Post by franklinmarsh on Feb 28, 2014 15:14:04 GMT
CULL
Dean’s hands were shaking as he checked his rifle once more. A reassuring pat on his shoulder from Carl made him more nervous.
“Won’t be long now, lad. The little bastards won’t know what hit ‘em.”
It was the waiting. If only they could get on with it. Carl and the others were more used to this. Mike’s briefing last night, showing them the Warren, the exits, the points of contact, had been unreal. Reality was coming down fast. Don’t humanise the creatures they were told. Shoot to kill – head or heart. Minimise suffering – no longer than five minutes to die to maintain humane levels for the bleeding-heart do-gooders who would be checking; but don’t waste ammunition.
Dean looked up over the ridge at the Warren. There was something disquieting about its mist-shrouded bleakness. Memories tumbled through his mind. He’d grown up in a place like this – but he’d got out. Made something of himself. These …things…were parasites and deserved to be wiped out. He shivered. A few years ago, he’d have been in there. He used the techniques of rage to block out thoughts of …home. It hadn’t really been a home. Faces, unwanted and unbidden, flashed before his eyes. He saw them pleading, exploding. A grim smile twisted his lips.
The food banks set up overnight hadn’t lured any of them out yet. They weren’t really expected to, but some of the things were gullible, or desperate. Rumours abounded that the food was poisoned and the banks mined. Dean didn’t think his cohorts were that mean-minded, but these were difficult times. Examples had to be made.
Situations like these heightened the senses, and he was aware of a faint pop over to his right. He put the hooded binoculars to his eyes, turned, then gaped in disbelief.
A large marquee had been set up at the top of the hill. Smug looking men in sharp suits were seated in comfortable chairs, being served champagne by women who only existed in magazines and tabloids.
“Concentrate, lad.”
Carl’s harsh whisper pierced Dean’s surprise.
“We’ve a job to do. We’re on a fucking good bonus for this. We get our hands dirty, so the paymasters don’t have to. Forget what you just saw. Watch the Warren.”
Dean turned back, but felt sick. Who were the real bastards?
A sharp report pulled him from his thoughts again.
Confusion reigned. A roar went up from the Warren. Dean saw a blood-drenched Doc Jacobs signalling frantically, crouched beside a headless young man.
Shouts encircled him.
“They’re armed!”
“Bastards!”
“They’ve been tipped off!”
“Fucking BBC!”
Dean saw Carl’s face suffuse with red, veins rising from the flesh, lips joined by streamers of saliva separating as a growl emerged from the cavern behind.
The young man watched his sergeant leap from behind the ridge and run suicidally toward the Warren, the growl seguing into a roar. As others followed him, Dean turned and headed for the Marquee.
*******************************************************
The stench of burning flesh was heave-inducing. Carl flicked his dog-end onto the pyre in the pit, and turned away, glad that the berserker rage had possessed him earlier. The comedown was a bastard though. He felt so tired.
The women and children were the worst. He was surprised at the ferocity with which they’d fought – rivalling, even surpassing that of their menfolk. And they were human, despite the propaganda.
A scent of brandy touched his nostrils, and his eyes refocused on the neck of the hip flask.
He took a long draught, enjoying the raw burn.
“Thanks, Mike…Sir.”
“No need to stand on ceremony, Carl. You did well. What happened to young …Del?”
Carl was too drained to correct him. His head jerked toward the flames.
“Good man. The press would have made too much of a back shooting, and I had to do it. Must keep up our image, eh?”
Carl nodded dumbly, watching his superior officer wander off toward the suits, who looked even more demonic as dusk began to fall and the orange, red and yellow flickering seemed to highlight their evil. Tomorrow the Warren would be a pile of ashes and the press would be crowing about the Government’s no–nonsense attitude and the brave troops and the money saved and the land available for building.
He looked once again at the hellish figures, and fingered the trigger of his rifle.
What could you do?
Dean’s hands were shaking as he checked his rifle once more. A reassuring pat on his shoulder from Carl made him more nervous.
“Won’t be long now, lad. The little bastards won’t know what hit ‘em.”
It was the waiting. If only they could get on with it. Carl and the others were more used to this. Mike’s briefing last night, showing them the Warren, the exits, the points of contact, had been unreal. Reality was coming down fast. Don’t humanise the creatures they were told. Shoot to kill – head or heart. Minimise suffering – no longer than five minutes to die to maintain humane levels for the bleeding-heart do-gooders who would be checking; but don’t waste ammunition.
Dean looked up over the ridge at the Warren. There was something disquieting about its mist-shrouded bleakness. Memories tumbled through his mind. He’d grown up in a place like this – but he’d got out. Made something of himself. These …things…were parasites and deserved to be wiped out. He shivered. A few years ago, he’d have been in there. He used the techniques of rage to block out thoughts of …home. It hadn’t really been a home. Faces, unwanted and unbidden, flashed before his eyes. He saw them pleading, exploding. A grim smile twisted his lips.
The food banks set up overnight hadn’t lured any of them out yet. They weren’t really expected to, but some of the things were gullible, or desperate. Rumours abounded that the food was poisoned and the banks mined. Dean didn’t think his cohorts were that mean-minded, but these were difficult times. Examples had to be made.
Situations like these heightened the senses, and he was aware of a faint pop over to his right. He put the hooded binoculars to his eyes, turned, then gaped in disbelief.
A large marquee had been set up at the top of the hill. Smug looking men in sharp suits were seated in comfortable chairs, being served champagne by women who only existed in magazines and tabloids.
“Concentrate, lad.”
Carl’s harsh whisper pierced Dean’s surprise.
“We’ve a job to do. We’re on a fucking good bonus for this. We get our hands dirty, so the paymasters don’t have to. Forget what you just saw. Watch the Warren.”
Dean turned back, but felt sick. Who were the real bastards?
A sharp report pulled him from his thoughts again.
Confusion reigned. A roar went up from the Warren. Dean saw a blood-drenched Doc Jacobs signalling frantically, crouched beside a headless young man.
Shouts encircled him.
“They’re armed!”
“Bastards!”
“They’ve been tipped off!”
“Fucking BBC!”
Dean saw Carl’s face suffuse with red, veins rising from the flesh, lips joined by streamers of saliva separating as a growl emerged from the cavern behind.
The young man watched his sergeant leap from behind the ridge and run suicidally toward the Warren, the growl seguing into a roar. As others followed him, Dean turned and headed for the Marquee.
*******************************************************
The stench of burning flesh was heave-inducing. Carl flicked his dog-end onto the pyre in the pit, and turned away, glad that the berserker rage had possessed him earlier. The comedown was a bastard though. He felt so tired.
The women and children were the worst. He was surprised at the ferocity with which they’d fought – rivalling, even surpassing that of their menfolk. And they were human, despite the propaganda.
A scent of brandy touched his nostrils, and his eyes refocused on the neck of the hip flask.
He took a long draught, enjoying the raw burn.
“Thanks, Mike…Sir.”
“No need to stand on ceremony, Carl. You did well. What happened to young …Del?”
Carl was too drained to correct him. His head jerked toward the flames.
“Good man. The press would have made too much of a back shooting, and I had to do it. Must keep up our image, eh?”
Carl nodded dumbly, watching his superior officer wander off toward the suits, who looked even more demonic as dusk began to fall and the orange, red and yellow flickering seemed to highlight their evil. Tomorrow the Warren would be a pile of ashes and the press would be crowing about the Government’s no–nonsense attitude and the brave troops and the money saved and the land available for building.
He looked once again at the hellish figures, and fingered the trigger of his rifle.
What could you do?