Revolution (25 page)

Chunks of masonry burst from the wall to Megan’s left as rifle fire ripped across it. Clouds of fine dust clogged her nose and stung her eyes as she tried to flatten herself into the recess as much as possible.

‘Follow me!’ Callum said and dashed to Megan’s left.

Megan followed, running low as they rushed along the pavement and ducked into a side alley, high velocity rounds zipping through the air around them. Callum turned, checked his pistol and watched the battle rage on the street.

‘We need to get past Severov’s position and fall back. His men aren’t going to last long against those rebels once they’re back on their feet.’

Megan nodded.

‘If we can get to the jeep, maybe we can find another way across the river.’

Callum shook his head.

‘This is the only crossing for twenty miles in either direction. It’s over. We’ll just have to take our chances with Severov and get back to Thessalia.’

Megan winced and peered out into the street from her vantage position. Severov’s men were drawing close to their position, but the rebels were recovering fast and beginning to lay down an increasingly heavy field of fire against the government forces. Their blood would be up now and Megan knew that if caught, both Callum and herself would likely be considered as complicit in the attack on the rebels. There was no choice.

‘All right, let’s go.’

The alley behind them ended in a sheer wall against which had once been attached an iron ladder, but that had corroded and collapsed years before. Megan knew that they would have to go back into the street.

Callum leaned against the wall on the edge of the pavement, watching the advancing rebels before looking at Severov’s men as they began slowly falling back under the weight of fire. Callum saw one of them try to pull back from his concealed position behind the edge of a low wall. He sprinted quickly, but not quickly enough. Machine–gun fire raked the earth around the soldier and he twisted in mid–stride, a fine mist of innards spraying out behind him as a round pierced his side and exited his back with explosive force. The young soldier hit the ground and lay there writhing in agony.

Callum checked the street ahead again and then dashed out.

Megan followed, trying to keep her head down and run at the same time as bullets and chunks of debris were sprayed through the air around her.

*

Severov saw them the moment they broke cover.

He took aim at a rebel soldier advancing upon his position, squeezing the trigger of his AK–47 three times in quick succession, firing single rounds each time. The second round hit the rebel through the side of his chest and he tumbled into the snow to lie motionless, his eyes staring wide and empty toward Severov.

The commander set his rifle down while simultaneously drawing his service pistol from its holster in one fluid movement, bringing it up and firing four rounds at the big Scotsman as he ran. All four rounds missed as his target ducked down behind an abandoned vehicle, Megan Mitchell close behind him.

Severov cursed, picking up his AK–47 again and firing off a few rounds before shouting into the headset he now wore to communicate with his men.

‘Fall back, prepare to retreat!’

Severov watched as his men began falling back rapidly, covering each other as they drew away from the fight whilst trying to keep the rebel force pinned down. Ahead, he could see the jeep that Megan Mitchell had used, and through the misted windows he realised that he could just make out the form of the old man huddled in terror on the back seat.

*

‘They’re leaving!’ Callum shouted.

He could see past the wreck of the vehicle they were hiding behind, to where Severov’s men were conducting a very efficient withdrawal under fire. Their own position was shielded from both Severov and that of the rebels, in the latter case by another abandoned vehicle, but not for long.

‘That’s been his plan all along,’ Megan shouted in reply, crouched alongside Callum. ‘If he goes, we’re finished!’

Callum searched for a solution to their problem and knew that there was only one way to go. The jeep sat on its own, with Severov’s men now withdrawing past it toward their own vehicle.

‘We go for the jeep!’ Callum shouted, readying himself.

Megan crouched lower in preparation, and then the pair of them launched themselves from cover and sprinted for the jeep.

*

Severov saw Callum and Megan break cover and instantly he raised his pistol, aiming carefully this time before pulling the trigger once.

He saw the big Scotsman spin violently as the bullet hit him and he tumbled into the snow amidst the gunfire, his pistol flying from his grip. Severov let out a howl of delight, firing this time at the more distant rebels flitting from cover to cover as they advanced, before shouting into his headset.

