Karima Ali left the building at the same time as Sub-Lieutenant Privert. The man did not seem to be in good health, and she now understood why. There was no doubt he had been heavily irradiated simply by approaching the power plant. During the Chernobyl accident, authorities had evacuated all residents within a radius of thirty kilometers.
How close had he gotten to the Nogent-sur-Seine power plant to see its condition? Poor man. Much too close, for sure.
She joined her colleagues, particularly Françoise, to get the latest information. Listening to part of the conversation among the gendarmerie officers, it was clear that many things had happened in her absence.
In the courtyard, she found a familiar face. It was Maurice Pignon, the colleague who had helped her during the first two days, and whose barracks were in Pontoise.
"Sergeant-Major Ali? Oh, no, I see it's now a Major. Congratulations!" he said warmly, extending a hand.
"Haha, yes. Thank you! Well, it mostly happened because we're short-staffed and need to retain personnel. This crisis makes promotions easier, right?"
"Yeah, it seems so," Maurice replied, tapping his new rank with a slight smile.
He too had been promoted to reward his efforts and encourage him to continue in that direction. It was also related to the number of volunteers they could command. Like Karima, he had a team of volunteers under his command, all dressed similarly and wearing a blue armband around their arms. Although they looked healthy and well-fed, they all seemed extremely stressed, as if they were about to be sent to the front lines.
"How's it been since last time?" Karima asked, keeping an eye on her volunteers.
"Honestly, I don't know," the young man replied sadly. "I go with the flow, avoid thinking too much. If I do, I might make a decision that could have serious consequences. And you?"
"Same, I think. I follow orders as best I can, and when I don't, I try to rest. I haven't had much time for that since this mess started."
"Like everyone else," Maurice conceded with a sigh of weariness.
"What's going on exactly? Everyone's super tense, and the officers are in a meeting."
"You're not aware?" Major Pignon raised an eyebrow in surprise at Karima's question. "We've heard that Islamists are going to gather somewhere in Paris to make themselves heard. We expect things to escalate."
"More than they are now? What more could they do than what others have done in three weeks? There's nothing left to loot," Karima remarked with disappointment, thinking back to what she had seen returning to Nanterre. Almost all the cars were destroyed, many homes were uninhabitable, and the government had collapsed. There was nothing left.
"There are still residents. We think they want to 'convince' them to leave."
"Huh? Convince them to leave? Why? So there's only them left?"
"That's what I've heard."
Karima trembled with anger and felt a cold shiver run through her. Although she was a Muslim herself, she sincerely believed she had nothing in common with those people. She had seen them up close, and for some, she had watched them grow and radicalize. The fact that they called themselves Muslims was an insult to her.
"But why now? Why not a week or two ago?"
"Seems like they, like us, were caught off guard by the blackout and how quickly things went downhill. Without social media, they probably had trouble communicating and organizing a joint action."
"Do we know how many there will be?"
"A few hundred, I think. Those who want to conquer Paris can't be many. After all, who would want a ruin? Apparently, many fled the city in the first week, like everyone else. No more money, no more food, no more water, no more medicine... Why stay?"
"And where did they go, do you think?"
"Who knows?"
Karima nodded in understanding. Nevertheless, there would inevitably be very serious consequences for the neighboring communities.
The Islamists who wanted to seize Paris, weakened like never before, were not numerous, as Maurice Pignon had announced, but they were determined to fight like lions and die if necessary to achieve their grand project.
They had had time to prepare for this great day, which was supposed to be the beginning of a new era. Thanks to them, Paris and soon France would be conquered almost effortlessly. At least, that's how things were supposed to go with Allah's help.
The blackout, which had caught everyone by surprise in broad daylight, had sowed chaos even among their ranks. But thanks to the fiery speeches of one of the greatest figures in Islam, whom some would call radical, the true Islam from their point of view, they had managed to regroup. More than just reorganize, they had realized the opportunity before them.
According to imams and prominent figures of Islamism in Europe, the West had been dying for decades, which had allowed them to thrive in many neighborhoods, whether in Paris or elsewhere.
According to them, this power outage had highlighted the fragility of a country eaten away from within by everything they fought against, starting with secularism. For them, there was no French community, so it was no surprise to see this country collapse on itself in less than three days.
Young Amin, from his housing estate in Saint-Denis, had seen people almost immediately go crazy and fight each other for scraps. They, the Muslims, had remained united. Since the beginning of this crisis, they had formed militias to maintain order in their neighborhoods. They had continued to pray and had not disrupted their routines, or barely.
They had strengthened contacts with Muslim families in the neighborhood to ensure that no one was forgotten or isolated. Mutual aid was important because in their eyes, they formed a large family, a community, the Ummah. And when a member of this family strayed from the path, made a mistake, it was their responsibility to help and guide them, even if it was painful in the moment.
People like Amin Saidi had been pointed at for a long time now by certain political parties, by journalists, by researchers, but no one did anything or almost nothing against them. What could they do when they themselves limited their ability to act? They denounced their practices? They cried Islamophobia! The number of conversions to Islam? Islamophobia! Seeing halal aisles in supermarkets? Islamophobia! The veil in the streets and schools? Islamophobia! They feared seeing Islam become the majority in France! Islamophobia! This magical word was enough to silence their enemies in most cases. However, there were still media outlets opposing them.
Curiously, Amin didn't hate these people. In fact, he even had a certain respect for them. In this, he differed from some members of his community and even his family.
In his view, these people were like remnants of an ancient people. They wanted to fight to defend their existence, which was commendable but futile. Futile indeed, because they themselves were being attacked by their political opponents.
