A warm reception

CHAPTER 10

A warm reception

Friedrich and Erika curiously observed the town. The windmill had a hypnotising effect that made them feel calmed by just seeing it. The everyday life in the town kept its natural course. The baker opened the door to his establishment and the smell of the freshly baked bread flooded the noses of both Erika and Friedrich. The smith casually lit his enormous oven and accommodated his work tools. Various peasants went out of their homes to the crowded wheat camps with their tools in hand. Another routinary start in the pacific life of Weizensburg. The tranquillity of the town took the pair in giving them a strange sensation of home, they could not explain why, but it did not bother them.

The train station found itself a few metres from where they were. The next departure would be at six o’clock in the afternoon; it was five and a half. They didn’t have any urgency, the path was cleared and it appeared that there wasn’t much demand for the tickets. Friedrich raised his feet to give the first step towards the train station. He felt a strong shaking that rose a cloud of dust under his sole, followed by a roar that resounded on the pairs’ eardrums.

Friedrich froze for an instant, he knew perfectly what that meant: “They found us!”. Instinctively he threw himself at Erika like a spring and rolled on the ground while another cloud of dust raised a few centimetres away from their heads. He clumsily stood up with Erika and looked around him, the blacksmith's workshop was at scarce metres with massive anvils: perfect cover. Without thinking twice, he took her hand and started running for it as if he was possessed. Erika could barely process what was happening. Friedrich forcefully lowered her behind one of the anvils.

“Stay here and whatever happens, whatever you hear, do not move. Don’t even peek. I’ll be back for you once everything has passed.”

“You’re nuts if you think that I’m going to stay here sitting arms crossed while..”

“Don’t move from here.” The tone with which Friedrich spoke went beyond imperative; it was menacing. His stare like a rabid animal made Erika desist who just sighed out of frustration.

“But I could be of help… I can..,” her voice tone was getting more and more muffled while Friedrich persisted with his stare. “All right, I’ll stay.” Erika with a submissive tone nodded to the order.

Now nothing interposed between Friedrich and his enemy. He got up and left for the next cover on a street that he found some metres away. Without any doubt, he drew his revolver out of the holster and gave a quick inspection of the six chambers, all of them loaded.

He peeked out his head and managed to see a flash on top of the windmill, immediately a whistle was heard and he felt a slight scratch tight millimetres on his cheek banging behind him. He returned his head to cover and took a deep breath, then he peeked to look at his surroundings; he was on an alleyway perpendicular to the main street, at the end of which was the windmill. Scattered throughout the main street there were different wooden carts; some with sacks and others with barrels on top of them. He threw himself into a roll behind one of the carts while another shot missed.

On top of the windmill was the man with the moustache, carrying a heavy rifle whose muzzle was still letting out smoke. The man introduced another projectile the length of his hand and two fingers wide inside the rifle’s breach and he pulled the lever upwards to close it. With a sadistic smile, he regained a shooting stance and aimed at the cart closest to the alleyway.

Friedrich needed a distance of at least a hundred metres to have a chance to hit with his revolver; he had to shorten the distance by about fifty metres. Using the carts as cover he would perhaps have a chance, it was the less risky alternative.

One projectile struck the cart destroying it in an instant and raising a cloud of flour which upon inserting itself on his mouth and nose made him cough desperately. It had been close, a few more centimetres and it’d be a cloud of blood. Out of the destroyed cart, a small pressure cooker fell at his feet. That gave him an idea. He took it and took advantage of the cloud which was starting to dissipate to get out of his cover into another cart as fast as thunder. He ran and slid to the next closest cart. A hundred and twenty metres away now.

He broke a piece of the carriage using the revolver and opened up one of the flour sacks that he had above. He took a fistful and filled up half of the pot, he tore off a piece of the sack and placed it as a cap on top of the flour, then he filled up the rest of the pot with powder from his flask until it reached to the top; finally, he placed the pot’s cover and using the revolver’s grip as a hammer, he deformed the pot so it would stay sealed. Now the next step in his plan was the riskiest part.

He jumped out of his cover with a front-roll, he ran another twenty-five metres and threw himself into the next cart; another thunder resounded leaving a small dust explosion behind Friedrich, this time it was closer. Ninety-five metres remain between his opponent and him. Now he had a small window of opportunity to take a shot. He pulled the hammer and it answered with the metallic “Click!” The perfect moment to use the cooking pot, he took it from the handle and threw it with all of his strength to the top of the windmill.

The moustache man curiously observed how the pot got closer, but afterwards, he decided to ignore it and keep aiming his giant rifle; he knew it was a diversion. Friedrich got out of his cover and stood firm amid the street, like a duelist. At that moment a cutting sound was heard, like a projectile, Friedrich noticed that something had impacted the moustache man’s rifle, he couldn’t see clearly what happened. The man’s shot was about to scratch Friedrich’s left cheek. The cooking pot was about to fall on top of the windmill although it was a few metres short. It was going to fall to the ground without even touching the windmill. Friedrich raised his right arm and pulled the trigger. The projectile hit the upper part of the pot and gave it the push needed to reach the roof, while the friction of the metal made a small spark. The pot exploded making a cloud of flour and unburnt powder. The moustache man started coughing uncontrollably and before noticing, Friedrich had shortened the distance to thirty-five lethal metres; his eyes widened in realisation. Two shots were heard and in a matter of seconds, it was followed by a fall from the top.

The moustache man lay down with a hole on his left knee and his right shoulder, his nose and mouth were pouring out a blood cascade. He heard how his adversary approached slowly. Friedrich pulled the hammer once more.

“Who are you? How many of you are there? And how did you find us?” he asked with a serious expression, with the eyes of an animal that did not hesitate to pull the trigger.

The moustache man coughed up some drops of blood and started laughing. Friedrich raised his arm and aimed at his forehead with the cold muzzle.

“We’re the seven alqatilat nukhba… everyone’s looking for you… it’s only a matter of time…” he started laughing, ignoring completely the fact that he had a revolver aiming at him. “That’s right… only a matter of time…”

“What’s your name?” Friedrich asked, looking at his eyes.

“Zeffcan.”

A third shot was heard and silence came back.