‘Full retreat!’

Instantly, those of his men still firing upon the enemy abandoned their positions and fled toward the truck, which reversed rapidly back down the street, the troops jumping onto its sides and onto the cab as they fled.

Ahead, Severov saw Megan Mitchell dash to her friend’s side, at about the same time as the rebels finally managed to get their tank working again. The commander checked that all of his surviving soldiers were on board and then turned to the translator, Bolav, who was sitting beside him.

‘Let me know what happens to them,’ Severov snarled.

Bolav stared at him in confusion, before Severov opened the cab door and grabbed him. The translator let out a scream of terror as he was hauled with brutal force from the moving vehicle, his flailing body hitting the ground in a cloud of snow. Severov watched as the little man scrambled to his feet, tears streaming down his face as he screamed in terror at the swiftly retreating vehicle, staggering through the snow in pursuit.

Severov slammed the door shut as the driver reversed the truck around a bend in the street and out of the line of fire. Instantly he turned the vehicle around and drove as fast as he dared away from the village.

*

‘Callum!’

Megan dashed forward and slid down onto the snow beside her friend’s inert form.

Deep scarlet blood stained the snow around the Scotsman, and Megan saw the wound from the bullet that had struck Callum deep in his left shoulder. The fact that the entry wound was on Callum’s front left her in no doubt as to who had fired the shot. Severov had aimed for the chest, for the heart. He had missed the fatal shot but Callum was in trouble.

‘Callum! Get up!’

The Scotsman did not respond, and Megan struggled with his body as the bullets whizzed and cracked the air around her. There was no way that she could lift Callum from the ground, so instead she grabbed his ankles and began dragging his body toward the jeep.

She turned to see Severov’s truck reverse rapidly away from the village and vanish around the bend with the translator, Bolav, running after it. Megan looked at the jeep in desperation over her shoulder as she heaved Callum’s heavy body through the snow.

‘Sergei!’

The old man in the jeep did not respond, and Megan was about to call for his help again when a sudden boom made her look around.

The tank’s gun–barrel was lost in a cloud of smoke. The tank itself may have been immobilised, but its turret was still operational. An instant later the jeep vanished amidst a blast that lifted it off the ground and sent it spinning fifteen metres through the air to land on its roof in flames on the opposite side of the street.

‘Sergei!!’

Megan dropped to her knees in exhaustion, looking at Callum’s body and the trail of blood through the snow. In the deafening silence of the aftermath of the tank’s gun she realised that the shooting had stopped and that the snow was still falling softly around her, gently blanketing the dead bodies that lay scattered across the confined battlefield.

From the distance, stark against the sudden silence, the keening cries of men torn limb from limb haunted the abandoned town, drifting softly on the wind like ghosts with the snow.

As Megan looked up from Callum’s unconscious form, she saw ranks of rebels advancing on her position in the road, their Kalashnikov’s pointed at her and vengeance burning in their dark eyes.

***

Megan knelt in silence as the rebel soldiers closed in around her.

Beside her, Callum groaned. Megan looked down and tried to stem the bleeding from Callum’s shoulder with one hand. The rebels closed in further, saying nothing, staring down the barrels of their rifles with pitiless expressions.

Megan tried to fathom what the rebels might do next, what they might say. For an interminably long time they simply stared at her where she knelt, flecks of snow building up on her jacket and hair.

Callum groaned again.

One of the rebel soldiers advanced and grabbed Megan by the hair, then yanked her away from Callum. Megan staggered to her feet, but the pain of the soldier’s grasp angered her and she knocked the man’s grip away.

The barrel of the soldier’s rifle swung around hard, catching Megan’s left temple and sending her reeling back down into the snow as primal fear pulsed like poison through her veins. A sudden burst of malevolent shouts of encouragement erupted from the rest of the troops. Another soldier raised his boot and kicked Megan in the side. Megan gagged as pain ripped through her ribcage, only to be dragged to her feet by two more men. They held her as a third leapt forward and windmilled his right fist down into Megan’s stomach.