These, although they were the best allies of even the most aggressive Islamists, were viewed with the greatest contempt. For Amin, and many others thought the same, these people had no brain, no backbone, no pride. They betrayed their people in favor of another to avoid being seen as the villain of history. They were only scared children. Why should they respect them? They were only useful idiots.
Where were they now? Their country was in chaos, the cops they hated so much were overwhelmed by events and could no longer protect them, the universities that taught them to think in the same way had closed, in short, their little world had collapsed.
What was frustrating for people like Amin, and even more so like his father, a highly respected man in their neighborhood and community, was that they hadn't had the satisfaction of seeing their stunned faces realizing that they were the ones responsible for their own downfall.
Without this blackout, things would have continued to evolve in their favor amid the applause of the far left. Slowly, they would have seen their beautiful neighborhoods transform and slip away from them. They would have seen a Muslim party come to power, their children become minorities in their private schools, and finally Islamic law would have been voted in by referendum. It would have taken longer than in other countries like Germany or Britain, but it would have happened eventually.
Their left-wing friends would then have understood what true Muslims like him thought of them and that they were no longer welcome in this country that was no longer theirs, they who had spent their entire lives fighting those who sounded the alarm.
This blackout had taken all that away from them, but that didn't mean their victory had escaped them. Although the collapse of France had occurred much faster than anticipated, they had more than enough men to take control of the capital.
Too bad nothing works anymore. Our victory is already written, but... so many Muslims have left. And Paris looks like a ruin...
They had exchanged a lot among themselves to coordinate. In recent days and weeks, they had built up a huge reserve of fuel by siphoning gas from abandoned vehicles all over the city. In reality, it was mostly vehicles in their neighborhoods that had been preserved from the thugs. Elsewhere, there were hardly any intact ones.
With all this gasoline, they had made Molotov cocktails, enough to burn down a large part of Paris. But that wasn't their goal because what they wanted was to take the capital, not destroy it to the ground. All these cocktails were intended to scare the French into realizing they were now on their territory. This included law enforcement.
Amin left home with his two brothers, Ahmed and Yousef, and his father, Mohamed, under his mother's worried gaze. Although her opinion was opposed to her husband's on what to do in this crisis, she had done nothing to dissuade them because her role was to support her husband.
Like many women, mothers, sisters, and cousins, she stayed in her apartment until the men returned. The three men of the Saidi family stopped near the entrance of the white and gray building and were soon joined by dozens of individuals with determined eyes. The older ones carried dozens of Molotov cocktails in large shopping bags, as well as black and white flags. According to the leader of this group, a man of small stature but with a belly as imposing as his brown beard, the different groups were to gather in the heart of the capital, making their voices heard and flying their flags. They had made a huge one from a bedsheet intended to end up at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
That's a lot of cocktails, and it's just us. With what the others are going to bring, it might be too much, right?
Shortly after, the group set off.
How could they not be noticed? There were hundreds of them, and they hadn't even joined the other groups yet. They moved at a moderate pace and regularly threw Molotov cocktails at buildings that seemed too clean. Others had become as black as the road long before they arrived. The asphalt had even melted where there had been a fire.
"ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR! ALLAHU AKBAR!"
They crossed Saint-Denis without encountering any opposition, but it was at the exit of this district that they finally met their first adversaries.
These, few in number, seemed terrified even though they were armed with firearms. They themselves had some. This was not the case for Amin, who only had an impressive kitchen knife with a blade about twenty centimeters long and a paintball gun. He had been told to take it because they could do a lot of damage, especially if he managed to hit an enemy in the face.
Tension rose so quickly that the gendarmes and policemen present didn't know how to react. Stones and insults rained down on both groups, and since the gendarmes didn't speak Arabic in the vast majority of cases, they couldn't understand what was being spat at them with hatred.
Here we go. It's starting, thought Amin as he saw his brother reach for a thick bag filled with cocktails.
He then saw him light the rag soaked in gasoline protruding from the glass bottles and throw them along with others at the forming police.
They in turn responded with a few tear gas grenades.
It was so ridiculous from Amin's point of view: they had only sent three. But what more could they do? They were their last ones, painstakingly saved despite temptations for days like this.
The Islamists surrounding Amin hardly flinched and kicked them away while covering their noses and mouths to keep them at bay.
Karima was present, in full combat gear, busy trying to maintain order among her own troops.
Like several others, she received colorful paintball pellets, and one of them exploded on her helmet. It was also the case for her neighbor on the left.
Completely blinded, they had to lift their visors. Karima's colleague cursed when he saw too late a cocktail coming straight towards his face. He only had time to lower his head.
The glass bottle shattered on his helmet, spreading gasoline all over him, which quickly ignited. Karima, who was right next to him, saw a bright yellow light and felt intense heat on her exposed skin.
She received a large splash on her left cheek, which soon caught fire as well.
"AAAAAH! I'm burning! I'm burning!"
The two gendarmes were on fire and screaming terrifyingly.
A young policeman, terrified, opened fire on those facing them until the last cartridge. The fight then began in earnest.
It was brief and extremely violent.
Quickly, law enforcement was forced to retreat under the intense pressure exerted by their enemies.
Everywhere near sensitive neighborhoods, the same scene was unfolding. Although very much in the minority considering the number of Muslims on French soil before the blackout, the number and power of this opponent had been underestimated.
Often, they were better equipped than the exhausted and demoralized law enforcement. Faced with them, law enforcement could only retreat again and again.
Parisians who were still around took to their heels when they saw so much violence and blood.
Karima was taken to the rear before being sent to the Rathelot barracks to be treated with everyone else. At the end of the day, it was estimated that the police, gendarmerie, and volunteers had lost nearly five hundred brave souls in this single day. Among them were Captain Gilles Lecordier of the gendarmerie in Pontoise, Major Maurice Pignon, and several of Karima's colleagues, including the very kind Françoise.