Chapter 1374
Poison Fog Encirclement
Chapter 1374 Poison Fog Encirclement
On the top floor of a five-story building in western Titrick.
Zarqawi stood in front of the broken window, dust clinging to the lens of the binoculars in his hand.
From here, he can overlook most of the central area.
Those neighborhoods that once belonged to the 1515 armed group are now being swallowed up inch by inch by the attacking forces.
To the east, Samir's 10th Division flag had already been planted on the water towers in the industrial zone; to the north, Abuyu's Khord convoy was rolling over the last line of defense, the dust it kicked up clearly visible in the morning light.
"They are making rapid progress."
The adjutant's hoarse voice came from behind.
Zarqawi did not turn around.
His fingers gently caressed the focusing ring of the telescope, as if he were touching a precious musical instrument.
“Speed is a good thing,” he sneered. “The deeper we go, the harder it is to retreat.”
The other five people in the room fell silent.
They were all longtime subordinates of Zarqawi and understood the meaning of those words.
On the city map spread out on the table, seventeen points were marked in red – a "gift" that had been carefully arranged beforehand.
"Are all locations confirmed to be ready?"
Zarqawi finally turned around.
His face was expressionless, but his eyes were frighteningly bright, as if burning with some kind of cold flame.
"Confirmed." The short, stocky man in charge of the explosion project nodded. "The detonation circuit has been tested three times and calibrated just yesterday."
He paused for a moment, his Adam's apple bobbing twice.
"Sir, those chemicals... some of the tanks have already started leaking. We may only have one chance."
Zarqawi walked to the table and traced the red dots on the map with his finger.
His movements were very light and slow, as if he were performing some kind of ritual.
"Once is enough."
The radio suddenly blared an urgent call: "East Third Street has fallen! Repeat, East Third Street—"
Zarqawi reached out and turned off the radio.
The room fell silent, with only the faint sound of explosions in the distance, like the dying gasps of the city.
Ever since succeeding Omar as the supreme military commander of Titrick, Zarqawi knew that the city could not be defended.
Song Heping's methods were too clever.
This guy has sealed off the Iraqi-Syrian border, preventing any reinforcements from Syria from getting through. For three months, he's been patient and unhurried, like a cat watching a mouse, keeping the city's defenders constantly on edge.
Since we can't hold out sooner or later, we should be prepared to perish together with them.
"Get all the soldiers who can still move to the underground bunkers."
Zarqawi's voice was eerily calm: "According to Plan B. Those willing to be martyrs stay, the rest... give them ten minutes."
"Ten minutes isn't enough to evacuate everyone—"
“That’s not all,” Zarqawi interrupted his adjutant. “Execute the orders.”
The people in the room exchanged glances. No one moved.
“You all go too,” Zarqawi said.
"Sir, you—"
"I want to see it happen."
Zarqawi turned back to the window and raised his binoculars.
"I want to see with my own eyes how our poison gas devours them."
No one spoke again, and everyone left in silence.
A few minutes later, Zarqawi was the only one left in the room.
He pulled a black remote control out of his pocket. It was about the same size as a TV remote, but it only had one red button and was covered by a transparent plastic cover.
He lifted the cover, his thumb hovering above the button.
"Come on! Heretics!"
The city outside the window gradually became clear in the morning light.
Zarqawi's lips moved, and he silently uttered something.
Then the button was pressed.
The initial explosion was muffled, like a groan coming from the depths of the earth.
Through his telescope, Zarqawi saw three buildings in the city’s eastern district simultaneously expand from the inside, crack, and then collapse.
It didn't explode outwards, but collapsed inwards—this was a carefully calculated explosion, its purpose not to destroy the building, but to release what was inside.
Yellow smoke billowed from the ruins.
At first, there were only wisps of thick smoke, like pus flowing from a building wound.
Then it grew more and more abundant, and, driven by the morning breeze, began to spread along the streets.
The smoke was very strange.
Unlike ordinary smoke and dust, which drift lightly, these particles are thicker and heavier, flowing close to the ground. When they encounter obstacles, they tumble and gather, then seek new gaps to continue their journey.
Zarqawi adjusted the focus and pointed the lens at a main street.
Samir's convoy was turning back there, but it was too late.
Yellow smoke surged across the street corner like a tide, instantly engulfing the last two cars.
Even from hundreds of meters away, Zarqawi could see the soldiers' reactions.
Some people frantically put on gas masks, some tried in vain to cover their mouths and noses with their clothes, and some jumped off the vehicle, only to kneel down after a few steps and begin coughing and vomiting violently.
Those are the initial symptoms of inhaling toxic gas.
The respiratory tract spasms and bronchoconstriction cause the victim to feel as if their chest is being tightly constricted by an iron clamp, making each breath a painful struggle.
But that's not all.
Zarqawi turned the camera to the North District.
The smoke there was a darker color, with a sickly brownish-yellow hue.
