Just before the scream broke out of the guard’s throat, a shadow slipped up behind him. It was Spence, the mint-loving Marine, and he struck like a viper. Somehow, he’d circled around the tent, as if anticipating the guard’s appearance. His right arm wrapped around the man’s face, pressing his sleeve against his mouth. The other hand came up in a flash, driving a long blade into the side of the guard’s throat.
In the flickering lamplight, Elna watched as Spence nearly severed the man’s head in a single fluid motion. The blade sank all the way to the hilt then swung outward, cutting through carotid and jugular and trachea so that a rush of blood and breath gushed out at Prig’s feet like water from a burst pipe.
She scarcely had time to react to this before he dragged the body backward into the tent, and soon the flickering lamplight went dark. When Spence reappeared, he was holding the man’s AK-47. He raised it over his head like a trophy.
“It was necessary,” he said in a whisper.
“Big risk. Let’s try to avoid guards from now on,” Prig replied, so quiet Elna barely made out the words.
Prig stepped over the large puddle of blood and kept going. Spence shrugged, fell in with the other Marines, and followed. They kicked dirt over the blood in passing.
“That was…intense,” Malin said in her ear.
Elna tried not to think about it, tried not to look at the big muddy patch, as she hurried after the Marines. As she passed the tent, she happened to glance to her right. The dying embers of a campfire illuminated a few smaller tents set in a circle nearby. Elna made eye contact with an old man who’d stuck his head out of the tent flap. Like the people she’d seen earlier, he wore a gray long-sleeve shirt and pants. She froze, anticipating his yelp, but instead, he just slipped quietly back into his tent.
Closer at hand, near the muddy drag trails where the guard had been pulled back inside, she saw a clothesline strung between two poles. Gray shirts and pants hung from two dozen clothespins, flapping gently in the night air. She dared to divert toward the clothesline, quickly grabbing a few shirts and pairs of pants, not bothering to check the sizes. Then she rushed to catch up to Prig and the Marines.
“Smart thinking,” Malin said.
The Marines had stopped behind another tent a few yards ahead. As Elna approached, she made a soft hissing sound, which caused Prig to look back at her. She held up the clothes. Judging by the grin on his face, he immediately understood. Most, if not all, of the civilians wore the same gray clothing now, some kind of makeshift uniform Rod must have recently implemented.
Elna dumped the clothes near Prig, and the Marines went through them. As it turned out, she’d managed to grab three shirts and three pairs of pants that were all fairly big. Prig handed one set to Elna, another set to Malin, and the final set to Archer.
“Suit up,” he mouthed, motioning for them to get dressed. And then he added, just barely audible, “Time for a bit of espionage.”
10
Selene peeled back the edge of the bandage as Dr. Ruzka checked the Marine’s blood pressure and temperature. The wounded man—Ant, they called him—was delirious, his eyes roaming around as if he were tracing lines on the featureless white ceiling overhead. He was flushed and sweaty, his hands grasping and twisting at the edges of the cot. Selene had done her best to cover the wound, but it was ugly and oozing, and any time she put pressure on it, he groaned in pain. Once the wound was thoroughly cleaned, she slathered on some antibiotic ointment and applied a fresh bandage.
“I wish I had the means to do blood tests,” Dr. Ruzka said. “I’m worried he’s septic. Heck, I’d take him to my clinic if there was some way to get there.”
“We’re doing all we can,” Selene said.
The doctor bent down and gently patted the soldier on the chest. “Young man, you just keep fighting. We’re going to give you something for the pain, but you hang in there.”
He looked at her, but his eyes seemed unfocused, and he only gave her a confused frown. When she tried to give him a painkiller, he resisted her putting it in his mouth. Finally, she lifted his head, popped it between his teeth, and helped him down it with a cup of water.
Next, they checked on Cat, the other injured Marine. She was alert, her hands tucked behind her head, and her wound wasn’t nearly as bad. The bullet had sliced across her hip, but it seemed to be healing. When Dr. Ruzka asked how she was doing, she replied, “I’m feeling a lot better, Doc. When are the boys getting back?”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Ruzka said. “By morning, hopefully.”
“Those morons,” Cat said. “They should’ve waited until I got better. They can’t do this without me, and anyway, I owe Golf a good smack in the head for getting caught like that.”
“I’ll be sure to pass the word along, if I get the chance,” the doctor said with a smile.
“You do that, Doc.”
Selene was constantly impressed with the doctor’s bedside manner. She was always engaging patients in conversation, keeping things light and hopeful, joking around when appropriate. By comparison, Selene felt weird and shy, never quite knew what to say, and was usually too focused on treatment to pay attention to what the patient was saying.
I need to learn some things from her, Selene thought.
“I’ll bring you something to eat,” Selene told Cat.
“I’ll take a chili dog
