have their way. They would go away and leave her alone. She relaxed her body and stopped struggling.
"Alright, that's better," the one with the gun said. "I want to go second."
"You went second on the last one," Baseball bat said. "It's my turn."
"Alright, whatever. Just get on with it."
Machete pulled his pants down and clambered on top of her, snatching at her jeans. She remained calm, trying to drift away in her mind to a distant place, somewhere away from what was about to happen to her. She thought of the beach, of white sands and cool oceans.
He climbed on top of her and pushed inside
She thought of cool drinks and beautiful foods, perhaps a beach barbecue with her friends and family back in the civilised world.
He was thrusting now, face buried against her neck, hot, foul smelling breath on her skin as he violated her.
She drifted deeper, trying to recall the comforts of her life which seemed so distant, so far away. The comfort of her own bed. Cable TV. Itunes. Fast food. Simple things to anyone else, but proof to her that she had escaped the slums and made something of herself.
His motion was increasing now. Eyes bulging as he thrust against her, increasing in speed as his friends cheered him on.
Fortunately, it didn’t take long, and he exploded within her, grabbing a handful of her hair as his body tensed. Tears rolled down her face and into her ears as he stood and pulled up his trousers, making way for the next of his friends, the one with the baseball bat this time. Once again she drifted off to somewhere far away as baseball bat followed his friends lead, only he was much larger and more rough, and she screamed as he raped her, which only seemed to heighten his excitement.
When he was done, he joined his friend, who handed him a cigarette. The two smoked as the last of them took his place, he with the gun and red baseball cap. He clambered onto her, and now no amount of thinking herself away could save her from the horror of what was happening. She might have lay there and let them do as they wanted, knowing when they were done there was a good chance they would kill her.
"Hey, there are kids in here." One of them said, standing at the door to the machine room.
Terror and anger came in quick succession, as did the instinct to protect. She looked up at the leering eyes of her baseball cap clad would be rapist, and something in her snapped.
She reached out and grabbed the discarded machete from the floor beside her, and in one motion, driven by the mixture of emotion surging through her she swung it at her attacker, the blade embedding in his neck.
Blood.
It cascaded, spewing out onto Suvari as her assailant gargled and dropped the gun as he clutched at the blade still hanging from his neck. His friends were too late to realise something was wrong, Baseball Bat only registering Suvari rolling onto her side and firing the weapon a split second before the top half of his head exploded in a shower of blood and bone, his body bouncing off the door frame to the machine room and sliding into a sitting position.
Mr. Machete, realising his weapon was now embedded in his dying friend’s neck, held up his hands. She could hear him pleading, yet couldn’t make out any words under his balaclava, which suited her fine. She was still angry, furious in fact at what he'd done to her, for potentially putting the children in harm’s way. The blood on her was hot, the smell of smoke from the gun strong, the ringing in her ears from its recoil in the confined space making her head throb with dull monotony. Machete took a half step forward, and it was all she needed to justify her actions. She fire
d. The shot wasn’t as accurate as the first, although it still hit her target. She was so close it would have been almost impossible to miss. He took the full force of the round in the stomach, slamming into the machine room door, which buckled open under the impact.
Machete lay half in, half out of the room, trembling and trying to hold his guts inside his body.
Suvari, on the other hand, was surprisingly calm.
She got to her feet, and walked towards her moaning assailant, sparing a glance at his friends. Red Cap was on his side, eyes open and unblinking, blood pooling around him from the machete wound in his neck. Baseball Bat was a bloody mess, his head a mangled mass of pulpy flesh and bone. Their raping days were over, and now, only one remained. She stood at the door to the machine room at Machete’s twitching feet, he was moaning, and she could see a slick coil of entrails which he wasn’t quite managing to hold in. He was begging for mercy, and yet the throbbing in her groin told her he deserved none. In fact, she felt nothing at all, only a cold indifference towards him. Without any semblance of remorse, she levelled the gun at him waited, making sure he looked at her, ensuring he knew what was coming. She waited until his eyes grew wide in recognition. She pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber. Frustrated, she opened the gun, flicking the catch and folding the barrel over.
Empty.
Machete was begging now, begging for mercy, begging for help, begging for his mother. Suvari ignored all pleas. Instead, she went back to Red Cap and searched his clothes, checking his pockets for extra shells for the gun he'd been carrying before his demise. She couldn’t find any, and frustrated she tossed the weapon aside. There was a moment of silence apart, of course from the repeated moans of Machete, who was still trying to hold his innards in the hole in his stomach. She knew he was already dead, and that it was just a matter of time, and yet it didn’t quell her rage. Her eyes drifted to the blood spattered baseball bat which had rolled against the wall. Without consciously controlling her actions, she grabbed it and stood, returning to the machine room entrance.