The Uvalde Raider by Ben English (great books for teens TXT) 📕

him on. His form was masked in dark shadow and his face was indiscernible. Even if the language he used could not be understood, his manner and inflection were eerily effective in preying upon the gamut of raw emotions emanating from his mesmerized audience.

He spoke earnestly, passionately, and the millions who listened to him would begin marching in every direction on the dial of a compass. They would continue on purposefully in the form of the military goosestep, holding their right arms up and forward in salute to the man who spoke so forcefully and eloquently. Their lines were ruler straight, each a perfect reflection of the others to either side as well as to the front and behind.

They would march in robot-like precision until they came to the waiting fleets of heavy bombers, which sat on airfields amazingly large in size stretching as far as the eye could see. Amid the countless ranks he could see himself marching alongside the others as if in a deep trance, knowing that what he was doing was beyond reprehensible but unable to stop himself all the same. He would climb into the pilot’s seat, the engines would begin turning over one by one, and he and those with him would set out on yet another mission of mass murder.

All the while the sky grew a more lurid shade of red and the man, the one who controlled them all like some diabolical master of puppets watched their activity from afar, never stopping in his endless speech. No matter where they were going or how far, his presence loomed over the vast armada of killing machines and filled the heavens above them. When the bombs would drop the man would cease talking and gesticulating just long enough to smile widely and then hug himself in some sort of twisted self-rapture.

Then he would begin to speak again, faster and more emphatically. As he did so, his features became more distinguishable. He was in a uniform and was a person of rather small, frail stature with would have been, in another circumstance, a somewhat comical Chaplinesque moustache. In Ezekiel’s personal nightmare, the figure became distinct enough to identify the man so idolized by the adoring crowds as the one they called ‘Der Fuhrer,’ the demented, murderous leader of Nazi Germany who loomed so large in so many other people’s nightmares. It was the monster known to the world as Adolph Hitler.

But then another change came over the figure, it grew even larger and more ominous. The man, the uniform and everything around him slowly dissolved into multiple hues of red, purple and black, and the image of Hitler gave way to another form that could only be that of Satan himself. Through the transformation the voice continued on unabated; exhorting, encouraging, ordering and sometimes even using assorted threats to keep the masses focused on their horrifying, soul numbing task.

The cheering became ever wilder and more clamorous, as if the minds of a half billion people slipped the twin moorings of both sanity and common decency, and slid into the bottomless depths below. The visage, the prince of the power of the air who commanded it all began to transform again, and this time took on the features of the one known to Ezekiel Templar as Yahla al-Qassam.

Qassam…

The thought of the man, along with the mental image of the sinister shape in the nightmare, brought him to full consciousness. Ezekiel’s eyes fluttered open and he shifted his body abruptly without thinking, bringing forth shooting pain from his injured leg.

But he had to stop Qassam.

Ezekiel’s sudden movement startled the guard standing at the open doorway, who had apparently been watching the old colonel for some time now. He spoke quickly in Arabic to someone else in the adjoining room, which was followed by a brief pause and the sound of another voice giving out commands in return. It sounded like Qassam.

The Hezbollah guard remained at the door as one of the other terrorists stepped in, carrying an orange medical bag and a large canteen bladder. He walked over to Ezekiel and knelt down while reaching into a side pocket. Palming several pills in his right hand, he forced them into Ezekiel’s mouth and then held it shut until the old man managed to swallow them. Then the Shi’a allowed the elder Templar a long, greedy swig out of the water container. Ezekiel took in all that he could, trying to wash the bitter taste of the pills from his mouth and quench the desert-like thirst that permeated his body.

After allowing him to take his fill, the Lebanese turned his attention to Micah and Max. He checked them both over briefly, as if he was getting a quick determination of their physical health and condition. Surprisingly enough, he let them drink some water out of the bladder also.

It was wet, cool and immensely satisfying. Micah looked up as he took the proffered canteen and noticed the man’s eyes glowering at him with a cold and bitter hate. Evidently the terrorist was only carrying out orders, and he did not like them. For his part Micah really did not care, just as long as he could get a drink of water and that the Lebanese were looking after Tio Zeke.

Abruptly the terrorist jerked the container away and recapped it. Then he moved over and did the same for Max. Still scowling at Micah, he gathered up the medical bag and stood back up. Taking one last disdainful look at his hostages the Lebanese walked out the doorway, passing the guard without so much as a word.

Micah shifted around a bit, taking care as to not put any pressure on the handcuffs clasped around his wrists. He still had the idea of escape firmly on his mind, and of throwing the biggest monkey wrench he could come up with into the intricate machinery that made