“Well, don’t you look guilty,” the man said, reaching for the rifle slung over his shoulder.
As the last word fell from the guard’s mouth, Spence aimed and fired, shot him in the chest—once, twice. Malin saw little puffs as his camouflage shirt popped, right around his heart. He stumbled backward, managed a single short cry, then fell back inside the tent. A kind of terrible quaking had filled Malin’s whole body, a brightness at the edges of his vision. The whole situation seemed unreal, as if he were running in a dream.
They turned another corner, slipping between two stacks of old appliances. More civilians scattered before them, but Malin also thought he saw open ground in the distance. Between two large tents, it looked like a field with sparse grass, a glint of water from a pond far beyond it.
“We’re close,” he said, but Archer pressed a finger to her lips and scowled at him.
Through all of this, the sound of people moving throughout the camp had persisted—shouting, trampling boots, the clank of carried rifles—but Malin became aware now that the great cacophony had changed. It had narrowed to a smaller space somewhere directly behind him, as if all of the militiamen were converging, moving together in a specific direction.
Chasing the sound of gunshots, he realized.
Spence stopped in front of one of the tents, planted a hand against Archer’s back, and shoved her inside. As he did, Malin heard the rising tide of voices behind him.
“This way,” a deep voice bellowed. “They saw the man go this way.”
It was so close, he feared if he looked back, he would see their pursuers. Spence grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him forward, flinging him inside the tent. Malin stumbled, swinging his arms to try to keep his feet, but he fell onto the floor. The inside of the tent was large but mostly empty, and the ground was covered in an old, tattered rug.
Spence entered last and pulled the tent flap shut behind him. Then he backed up a couple of steps and aimed his rifle at it. Malin started to rise, but Archer came up beside him, put her arm under his back, and hoisted him to his feet. She gave him a thumbs-up and a questioning look, as if to say, “Are you okay?” Malin nodded.
“They’re close,” Spence whispered over his shoulder. “Stupid civilians probably gave us away.”
“Or perhaps the really loud shooting,” Malin suggested.
“No choice,” Spence replied. “Run and gun.”
The voices were getting louder outside, as was the tramp of boots. Malin looked about, but, of course, there was nothing in the tent to help them.
Why didn’t we just keep running out of the camp? he wondered. But, of course, he knew the answer already. Their pursuers were so close they would have been spotted.
Malin moved to the back of the tent and bent down, trying to lift the canvas along the ground, but it was staked tightly on the other side. Even if he could squeeze himself through, he didn’t see how they would get the large, full packs through—not without making a bunch of noise.
Spence stepped up beside him, drawing the large knife from a sheath at his belt. He held up the blade.
“You’re on the right track,” he said to Malin. “Let’s cut through and make a run for it.”
He flipped the knife around and held it out, handle first, to Malin. Malin took it, and Spence grabbed a support rod in a corner of the tent and pinched the canvas between his fingers, pulling it taut.
“They’re somewhere in this vicinity,” a voice bellowed from outside the tent. “Search every tent, every crevice, every barrel and box. Kill them on sight.”
A dozen or so voices responded with, “Yes, sir.”
Too close. Malin stood before the back wall of the tent, the grooves of the knife handle slippery in his sweating hands. Slowly, he pushed the tip of the knife forward until it was touching the canvas.
Cut through and run for it, he thought. Hurry up.
And with that, clenching his teeth so tightly they hurt, he thrust the blade into the canvas.
17
By the time they reached the edge of camp, all of the noise and chaos had moved far away from them. Indeed, the whole area around them had gone utterly quiet and still. Elna found it rather eerie. Beyond the last tents, she saw vast open ground before them with low hills and sparse grass.
Prig was still carrying Golf in the crook of his arm, but he stopped at the edge of the camp and hunkered down behind a large wooden crate. Elna was amazed at just how many boxes, barrels, and crates filled the camp. She wondered how many of them were filled with supplies looted from nearby towns.
“They’re still shouting and screaming,” Elna said, as the echo of many voices moved through the camp. “That’s a good sign, right? It means our people haven’t been killed.”
Before Prig could answer, Elna heard the distinct crack of a gunshot, and the shouting voices got even more intense. Prig glanced at her, one eyebrow going up.
Us or them? That was the question that hovered in the air between them.
He motioned at her, tightened his grip on Golf, and rose. Elna leaned past the box, looking in both directions along the edge of camp. She didn’t see any guards, and most of the civilians seemed to have gone into hiding. In fact, if not for the distant sound of angry voices, she might have thought the camp had been abandoned.
“All clear,” she said.
Prig and Golf moved out, keeping low as they headed toward the nearest low hill. As Elna ran across the open ground, she felt a terrible, skin-crawling sense of exposure, as if countless snipers might
