Дэвид Муди - Hater

The soldiers continue to march alongside us, keeping their distance most of the time but occasionally hitting and shoving those of us who move too slowly or who stumble out of line. Just ahead another one of the men who travelled in the same truck as me drops to the ground. He’s old and tired and he lies on the gravel track sobbing. I keep walking — I have no choice — and I listen as one of the soldiers yells at him to get back to his feet and keep moving. I wish I could do something to help. I daren’t look round. I hear a single gunshot close behind me and I know that his suffering is over. My fury now feels harder than ever to contain. Despite my exhaustion the urge to turn on these soldiers and fight them — to kill them — is growing stronger by the minute and is almost impossible to suppress. It’s only the obvious fact that any reaction would inevitably be the last thing I do that keeps me in line.

We’ve stopped again.

Almost as quickly as the movement began it now ends. I have no idea how far we’ve moved. I don’t know how much closer to it I now am but I assume the people at the front of the queue have finally been led down the track towards the entrance to the building.

41

Christ it’s cold.

The cloud cover has lifted slightly and, for a while at least, the rain has finally eased. The building up ahead has been illuminated by a series of bright floodlights which shine up from the ground and make it look like some bloody gothic cathedral or fortress. Although I can see it more clearly now I still have no idea what the purpose of it is. Is it some kind of quarantine centre? None of this makes any sense. If they’ve brought us out here to kill us then why not just do it? Why waste all this time and manpower keeping us in line and collecting up bodies? For some of the poor bastards here in the line with me a bullet in the head would be a relief. But maybe that’s what this is all about? Maybe they just want us to suffer?

After hours of inactivity we’ve now made three sudden stop-start shifts forward. This time I counted the number of steps I took. I think we moved about a hundred paces forward. Logic says a similar number of people have just disappeared into the building up ahead of us.

Another convoy of recently-emptied trucks thunders past. Another few hundred people added to the end of the queue.

The noise of the trucks quickly fades into the distance but I can hear something else now. I can hear a plane, and the sound of its powerful engines many miles above us makes me realise just how quiet the rest of the world has become. The plane is moving with incredible speed. It must be a jet or something similar. I’m wary about making any sudden movements and looking to the sky but I can’t help myself. Keeping my head as still as possible and just moving my eyes I search the heavens. And then I see it. A dark metal blur which races at a phenomenal velocity across the horizon from right to left. Even some of the soldiers have become distracted now.

Now there’s a second noise. A belly-rumbling roar which I can feel through the ground beneath my feet. This noise comes from a different direction. It seems to swirl and drift in the wind before becoming louder and more definite. It’s coming from behind us. I look up and watch as a single flash of light sears through the darkness miles above our heads, racing towards the jet in the distance. Was it another jet? A missile?

It can only last for a few seconds but the delay feels like forever. I watch the white light in the sky as it hurtles towards the jet and then crashes into it, taking it out with incredible, pin-point precision. For a second a huge ball of expanding orange flame hangs in the purple sky. It has all but disappeared by the time the thundering rumble of the explosion reaches us.

We shuffle forward again.

I’m another few meters closer to the building but, for once, what’s waiting in there for me is not what I’m thinking about. Instead I’m trying to work out what I’ve just seen happen. Regardless of who was flying the plane and who launched the missile, that was a purposeful and very definite attack and it finally gives me a little glimmer of hope. Someone, somewhere is still fighting.

42

The fear and panic in this part of the queue has reached an unbearable level. We’re still moving. A relentless on-off shuffle down towards the building in the field. The nervousness of the soldiers around us seems to have increased too.

Is this a slaughterhouse? Are we going to be neutered? Have they developed a ‘cure’ to make us like them again? Frightened thoughts rush through my mind at a thousand miles an hour as I get closer to the building. Whatever happens in there I know I’ve almost reached the inevitable end of my journey. The last day has been hell but I’d go through it all again to trade places with the person at the very back of this queue. I’d give anything to put off going through those dark doors in the near distance. Despite the fact that I’m surrounded by hundreds, probably thousands of people like me, I feel completely alone. Just a few days ago everything was relatively normal and all of this would have seemed impossible. A week ago today I was sitting in the pub with my family, oblivious to everything that was about to happen to us. I think about losing Liz and Harry and Ed and Josh and it’s difficult to contain my emotions. I think about Ellis and I feel like I’ve been stabbed through the heart.

We move along the road like we’re on a chain gang. All we’re missing is the shackles around our feet. Over the constant dragging sound of hundreds of exhausted footsteps I think I can hear something. There’s a noise in the distance. It’s quiet and indistinct but it’s definitely there. A deep, far-off rumbling. Is that thunder I can hear or something else? The rain continues to lash down all around me and the low light makes it all but impossible to see what’s happening away from the building.

Progress is slow but I wish it were slower still. I’m already halfway down the track which runs from the front of the building to the road and now, for the first time, I’m close enough to see some of what’s happening around the entrance. The track is packed solid with people who queue up behind some kind of heavily guarded canvas-covered checkpoint. It’s hard to see any detail, but from here it looks like an immigration control desk or customs point at an airport. A steady stream of people are moving past the checkpoint and are being herded into the main part of the building. They look over their shoulders in desperation as more rifle-wielding soldiers push and shove them forward. I don’t even want to think about what’s in there. One thing is painfully obvious — there’s no apparent way out. People are going in, but as far as I can see no-one’s coming out.

There’s now just a few short meters between where I’m standing and the checkpoint. Up ahead there’s more panic and confusion as someone breaks from the queue and attempts to run. This time they’re on their own. No-one else is running with them. The lone figure which sprints away in the direction of the towering silos to my left is brought down by a hail of bullets, far more than are necessary. And bizarrely, as soon as the body is on the ground more troopers scurry across the front of the building to collect it. Instead of leaving it where it fell they pick it up and, between them, carry it inside. What the hell are they doing?

There’s another noise in the distance. It has to be thunder.

We move forward again and now I’m close enough to hear some of the conversation at the checkpoint. My heart is beating at a hundred times its normal rate and my legs feel like they’re about to buckle and give way beneath me. This time it has nothing to do with my tiredness, this is sheer terror. I can feel the minutes of my life ticking away and I’m devastated that it’s going to end this way. Maybe I can attack, I think to myself again. Can I summon up the energy for a final strike? Am I ready to die fighting? This is my very last chance. I can see Patrick just ten people or so ahead of me. If I could somehow get his attention then just maybe together we could do something… Who am I kidding? I look at the nearest soldier with his rifle poised and ready to fire and I know that the odds are too one-sided to even dare consider. It would be over before I’d been able to kill even one of them.