Waving them forward, Willa enters after Bee. Now, they’re on their own and at the mercy of the scout reports. She can no longer see anyone else or any other tent. She won’t see a flashlight come on inside some other tent. She has only the three women with her, the knowledge shared by the scouts, and the hidden archers at the edge of the forest who will do their best if everything goes wrong.
According to the scouts, weapons are kept in the leader’s tent and shared from sentry to sentry. After all, they don’t want to alert the women above them on the mountain. A panicked or ill-advised gunshot at a shadow would ruin their plans.
That doesn’t mean all weapons are out of play for certain, and that doesn’t account for knives.
It feels very crowded in the tent’s central area. Belongings are stacked in packs and bins across from the opening, but it’s a large tent. Two rooms for sleeping bracket the open area. There should be four men sleeping here and one empty spot meant for the now-deceased sentry.
Bee holds up her hand for silence and looks to each side, examining everything. It’s dark, but weak moonlight leaks through the thin fabric and the screened window. Bee points at each of the flaps in succession. It takes Willa a moment, but she understands when Bee waves her hand back and forth. There’s a darker crescent at each flap. They aren’t zipped all the way.
The hunter’s eyes gleam as she turns her head to look, then holds up two fingers. She points to the other flap and holds up two fingers again. Willa nods and almost feels the air currents shift as the others do the same.
Silently, Bee turns away and ducks under the flap. Willa’s heart leaps into her throat and her pulse hammers in her temples. It feels like her blood pressure just went into critical territory. Swallowing down her fear, she ducks under and follows Bee.
Two low camp cots rest along the back wall, and another pallet stretches along the side wall. Willa can already see the pallet is empty, which means sleepers in the cots. No more instruction is needed now, but Bee still nods her head toward the cot Willa should approach. Another body follows in behind Willa, leaving their fourth in the central chamber.
Willa’s mouth is as dry as the desert as she approaches the cot. Which end is the head? The disordered pattern of different colors must be the head, because the rest is an expanse of some single, dark color. In the moonlight streaming through the fabric screen, she can see the shadows of eyes and lips. Soft breaths that aren’t quite snores are coming from the man in the cot.
A big part of her feels like this is wrong. This is murder. But is it? How many of the tribe would die in open conflict? If they lost, then probably all of them. It would be the only way to take their children. Nothing less would allow such a thing.
Guilt twinges Willa when the other part of her throws in yet another justification. The tribe’s lives are worth more. It’s a simple calculation based on fact. They are rarer and on a collector’s market, that makes female lives far more valuable.
A small noise from the other cot shakes Willa from her thoughts. The feet on that other cot are moving a little, making soft, sliding noises against the fabric. All Willa can see of the rest of the man is the dark shape of Bee leaning over near the head. Taking in a breath, Willa pictures what has to happen in her head. Before she can think more on what that will feel like, she acts.
Pressing her hand hard over the man’s mouth, she drags the knife across his throat, pushing hard so the blade digs as deeply as possible. The shifting of feet behind her tells her that their third woman is poised to act if she makes a mistake and the man yells.
She didn’t expect this much thrashing. If cut well and deeply enough, then they shouldn’t be able to scream and the immediate drop in blood pressure to the brain should make them go unconscious. Did she not do it properly? Should she cut again?
The cot creaks as she presses harder on the man, even shifting her knife hand to hold down his chest. Her gorge rises as warm liquid splashes up onto her hands. The bag rustles as he fights to free his hands. His eyes shine as they go wide in confusion. Another warm spray of blood coats her arm as the man’s head turns, trying weakly to escape her hold on him.
Suddenly, Bee is there beside her. The feet on the other cot are still moving inside their sleeping bag, flexing back and forth in an almost steady way. For a second, Willa is reminded of one of the oldest women in their tribe. She has stiff tendons along the bottoms of her feet, so every morning she hobbles a little, then stretches in front of the fire to loosen them up. Her stretches look exactly like that. Flex, release, flex, release.
Bee tugs on Willa’s arm and she lifts her hands from the man. He’s still almost shivering, but his eyes are rolling and unfocused. The third woman is already ducking under the flap.
How quick that was. How quickly a life can be taken. Willa feels the blood running down her arm and hears the pattering noise of drops as they hit the tent’s fabric floor. Maybe this is fast, but women still die faster. This thought