Megan felt the wind blast from her lungs. She collapsed to her knees as her captors released her, and sensed rather than saw the boot that curled toward her head, felt the cold snow and the scratch of dirt from the heavy sole as it smacked dully across the side of her face. Megan slammed down onto the unforgiving earth, and saw through blurred vision a burly soldier with a blood–splattered poncho and a bandana around his head stand over her and raise the butt of his rifle into the air, ready to bring it crashing down on Megan’s head.

Megan closed her eyes.

The sound of a commotion made her open them again as the rebels all turned to look at something else. Megan rolled her head painfully to one side, and through the legs and boots of the soldiers she saw two rebels dragging a captive through the snow who was crying openly and begging his captors for mercy.

The man was dumped unceremoniously next to Megan and Callum. Megan recognised Severov’s translator, Bolav, his face cut and muddied and his clothes torn. He looked at Megan with pleading eyes, clasped his hands together as though praying for divine intervention.

One of the rebel soldiers turned Bolav around and hit him full in the face to the laughter and encouragement of his fellow troops. Megan winced as the rebel’s knuckles cracked across Bolav’s nose and sent the translator face down into the snow. The little man, crying with terror, began trying to crawl away. The troops parted for him, laughing, as the rebel who had hit her followed the pathetic, writhing figure, grabbing him by the back of his collar and lifting him off the ground.

Bolav tried to get back onto his knees in the snow, his hands still clasped together as a stream of Mordanian dialect fell from his bloodied lips. The rebel soldier turned slightly away from Bolav and then spun back, sweeping his boot around to thud into the translator’s skull. Bolev let out a cry of pain and whirled away, holding his head in his hands and sobbing into the dirt and the slush.

‘Leave him alone!’

Megan’s voice sounded weak, as though it had been spoken by somebody else, coming as it did from an impulse of empathy for the battered translator, and the rebels turned back to face her. The soldier who had been beating Bolav suddenly screamed in fury and rushed at Megan head on as she staggered to her feet.

Megan ducked to one side as the rebel soldier swung a punch for her, thrust her left fist out to knock the blow aside, and turned as the rebel stumbled off–balance past her. Megan lifted her right foot and stamped it down on the inside of the soldier’s left knee, snapping the tendons within like dry twigs. The rebel screamed and collapsed into a heap in the snow, bellowing expletives.

Megan felt the butt of a rifle smash between her shoulder blades with so much force that she thought it might have burst out of her chest. Her vision starred and she sank to her knees in time for a second rebel to punch her full in the face. Megan twisted painfully onto her back in the snow once more. The rebel with the bloody poncho and bandana appeared above her again, glowering with malice as he stamped one boot down onto Megan’s chest and raised his rifle above Megan’s skull.

The gunshot sounded as though it had come from within Megan’s own throbbing head. Megan watched the towering rebel spin backwards and away to fall to the earth. She turned her head to see Callum still lying on his back in the snow alongside her, holding his smoking pistol in his right hand.

The rebels began screaming and shouting, raising their rifles and backing away, Callum pointing the pistol threateningly at them.

‘Belaye! Belaye!’

The roaring voice drowned out the shouts of the rebels, and Megan turned as the bearded NCO appeared from nearby, limping slightly from a leg wound but still standing. He fought his way across the street, one hand stemming the flow of blood from his thigh, and came to stand over Megan and Callum.

Megan looked into the man’s eyes for a long beat, trying to ignore the pounding in her skull and the taste of blood on her lips, and then spoke softly to Callum.

‘Give him your gun.’ Callum did not respond, and Megan shot him an urgent look. ‘Do it!’

Callum gritted his teeth before finally flipping the pistol in his hand and offering it to the NCO. The bearded Mordanian looked at the weapon for a moment and then reached out and snatched it from Callum’s grasp.

He then turned to his men and barked a stern order to them. They responded instantly but sullenly, lifting Megan and Bolav to their feet and binding their wrists. Callum was eased upright into a sitting position, and a medic advanced to squat beside him with a small box of bandages.