Page 19 of The Savage

The fire comes back to me all at once, the heat, the choking smoke, the faceless silhouettes moving through the flames. I taste ash.

A thud hits my door and my mind blanks.

Another and the hinges scream and splinter.

A boot slams and the door flies off its hinges, slamming to the floor with a thunder crack.

My scream is lodged in my throat as the first figure fills the doorway. A giant dark shape in black armour and a balaclava, his rifle catching the candlelight. Another follows, then another. Five shadows in total, their steps measured, precise, terrifyingly silent.

‘Who – who are you?’ The words tumble out, thin and useless. ‘What do you want?’

No one answers.

One gestures; another sweeps the room, clearing corners with studied efficiency that would make Madre Superiora proud.

Madre Superiora! Where is she? What’s happened to my sisters?

I try to stand, to dart past them to the gaping hole that was once my door, but the nearest one is already beside me. A gloved hand catches my arm – firm but not cruel – and something cold presses against my skin. Plastic restraint.

‘What are you doing?’ I say again, voice shaking. No answer. ‘Please. I don’t understand.’

The man closest hesitates a fraction of a second. Then he pulls a small device from his vest, flicks a switch. ‘Target secure.’

A woman’s voice crackles through it, distorted but calm. ‘Proceed to extraction.’

Extraction. The word chills me.

They move like a single body, swift and methodical. One of them opens the chest at the foot of my bed, snags a pillow case and begins tossing in my few possessions – habit, rosary, the wooden cross, hairbrush, even my threadbare shoes. They don’t miss a thing.

Tears blur my vision. ‘Where are you taking me?’

Still nothing.

One of them reaches for me again, producing a black hood from his pack. I twist away from him, attempting to evade him even with my panic rising.

‘Stop! Don’t⁠—’

The fabric descends, rough and heavy, and the world goes dark.

I try to launch myself away from him but it’s no use. I feel myself lifted as my breath snags somewhere between a sob and a prayer. Hands support me, propel me through the space with sure steps, their grip absolute. My feet barely touch the ground as they carry me down the hall.

I catch fragments of other sounds – the weeping of a sister, the hiss of a radio, the dull mechanical hum of engines outside.

From routine, I know we’re in the inner courtyard when fresh air hits and permeates the cloth covering my face.

Half a minute later, we’re outside the walls of the sleeping quarters but still within the safety – well, the not so safe – confines of the convent.

But fear seeps into my very bones when the smell of diesel and grass hits my nose.

And the night erupts in wind.

No, no, no, please, dear Father, let this be a bad dream.

But the deafening chop of rotor blades battering the sky only grows, until the vibration shakes through my ribs.

A gruff male voice shouts, ‘Clear the courtyard!’ in a tone that doesn’t belong to anyone but a commander. I stumble as they half-carry, half-drag me across open ground. The hood presses against my mouth; I can’t breathe properly, can’t see, can only feel the gale of the helicopter wash flattening my nightdress against my body.

Dear God, I’m only wearing my thin nightdress.