SWNOVELS Chapter CHAPTER TEN
The Rogues attack
The thirteen rogues, six BLM terrorists, and all seven Jihadists including their leader Abdul Jawaad, drove northwards through the night. They arrived several hours before dawn, and had recovered their defiant attitudes as they drove. They were very different indeed, the Muslims speaking in their desert tongue amongst themselves, and the blacks jabbering in their nearly unintelligible dialect of pidgin English.
Only Abdul understood English, and he could make out enough of the blacks incredibly profane speech patterns to know that there could be no long term alliance between the two groups. He gripped his rifle tightly at the endless profanity against God, mothers, and women, and resolved not to reveal what these black men spoke of to those he commanded of the faithful until the time was right.
The thirteen men had approached the reservation of the Ojibwe and the tribe’s adopted son Wulf the barbarian from the western side. Driving up with their headlights off, they then coasted, engine off, down a long, dirt pathed grade through wide fields, until they came to the line of heavy woods that marked the edge of the Ojibwe nation. Gliding softly to a stop, Abdul put his finger to his lips, signaling silence.
The moon was full, and although it was summer, the air was quite chill. “You men,” he addressed the blacks, “we shall all go to destroy as many of these infidels as we can, under cover of darkness. Undoubtedly, the attack by the police has decimated the Indians by now, and probably Wulf Gott is dead.” ‘Allah will that he is still living, so that I may send him to hell!’ he thought fervently to himself.
He had already spoken of the attack plan to his own men, so they understood. “These primitives will never know what is hitting them!” he said, beckoning to the men outside of the van, who followed him quietly in a line into the trees. Flecks of moonlight penetrated between the boles of the trees, dappling the darkness with small patches of silvery light.
Sounds of wildlife were all about them, with insect noise vying with that of nocturnal birds and other night hunters. The Islamic terrorists were from a desert clime, and knew nothing of cold and the woods, and were out of their element entirely. The blacks were even worse off, since all were lifelong urban dwellers, with no knowledge of any form of living away from the streets of a crowded city. All of them were scared, but of course none would ever acknowledge that they were.
Only Abdul perfectly kept his cool. As the veteran of many terrorist attacks, and as one who had killed countless men, women, and children without remorse, he considered himself the perfect warrior. Also, he reflected on the many automatic weapons that he and his crew were carrying, and smiled a thin smile. He imagined the few hunting rifles and pistols that the tribal people would be likely to own, and really started feeling quite cheerful.
Abdul pictured the scene as he imagined it- a large clearing, probably, with ramshackle buildings and cabins, maybe even tents. Sleeping families, probably trying to forget how they had been attacked and how their brother Wulf and his closest associates all had been taken back to jail. Licking their wounds, unsuspecting of another threat creeping towards them through the night- a band of rogues much more vicious and unprincipled than the police and the soldiers of the infidels; a group of men intent on righteous vengeance against those profane nonworshippers of Allah!
“Hoo! Hoo!” echoed through the forest, and it was answered by another owl to the left of the band toiling through the woods. Although they were sure they were being utterly quiet, the band of rogues made more noise that any true wilderness dweller would ever make. Every creature in the forest was aware of their intrusion, from the tiniest squirrel in a tree to humans- suddenly, in complete silence, a gleaming form of blackness shot from a tree branch overhead, landing on the neck and back of the terrorist at the very end of the line. He screamed, and the rest whirled about, rifles raised.
Several of the men opened up at once, pulling the triggers of their automatic weapons. But, instead of the expected fusillade of shots echoing through the forest, these was just the sounds of many ‘clicks’. The black panther, unimpeded, quickly tore out the throat of the downed terrorist as he lay atop him on the forest path, and then looked towards the rest of the men. Several lifted rifles by the barrel to club the animal, who regarded them with snarling lips curled back over its white fangs. But, before they could even move to attack the panther, the animal supply leaped away into the darkness and was gone, leaving only one dusky form lying in a pool of spreading crimson.
The twelve remaining men were badly shaken. Not only had a wild animal attacked and killed one of them, unprovoked, but all of their weapons had jammed at once! ‘How could Allah permit this thing?’ thought the six jihadists. The blacks knew nothing of God, but to them this was bad luck beyond reason, and they also suspected that this forest was haunted! Only Abdul Jawaad remained totally in control of himself.
“Let’s go!” he said with steely resolve. “Bad luck is all, the big cat must have been rabid, to attack this large of a party. We are lucky that it bit no one else, even slightly. The dampness must have affected out weapons- let’s strip them down, clean them, and reload- it’s lucky, really, that we discovered this before we reached the village!” And so, the men all sat down on the earth, to clean and reload their weapons by the light of the full moon, hoping another attack would not come until their weapons were once again functional.
After a bit, they were off again, slinking along the forest pathway with greater caution than before, but more confident now. Abdul had personally inspected each gun of his men, and satisfied himself that the actions were functioning perfectly, and that there could be no more misfiring. He was sure now of no more bad surprises- just a quick attack, and the satisfaction he always felt when bodies fell under the impact of an attack by himself and his men.
Just then, something whirred past his face, and he heard a muffled curse from the black man behind him, followed by a scream of horror. “Mothu-f!!” screamed the black man, as he clutched at something at his throat. A huge bat had landed there, and sunk its fangs deep within. The man beat at it, clawed at it, and finally hurled it away, where it flitted off into the woods. But not before it had torn a huge gash into his throat! He sank to his knees as the blood gushed between his clutching fingers, and fell to his face, kicking out his life on the forest floor.
Once again it was quiet. The blacks looked all about them, their eyes rolling whitely in their heads, and the jihadists fell to their knees, beating their heads on the ground in frantic worship of Allah. They were all on the verge of panicking and running, but once again Abdul stepped in. “Bad luck! That is all- get back in line, and follow me. We will make those Indians, and especially the barbarian pay for this!!” He pulled several of his own men up, and hit a black man with his rifle barrel who looked as if he was ready to bolt away into the woods. “NOW!” he hissed. “Double time- to the camp, where we slay, and then leave this wilderness hellhole!”
And the men, 6 ISIS and 5 BLM, all followed their appointed leader, Abdul Jawaad, at a jog-trot through the woodland path. The flowing robes of the ISIS terrorists billowed about them as they ran, and the Black Lives Matter men, dressed in expensive and gaudy designer clothing, gold chains and watches gleaming in the moonlight along with their modern weaponry, made an anachronistic parade in that utterly primeval forest.