By Guy N. Smith
Whilst Bilal, a tender Pakistani, indicators a variety of legitimate files which will get to Britain ('the promised land'), he doesn't understand that he's being manipulated for inexpensive labour and may quickly develop into an unlawful immigrant at the run from the gurus. He additionally fails to understand that his puppy caracal - a wild cat that's usually domesticated again domestic - will go back to its usual wild kingdom if and whilst it doesn't obtain the mandatory education. And within the Welsh border hills there's lots of house for it to conceal. After it mauls a couple of sheep and pheasants, the search is on earlier than it graduates to human meat.
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Extra resources for Caracal
The road they followed used to be a busy commuter route into town, permanently packed with traffic. In today’s baking afternoon heat it was little more than a silent, rubbish-strewn scar that snaked its way between overgrown fields and run-down housing projects. Sandwiched between the first military vehicle and the squat armored troop transport bringing up the rear, the three empty, high-sided wagons clattered along, following the clear path that had been snowplowed through the chaos like the carriages of a train following an engine down the track.
I move forward again, dragging my feet along the ground so I don’t trip over anything I can’t see, convinced that the entire floor is covered with gore and bits of bodies. I kick bits of wood and twisted chunks of metal out of the way—remnants of the fallen section of roof—and finally reach the far wall, my pace almost as slow as Adam’s. I work my way along, trying to find a way out. In the farthest corner, hidden from view by another unidentifiable pile of rubbish, is a wide door that’s hanging off its hinges, half open.
I ignore him and keep moving. His leg’s already fucked; a little more damage won’t matter. “Sounds big,” he says through clenched teeth, trying to distract himself from the pain. I don’t respond, concentrating instead on putting the maximum possible distance between me and the office. Other people run through the trees on either side of me, illuminated by shafts of sunlight that pour through the odd-shaped gaps between leaves, all of them passing us. The noise is increasing, so loud now that I can feel it through the ground.
Caracal by Guy N. Smith