It was murder of course — civilians dying by the thousands, contrary to all rules of warfare. But Cole saw it with the clinical eye of a professional and did not invest the view with emotion. His ex-fiancée would have had a comment about that. You’re cold and calculating, Ruth had told him more than once. Analytical and careful, he had said, but he thought, ironically, that that was a reply delivered with no real emotion; it was simply constructed as a response. Maybe he was a coldhearted bastard after all.
Cole whipped the MG back and forth, trying to avoid debris scattered in the street, racing frantically to get to Rebecca’s. He’d followed the course of the bombers as he drove to his flat and suddenly realized that they were headed for Rebecca’s portion of the city. She was at home — he knew that she was there because he had called her, wanting to talk about the other day, but she had said that there was nothing to talk about and that she would have to be going soon anyway. She was at home — directly in the path of the attack.
A bomb suddenly landed in a house ahead and Cole saw a section of a wall begin to totter. He knew it was going to fall in the street. It was going to fall on him. He downshifted and steered the car up on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. He heard a tire blow and he was pretty sure because of the terrific jolt he felt when he hit the curb that he’d broken a spring as well.
He saw the section of wall slowly detach itself from the burning house and begin to fall. Cole tried quickly calculating how much room he had to clear the wall — when the wall would land, where it would land.
He watched in disbelief, as the falling section seemed to grow larger, the disintegrating brick monolith trailing a swirling veil of red dust, reaching out to crush him. The MG shuddered valiantly through the debris, bumping over bricks, timbers, and bits of people’s lives scattered on the sidewalk.
Cole was under the wall, caught in its shadow. He could sense it falling on him, feel its presence grow as it pushed the air out of its way in an attempt to reach him.
He was through.
The world exploded behind him. He felt the MG shake from the concussion and he was enveloped in a cloud of dust so thick he could not see where he was driving. But worse, he could not breathe as the thickness filled his mouth and nostrils. He saw a lorry in front of him and he tried to swerve to miss it, but the MG did not respond. He slammed on the brakes and skidded into the heavy rear wheels of the vehicle. He was dazed but he managed to climb from the vehicle.
He looked around to get his bearings and heard the drone of aircraft engines. He had to get to Rebecca’s house. If he was caught out in the streets he wouldn’t last five minutes.
Cole was three blocks from Warren Square and sanctuary when he began to run. He could hear the demonic whistle of the bombs falling from the sky and then the blast as they crashed into the ground, spewing debris into the air. The horizon was a false sunset with a red and orange tint, flickering as fires raged throughout the city. Above it was the true sky, a natural blue perverted by columns of dirty smoke that rose as monuments to destruction.
Cole tasted the dust and the smoke stung his eyes and nostrils and he heard the frantic clanging of the fire bells. He knew that firemen dressed in long coats and archaic helmets, like those worn by ancient warriors, were out, fighting the fires. But it was no use — the fires were too numerous and widespread and the gallant men in their quaint little helmets must have known that they could not win.
He saw Rebecca’s house and ran across the square, barely avoiding a speeding fire truck. He bounded up the few stairs and tried the handle. The door was locked.
Cole looked up and saw another wave of enemy bombers headed toward him, their throbbing engines echoing off the buildings.
“Rebecca?” he shouted, pounding on the door. “Rebecca? Open the door.” He slammed against it in desperation but it wouldn’t budge. “Rebecca!” He jammed his elbow into the narrow windowpane, breaking the glass. He reached through and found the lock. He flipped it and threw the door open. “Rebecca? Where are you?” He heard the rumble of the approaching planes and knew that they had only moments to reach a shelter. The flak guns began firing, sharp cracks that increased in tempo as they found the range.
“Rebecca?” he called, moving into the drawing room from the hall. He saw her, a filthy, dust-covered ball curled up in the corner, her head pressed tightly between her knees.
He ran over to her and grabbed her wrist. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”
She jerked free and pushed herself back into the corner like a trapped animal, trembling. Rebecca was wild with fright and began to bat and scratch at Cole. He tried to trap her in his arms and lift her to her feet as he heard the bombers getting closer. They were out of time.
“You’re going to get killed unless you get your ass moving. Now get up!” He tried to lock his arms around her waist, but she fought back, slapping at him.
“Leave me be,” she screamed at him. “Go away!”
He stopped and looked up, as if he could see through the roof of the old building, as if the bombers were visible. It was the high-pitched whine of the falling bombs that stopped him. The bombers were here.
Cole’s eyes searched the drawing room and through the open French doors, the dining room, looking for some protection. He made his decision.
He ran into the dining room and pulled the heavy oak table into the opening between the two rooms. With the heavy table and the load-bearing overhead they might just have a chance.
He heard the bombs exploding and the house shook heavily in response.
He took Rebecca by the wrists, jerked her to her feet, and dragged her to the makeshift bomb shelter.
The front windows disintegrated with a blast as Cole pulled Rebecca to the floor and rolled under the table.
The house trembled and clouds of dust filled the room as the world outside exploded. Cole pulled Rebecca close to him as she screamed in fright, her body shaking. The bombs were a constant crescendo, one melting into another until it seemed that there was nothing but one deafening rumble, punctuated only by the high-pitched whistle of the falling bombs or the screams of the terrified little form in his arms. He heard things falling, crashing — he heard the destruction of the world and it went on.
He realized that he was trembling as well and he pulled Rebecca closer. He did not feel frightened, he did not think that he was frightened, but his body shook uncontrollably. He saw Rebecca’s face, saw the tears slowly sliding over her checks, and began frantically kissing her hair and face, hoping to drive the fear away, trying to tell her that he was here, that everything was going to be all right. He tasted dust, tears, and sweat and his kisses became more passionate. She responded and suddenly her mouth was on his and her arms clenched so tightly around him that he found it difficult to breathe.
The explosions continued and the air became heavy with a thick fog of plaster dust. The heavy table bounced into the air several times from the impact on the foundation of the house, and Cole felt the floor shift with each explosion.
Then it was silent in their little shelter.
They lay still and outside all that remained was the mad clanging of the fire engines, the shouts of people, and the roar of a hundred fires. Cole inhaled a mouthful of dust and began coughing uncontrollably. “Are you all right?” he finally managed.
“Yes,” came the muffled reply, her face pressed against him. “I think so.” Rebecca pulled away from him. “I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”