He saw Abuyu's armored vehicle.
The convoy was blocked in the narrow street by the collapsed building, unable to move forward or backward.
Brownish smoke seeped from the sewer drains, from the broken windows, and from every crack, slowly filling the entire street.
The armored vehicle's door opened, and several soldiers stumbled out.
One of them had only run a few steps when he grabbed his own throat and fell to his knees.
The other person frantically tore at his clothes. When the toxic gas came into contact with his skin, it caused a burning sensation, followed by blisters, and finally ulceration.
The soldiers' exposed skin was beginning to show dense red spots.
Zarqawi's breathing quickened.
His thumb remained pressed on the remote control.
As designed, this posture needs to be maintained for ten seconds to ensure that all detonation signals have been sent.
Five, six, seven...
More explosions occurred throughout the city.
This time, the purpose wasn't to release poison gas, but to create chaos, block roads, and generate air currents.
Explosives pre-buried at major intersections and under bridges were detonated, and the rubble blocked the escape route; explosives placed on rooftops created upward shock waves, disturbing airflow and allowing the toxic gas to spread more effectively.
Eight, nine, ten.
Zarqawi released his thumb.
The red indicator light on the remote control flashed three times and then went out.
He put down his binoculars, leaned against the wall by the window, and looked out the window.
Outside the window, the yellow smoke had already merged into a continuous cloud.
The city was like being covered by a huge, yellowish-brown blanket, and this blanket was still expanding, slowly covering the entire central urban area.
In some areas, the smog was so thick that the streets were obscured, and all that could be seen was a swirling, sickly yellow haze.
In the distance, sporadic, chaotic gunshots could be heard.
Those were soldiers in dire straits firing blindly, or soldiers unable to bear the pain ending their suffering with their last bullet.
Zarqawi took a deep breath, his face still expressionless, but his eyes were fixed on the window, on the hell he had created with his own hands.
This was his masterpiece. Three months of preparation, seventeen application points, and over eight hundred kilograms of chemical agents.
Although most of them were homemade and crudely made, they were deadly enough.
He wanted to turn this city into a tomb, making everyone who stepped in pay the price.
He wanted the world to remember that the wrath of the 1515 organization could burn everything, even before it was extinguished.
Something was reflecting light in the smoke.
Zarqawi raised his binoculars and spotted a drone.
It flew very low, hovering above the smoke, as if documenting the disaster.
Zarqawi raised the remote control in his hand towards the drone and made a toasting gesture.
Then he laughed.
The smiles were wild and radiant. On the eastern front, at the edge of the old city.
Realizing the gravity of the situation, Samir ripped off his headset and roared into the radio, "Retreat! All units, retreat to the designated assembly point! Immediately!"
His voice cracked from straining too much.
The soldiers who were setting up positions around them were stunned, staring blankly at their commander.
"Sir, we've just taken this place—"
The adjutant tried to argue.
"That's poison gas! Chemical weapons!" Samir pointed to the yellow smoke spreading in the distance. "Idiot! Look at that color! Do you want to die here?"
The adjutant finally saw the smoke.
He sniffed; there was indeed a faint, sweet and spicy smell in the air, much like a mixture of garlic and rotten apples.
"Everyone get on the bus! Discard any unnecessary equipment!"
Samir had already jumped onto the command vehicle and picked up the radio.
"Those with gas masks, put them on! Those without, cover your mouth and nose with a damp cloth! Evacuate now!"
The convoy started hastily.
However, the streets were too narrow and there were too many vehicles, and the retreat quickly turned into chaotic congestion.
Samir leaned out of the car window and saw that the yellow smoke had already drifted two blocks away and was heading this way.
"Don't wait! Those who can walk, go first! Don't crowd together to board the vehicle!" he shouted to the soldiers outside the vehicle. "Run! Get out of this area!"
Some soldiers dropped their equipment and started running.
But many more people are still trying to squeeze onto the already overloaded vehicles.
Samir saw that the back of a truck was crammed with at least thirty people, some of whom could only hold onto the railings with half their bodies hanging out.
Reports from various units came over the radio:
"The Second Company is stuck on Shengli Street—"
"The Third Company requests backup; we have wounded soldiers who cannot move—"
"The smoke is coming! It's coming!"
Samir slammed his fist on the steering wheel.
He grabbed the walkie-talkie and switched to the public channel: "Abuyu! Abuyu, are you listening? What's the situation up north?"
After a few seconds of electrical noise, Abuyu's voice came through, accompanied by violent coughing and the roar of engines: "Those damn lunatics are releasing poison gas! We're evacuating... cough cough... the road's blocked... over there—"
Before he could finish speaking, the communication was cut off.
Samir called several more times, but there was no response.
He put down the microphone, his face ashen.
The command vehicle finally broke through the congested section and drove onto the relatively open main road.
But Samir glanced back and his heart sank.
At least a third of the vanguard troops that stormed the city were still trapped in the back streets.
