Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [53]
The roads were starting to fill with fleeing civilians, scurrying away from the town. Some had bags of belongings: already displaced refugees fleeing a town they had thought to seek refuge in. Others had nothing but themselves, clutching at their hastily thrown on clothes, stumbling on the uneven road. Fitz winced and wished he could run down to help as he saw a running woman, a small child clinging to her, stumble and fall. He lost sight of her as others ran past, perhaps even over, her. He knew he’d be caught up though, unable to reach her.
The roar of the flames could be heard now, deep as the fire drew air from all around. It smelled of dry wood popping in the heat and the unnatural gasoline fuelling it. The air even tasted of cordite. A fireball curled upwards, billowing out black clouds. The sound of it reached them a moment later.
‘That was a garage,’ Sasha remarked impassively. ‘There goes our chance of fixing the tyre.’
Fitz turned on him, grabbing his jacket lapel and shaking him. ‘Sod the tyre, there’s people down there!’
Sasha’s arm swung up, breaking Fitz’s hold and pushing him back a few steps so that he stumbled, fell. ‘I know! We just can’t do anything!’
Fitz glared up at him, furiously pushing his hair back off his face. His shoulders sagged after a moment, knowing the Russian was right. Sasha offered his hand and he took it, letting the other man pull him upright.
‘I’ve got some basic first aid in the back of the truck,’ the Russian suggested, as a peace offering. Fitz tried to straighten his crumpled leather jacket, hitting at it to get the dust out. The first townspeople were starting to walk up the incline towards them, staring at the truck as if fearing it was the start of a blockade. Sasha spoke to some of the more alert, more able ones and they came over to help him unload the crates of medical supplies.
Fitz continued to stare down into the valley. The town was burning so strongly now that the late afternoon sky was turning orange. Within the clouds of smoke and dust, more explosions would bellow, flaring up and out. This was what he had come here to observe, to see at first hand. It wasn’t the version he’d known but he knew history could be distorted to suit political ends. He hadn’t been aware how much though. He turned away and joined Sasha in cajoling the wounded to pause for medical aid.
Fitz tried to ask them what had happened but it was the same story from all of the suddenly dispossessed: the retreating Republicans were torching the town. One old farmer spoke of seeing a cadre of militia, tearing at the church hospital doors, hauling out the ministering nuns in an echo of the religious attacks of the previous summer. The livestock was running wild, panicked through the narrow streets. It stank like a charnel house, another remarked. Someone claimed to have seen the men dousing the tree with petrol. They had to explain to Fitz that the tree was the cultural heart of the Basques: ancient, venerated. The first Basque president for generations had selected their first autonomous parliament underneath its branches only a few months earlier and now it was burning, caught at the centre of the inferno.
It was nearly 8 p.m. when the explosions stopped. The town burned on through the night, lighting up the valley and the sky.
* * *
There was blue in the creature now. The vague suggestion of arms, booted legs crashing down in unison. Still in silence.
Then Anji was up and running again. Somehow scrambling back to her feet, half-tumbling down the nearest step, barely aware of Eleana’s hand hauling her upright. They staggered down the steep steps, unable to get their legs in synch but unwilling to break their grip on each other’s wrists. Something slung from Eleana’s shoulder kept bumping into her. Anji didn’t look