Rotten Gods Read Online Free
same disorientation. Images.Visions. Passing into the cortex but not responded to. The sound of hydraulic motors and moving machinery.
Dreamlike and surreal. The control room goes from order to chaos. Chairs crash sideways. Nikulinaâs coffee falls, droplets of brown liquid spilling up like high tide. Sunflowers in a vase on the sill. Shouts and running. The screen going blank as the man inside cuts off communications, leaving them blind.
Marika is unable to move, deep in a shocked spell she cannot break. A click as the giant door seals slide into place. A helpless cry from inside the room.
Silence from below as the protesters stop the shouting. Time passing. A cheer, stifled and high pitched from somewhere, then a crash. A burning vehicle on its side. Security forces trying to cordon off the complex, pushing the crowd away violently now. The sound of a gunshot, then another. A flush begins in her cheek and burns all the way across her neck and face.
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Marika runs down the steps, head pounding, mouth dry. Dr Abukarâs words ring in her ears: I have left samples of these explosives in my room on level three at the residential complex .
At the first checkpoint plastic chain gates have closed. An agitated security guard asks for identification, and they are forced to slow. Troops brandish automatic weapons, looking for a target. Marika gets through last, begrudging every moment of the slow examination of her ID.
Nikulina and three young Dubai policemen are ahead of her now, down the long corridor into the residential complex. Marika makes up ground on the straight, then turns into the stairwell, faster than an elevator for just a couple of floors. The steel capped shoes of the men in front ring on the marble steps.
Reaching the floor above, swinging onto the next flight of stairs, Marika recognises the danger. Dr Abukar will not wait for forensics and processing labs to test his samples. The demonstration of the efficacy of his explosives will, by necessity, be immediate. God, how can such a gentle man do this?
âStop!â she screams at the others, but the sound of echoing feet drowns her out. She tries again, throat tearing with the strain, then attempts to move faster, knowing that the men ahead are as fit as she, and probably a little quicker.
What had he said that morning? Fifty million people unable to procure sufficient calories to sustain themselves. Is this his way of redressing the balance?
The sound of a door opening so hard that the handle pounds against the wall. Footsteps receding. Marika makes the third floor in time to see two figures sprint away down the carpeted corridor.
âStop!â she tries again.
Marika comes around the corner as Nikulina opens the door to room 308. He is two paces inside when there is a roar, and a flash of light, the explosion slamming him back against the corridor wall, collecting a Dubai police sergeant on the way. Marikaâs ears ring, and her feet falter from the proximity to the blast. An explosive stench fills the air, mingling with the burned pork smell of Nikulina, his body and clothes smoking.
Sirens whoop through the sudden stillness. Hesitating at the door, Marika clears her head and charges inside. Blackened, cracked, sagging plaster. Shattered windows. Flames scale the curtains like rope climbers. Cotton bed sheets smoulder. No sign of human presence.
Out in the corridor men scream for medics. Others move inside. Marika backs away, eyes streaming from the gatheringsmoke, throat burning. Forensics will comb the room. There will be nothing to find here until they have done their work.
From deep within rises a terrible and irrepressible guilt. One man is dead. One injured. More will surely follow.
Â
The nine mujahedin stroll through the checkpoints like celebrities. Some are pale skinned, some dark. Most wear full beards, jeans, T-shirts, and light jackets.
Marika stands back with the rest of the security staff, lining the
Dreamlike and surreal. The control room goes from order to chaos. Chairs crash sideways. Nikulinaâs coffee falls, droplets of brown liquid spilling up like high tide. Sunflowers in a vase on the sill. Shouts and running. The screen going blank as the man inside cuts off communications, leaving them blind.
Marika is unable to move, deep in a shocked spell she cannot break. A click as the giant door seals slide into place. A helpless cry from inside the room.
Silence from below as the protesters stop the shouting. Time passing. A cheer, stifled and high pitched from somewhere, then a crash. A burning vehicle on its side. Security forces trying to cordon off the complex, pushing the crowd away violently now. The sound of a gunshot, then another. A flush begins in her cheek and burns all the way across her neck and face.
Â
Marika runs down the steps, head pounding, mouth dry. Dr Abukarâs words ring in her ears: I have left samples of these explosives in my room on level three at the residential complex .
At the first checkpoint plastic chain gates have closed. An agitated security guard asks for identification, and they are forced to slow. Troops brandish automatic weapons, looking for a target. Marika gets through last, begrudging every moment of the slow examination of her ID.
Nikulina and three young Dubai policemen are ahead of her now, down the long corridor into the residential complex. Marika makes up ground on the straight, then turns into the stairwell, faster than an elevator for just a couple of floors. The steel capped shoes of the men in front ring on the marble steps.
Reaching the floor above, swinging onto the next flight of stairs, Marika recognises the danger. Dr Abukar will not wait for forensics and processing labs to test his samples. The demonstration of the efficacy of his explosives will, by necessity, be immediate. God, how can such a gentle man do this?
âStop!â she screams at the others, but the sound of echoing feet drowns her out. She tries again, throat tearing with the strain, then attempts to move faster, knowing that the men ahead are as fit as she, and probably a little quicker.
What had he said that morning? Fifty million people unable to procure sufficient calories to sustain themselves. Is this his way of redressing the balance?
The sound of a door opening so hard that the handle pounds against the wall. Footsteps receding. Marika makes the third floor in time to see two figures sprint away down the carpeted corridor.
âStop!â she tries again.
Marika comes around the corner as Nikulina opens the door to room 308. He is two paces inside when there is a roar, and a flash of light, the explosion slamming him back against the corridor wall, collecting a Dubai police sergeant on the way. Marikaâs ears ring, and her feet falter from the proximity to the blast. An explosive stench fills the air, mingling with the burned pork smell of Nikulina, his body and clothes smoking.
Sirens whoop through the sudden stillness. Hesitating at the door, Marika clears her head and charges inside. Blackened, cracked, sagging plaster. Shattered windows. Flames scale the curtains like rope climbers. Cotton bed sheets smoulder. No sign of human presence.
Out in the corridor men scream for medics. Others move inside. Marika backs away, eyes streaming from the gatheringsmoke, throat burning. Forensics will comb the room. There will be nothing to find here until they have done their work.
From deep within rises a terrible and irrepressible guilt. One man is dead. One injured. More will surely follow.
Â
The nine mujahedin stroll through the checkpoints like celebrities. Some are pale skinned, some dark. Most wear full beards, jeans, T-shirts, and light jackets.
Marika stands back with the rest of the security staff, lining the
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