Turning the Knives 4

Michael turned to see a narrow, powerful spotlight beam lancing down towards him from the dam wall.

“Get down,” came Nigel’s shout.

Michael instinctively leapt to the floor, moments before machinegun fire erupted above. Bullets clanged off the body of his car, while he squished himself up against the pedals.

“Shit,” Michael screamed involuntarily. A bullet hole appeared in the door next to him, accompanied by a rip in the seat cover. Then another. The door offered no protection against bullets.

Michael flung the door open and tumbled out into the wet grass. His stomach felt like it was full of lead. His jaws locked together in fear as bullets hissed through the grass. He grasped the soggy ground and dragged himself under the car. Water slid down the inside of his jumper as he pulled himself along, and he shivered out of cold and fear.

Finally he made it to the other side of the car.

“Mike,” came a whispered crackle on the two-way. Michael looked to where his family lay in the swamp. Gaea lay on her side, hands covering her head. Annabelle was praying, and Nigel on his hands and knees looking at Michael. A stray bullet splashed some mud onto his face, and he recoiled.

“Dad,” said Michael, “come on.”

“No,” said Nigel. “They can’t see us in these reeds. If we move we’re dead.” There was the sound of heavy breathing and sobs in the background of the transmission. “The gun’s in the Hilux.”

“Okay.” Michael knew what he had to do.

He crawled to the front of his car. The gunfire had subsided now. Without checking for danger, he dashed across the two metres separating the cars. Immediately, a volley of bullets headed his way. A leap, and he was safely behind the Hilux. Bullets pinged on the tray and splashed into the swamp.

“Mikey,” said a high voice from inside. His grandmother.

Michael pulled the back door open. Valeska was huddled up on the floor, with Gabriel’s face buried in her jumper.

“Where’s the gun?” Michael said, his voice shaking uncontrollably.

“In the front,” said Valeska. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” said Michael, slamming the door. He opened the front door and retrieved the rifle from its place, leaning against the passenger seat. The metal barrel sucked the warmth from his hands.

In the dark, he cocked the gun, and fumbled for the safety catch. He then crawled to the back of the Hilux. Light beams jerked across the ground in front of him. One passed over the ute. Michael closed his eyes. Apprehension clouded his mind. Killing. Could he do it?

He had to. His family’s lives depended on it. In a single, adrenaline fuelled moment, Michael stood up, looked through the scope, found one of the soldiers who was at the bottom of the dam bank, and shot him dead. The crack stung his unprotected ear, and the rifle stock butted him in the shoulder.

A thick burst of bullets sliced over the ute as Michael ducked. This was not like the fox hunting that had perfected his aim. For one, he was the fox.

Michael pulled back the bolt, and the spent .223 cartridge fell to the grass. A push forward, and the gun was ready to take its next life. Michael’s heart pounded as rapidly as the machineguns above.

“Mike, one of them is off the dam bank and heading towards you. Shoot him under the car.”

Michael lay down on his belly. Grass brushed against his cheeks. The soldier’s movement was illuminated by the Sierra’s headlights. He pulled the legs of the bipod out to full extension, rested them on the ground, and raised his eye to the scope. A single raindrop rested on the lens.

His heart thudded. His breathing was fast. The scope moved accordingly. Michael sucked in, and then held his breath. The legs came closer, moving the way only a soldier walks. Michael put the scope on them, and squeezed the trigger.

With a loud crack, the man fell to the ground, his shinbone smashed out from underneath him. He screamed, and groped at the tall grass, somewhat like a shot rabbit trying to scrape its way back to its burrow, only to die a long, painful death. Another shot made the body still.

“There’s one more up on the dam wall still,” said Nigel. “It looks like he’s got you pinned. He’s aiming right at you.”

“What do I do,” said Michael.

There was a long silence.

“I’ll distract him,” said Nigel. “I’ll make a run for the Sierra. As soon as you hear him shooting you nail ‘im.”

“But...”

“Do it. I’m about to run.”

Michael steeled himself. A few seconds later, he heard the machinegun start up again. He stood up, and put his eye to the scope. It was easy to find the target because of his searchlight. Squeeze the trigger.

Nothing.

“Bugger,” Michael whispered to himself. He’d forgotten to cock the gun. He desperately pulled back the bolt, and then pushed it forward. It wouldn’t go into position. It was stuck.

“Come on,” he said, jerking the bolt back and forwards. He could hear Nigel’s sloshy scurrying across the marsh.

The bolt finally moved forwards under brute force, pushing the bullet into the chamber. He aimed the gun at the last soldier on the hill.

He heard a body thud to the ground just before he fired. Dad. Without looking to see if his shot had hit, he dashed towards where he’d heard Nigel fall. He cursed himself. Stupid!

He saw the dark shape of his father move. God, he’s still alive, this is going to be messy, he thought.

“Dad,” he shouted as he crouched down next to Nigel.

“Take your bloody time why don’t ya,” said Nigel.

“You’re okay?” said Michael.

“No thanks to you.”

Michael threw his arms around his father. “I thought they hit you when I heard you hit the ground.”

“Almost. Don’t go to Texas Mike, you’re not exactly a quick draw.”

Michael couldn’t help but laugh with joy, despite his father’s insults. Nigel was alive!

“Michael, are you okay?” said Anabelle, emerging from the mire.

Strangely, he did feel okay. He felt no pity for the soldiers he’d killed. Was he a cold blooded killer? He’d never struck himself as one.

“Come on,” said Nigel, “we have to go. The soldiers on Baldwin’s property would’ve heard that.”

Michael handed the rifle to Nigel and got back in his car. He turned the key and took off as soon as the engine had started. The convoy reached the bottom of the farm and turned out onto the gravel road.

Michael’s hands shook. It felt like his brain was going faster than his body could keep up with. He needed something to calm him down. He opened the glove box and grabbed the top CD off the stack. It had Pink Floyd scrawled across it in black permanent marker. He shoved it into the slot and hit shuffle. A few moments later, a song began playing. Run Like Hell - How apt.