The yellow smoke had already engulfed the streets.
Northern Front, Central Avenue.
Abuyu floored the accelerator, and the armored vehicle's engine roared in agony.
Fifty meters ahead, a six-story building collapsed in the explosion, completely blocking the street.
“Reverse! Reverse!” he shouted to the driver.
But it's too late.
In the rearview mirror, another building collapsed, raising dust mixed with yellow smoke.
They were stuck in a street less than 100 meters long.
Abuyu grabbed the radio: "All vehicles, try to ram the obstacle! Repeat, ram the obstacle!"
An armored personnel carrier sped towards the pile of rubble, smashing through the top few concrete slabs, but more debris slid down from above, blocking the gap even more completely.
Yellow smoke billowed in from both ends of the street simultaneously. Abuyu saw the smoke flowing along the ground, like a living creature searching for prey.
It first seeps out from the gaps in the sewer grate, then gathers into streams, spreads along the base of the wall, briefly accumulates when it encounters an obstacle, then rolls over it and continues on its way.
"Wear a gas mask!"
Abuyu yelled as he frantically groped for his gas mask.
He put it on quickly, but immediately realized something was wrong.
The mask's sealing strip was worn out, and there were tiny gaps at the edges. He could feel air seeping in from there, carrying that sweet and spicy smell.
My eyes started to sting, like they had been sprinkled with chili powder.
Then comes the throat, which feels like it's being rubbed by rough sandpaper.
Abuyu coughed violently, each cough accompanied by a tearing pain in his chest.
He looked out of the car.
Several maskless soldiers lay on the ground, their bodies curled up in a ball, their hands clutching their throats.
Their faces turned purplish-red, their mouths were wide open, but they couldn't make a sound—this was pulmonary edema caused by the poison gas, making it impossible for them to breathe.
Ultimately, these people will die from suffocation.
Other soldiers exhibited different symptoms.
A young soldier tore open his shirt and frantically scratched his chest.
On the exposed skin, red spots are appearing at a visible speed, followed by blisters, some as big as a coin, others densely packed together.
He opened his mouth wide and screamed, but the sound was distorted into a strange whimper by the gas mask and his spasming throat.
Abuyu suddenly pushed open the car door and staggered out of the car.
He wanted to give orders and organize a breakout, but every breath he took was filled with toxins.
His vision began to blur, his limbs felt heavy, and every breath required all his strength.
Just then, the roar of an engine came from the side.
Abuyu turned his head with difficulty and saw a bulldozer rushing out of a side alley.
That was equipment belonging to the engineering corps, originally used for clearing roadblocks.
The bulldozer driver was also wearing a gas mask as he maneuvered the massive bucket to smash into the pile of rubble blocking the street.
The first impact loosened the rubble.
The second impact caused a crack to appear.
The third impact created a gap that was barely wide enough for a vehicle to pass through.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Overjoyed, Abuyu shouted with all his might.
The remaining vehicles struggled to start, squeezing out of the gap one by one.
Abuyu was carried by two soldiers and shoved into an armored personnel carrier.
"Sir, your mask—" the soldier shouted.
Abuyu then realized that his gas mask had come loose when he fell.
He put it back on, but had already inhaled a small amount of toxic gas.
My lungs feel like they're on fire; every breath brings a burning pain.
The convoy broke out of the encirclement and retreated northward along the relatively open streets.
Looking out the back window, Abuyu saw the yellow smoke still spreading behind him, but the distance was gradually increasing.
He grabbed the radio, pressed the talk button, and his voice was hoarse: "Samir...don't come in...the whole city is..."
Before he could finish speaking, he was struck by another violent cough.
Samir's anxious voice came through the communication channel: "Abuyu? You're still alive? Location? Tell me your location!"
“They’re evacuating north from… Central Avenue…” Abuyu gasped for breath after every few words, accompanied by several violent coughs: “Cough cough cough—the losses…are huge…the gas…is a mixture…”
"Roger that! Continue north! We'll set up a medical station outside the city! Hold on!"
Abuyu released the call button and slumped into his seat.
Sweat had soaked through his combat uniform, and waves of pain shot through his lungs.
But he was still alive, and at least part of his troops broke through.
He looked out the window, and Titrick's silhouette gradually blurred in the yellow smoke.
The city had become hell, and they had just crawled out of the edge of hell.
The armored vehicle bumped and jolted as it drove out of the city's edge and onto the road leading to the safe zone.
Abuyu closed his eyes, but the images of the soldiers lying on the ground, his comrades scratching their skin until it was bloody and mangled, and those who suffocated to death in the poison gas still appeared before him.
madman!
He cursed inwardly.
The 1515 armed group is an extremely fanatical organization composed of a bunch of lunatics!
Sending every single one of these guys to hell with a gun to their heads would be an absolute contribution to humanity!
Requesting monthly votes! Continuing to write 10,000 words daily!
(End of this chapter)