Even though it sounds as loud as a bass drum to my sensitive ears, the sentry—who I’ve kept in my peripheral vision this whole time—seems unaware and just keeps walking. But even so, as I slide over the top, I remember the advice that Uncle Chatto and Dad once gave me about how to move when there is danger. It was during one of the few times when they told me a little about their own experiences fighting in Mali when they were in the Special Forces.
“Flow like water, Lozen. Quick, jerky movements will catch the eyes of an enemy,” Uncle Chatto said.
Dad had nodded at that. “Never hurry, especially when you have to move fast,” he added.
Like when my feet touch the ground. I snap the rope and the grapnel comes flying down. I catch it as it bounces off the ground with a thud that I hope no ears—on either side of the wall—other than mine have heard. The area around the base of the wall is kept clear of any rocks or vegetation, but there are always shadows. Staying low, coiling the rope as I go, I flow into the shadows as I move swiftly. And though I expect at any second to hear shouts followed by a volley of gunshots aimed in my direction, I reach the clump of creosote bushes I’d chosen as my objective.
Safe, more or less. Staying low, I begin to trot in the half circle that will take me to the hidey hole where I stashed the helpful objects that will help me effect Step Numero Tres of my plan.
I can see things clearly for at least a hundred feet in every direction because of the strength of my own night vision and the thin light cast by the crescent moon. That is a good thing.
But what I see rising up to my left and beginning to lope in my direction, its eyes seeming to glow red from an inner light, is not a good thing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Clever Repartee
The Bloodless pauses its approach because I’ve just turned to look at it. He’s the biggest one I have seen yet.
“Buenos días, senorita,” it says, taking a step closer.
It’s night, you dumb bloodsucker, I think. But I don’t say anything. I let one coil of the rope fall into the hand that is still grasping the grappling hook.
“Amigo. Me your friend. No?” Another sidling step in my direction, its hands curled at its side.
No, I think, setting my feet and judging the distance.
“I, me, I,” it says, its hunger for my blood and flesh clearly getting the better of what little cunning it possesses. It’s beginning to crouch, readying itself to leap at me.
However, I am not about to let that happen. I raise my arm, swing it once, let the grapnel fly so that the rope wraps itself around both of the creature’s legs like a lassoed bull. I yank on the rope and its feet are jerked out from under itself and it lands heavily on its back. I’m on it before it can move, bringing the Bowie knife down like a meat cleaver.
The razor sharp blade cleaves through flesh and bone. The head, a toothy horror, goes rolling across the sand.
I leap back from the body as it briefly arches its back and thrashes its limbs about before becoming still.
I snap the blade down to flick the blood off, and turn in a slow circle, crouched, my lips pulled back over my teeth. I’m ready for whatever comes at me next. Nothing is going to get between me and my family tonight. Nothing!
Come on, I’m thinking. Come on.
I hear something off to my left where the saguaros rise up like sentinels. It’s creeping up on me. I turn in that direction. I can see a dark outline out there, maybe fifty feet away. Crouching and getting ready to leap. Suddenly a much larger shadowed shape looms up behind it!
“Warrggh!”
Then there is a crunching sound like something being broken under a heavy foot.
Followed by a needle-sharp touch to my forehead.
Little Food. You are so fierce. You scare me.
That very big shadow comes toward me. As it gets close, the light of the moon is bright enough for me to see what it is. The hulking is a very human-looking being—if humans were eight feet tall and covered with short fur from huge head to big bare feet. And if, like a gorilla, the top of that head stuck up in a sagittal crest where the parietal bones of the skull come together.
He—it is very clearly a he—is holding something in his right hand. It is the limp body of a second Bloodless. I look down at the knife I’m still holding in my hand. I shake my head, spin the Bowie backward, and slide it into the sheath on my belt.
Nasty thing, he thinks at me, holding the dead creature up and then tossing it so that it lands on top of the one I killed. Not tasty to eat like you, Little Food.
Then he smiles at me, displaying an impressive set of teeth that glisten in the moonlight.
Fangs a lot, I think back at him, wondering if he understands puns.
Ho, ho.
He does. And my maybe-friend Hally, who is looming over me like a hirsute mountain right now, appears to be just who I thought he was.
All our people tell stories about his big-footed people. In some of those traditions they are cannibal giants that were here long before our own human kind. In other tales they are friends and helpers. But in most stories they are just out there, living their own lives, staying away from us so elusively that despite their great size they are seldom seen.
My name is not Little Food. And why am I having this conversation in my head with you? And why are you helping me?
Am I?
Hally’s grin gets even broader, almost splitting his ugly face in half.
Well, if you are not helping me then you are doing a damn fine imitation of being helpful.
Hally turns his head to look in the direction of Haven, visible only as a glow in the night sky from the arroyo where the two of us are involved in this surreal dialogue.
Don’t you have something to do other than engage in clever repartee with a Bigfoot?
Now I want to ask him where he got his vocabulary from. But he’s right. Time’s a-wasting.
I hold up both of my hands in one of those Time Out signs that professional athletes used to flash back in the days when there were organized sports on viddys.
“Later,” I say out loud.
Hally nods.
I turn and leave the arroyo at a trot. I’m not running as fast as I can because, despite my excellent night vision, taking off at full tilt in the night is a good way to trip or run into something unpleasant like a hunting rattlesnake or a cholla cactus.
If my mental clock is working right, I’ll be able to execute my plan on schedule. I just hope that my mother and my little brother and sister have been able to use that secret passage, as the Dreamer promised, to slip out of the family bloc and position themselves in the same shadowed spot where I was hiding only a few minutes ago. I’m worrying that my simple plan may not have been simple enough. So many things could go wrong. They might not be allowed out of the bloc. Someone might see them slipping out and follow them. There might be an unusually watchful guard on duty tonight.
But whatever does happen, I know that I can trust Mom and Ana and Victor to do their parts. Mom may be forty years old, but she is as strong and agile as someone half her age and part of my strength is inherited from her.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw her pick my Dad up and hold him over her head.
Both of them were laughing and Dad was saying, “You see now who the person is who really supports our family, my daughter?” as Mom lowered him back to his feet and we all hugged.
Why is it that happy memories are so painful to me?
Stop Numero Uno is my hidey-hole under Old Saguaro Who Looks Tired. Yup, all three of the grenades I kept are still here. I put them into my pack. Then I pick up the two crossbows and the quivers of extra bolts and jog back.
Stop Numero Dos is the wall where my family will be escaping. The light of the moon casts just the right pattern of shadows for me to make my way unobserved to the base of the wall. It should be even easier now. The sentinels up there are near the end of their shift. They’re tired and thinking about their beds in one
of the four guard houses, quarters far more comfortable than those allocated to us ordinaries.
Right away I see the nearest guard. His white arm band, marking him as one of Lady Time’s minions, is clearly visible in the light from the torch flickering next to him. He’s just turning, starting to walk one more casual circuit before leaving the wall.
Now! I throw the hook and it catches on the first try. Good thing it does. I need to move very fast. I climb to the top quickly, but I do not unhook the grapnel. I leave it there in plain sight and drop down to my belly, slide back into an angle of the wall below and behind the nearest burning torch. Then I wait.
Sure enough, just as I’ve counted on, here comes my guard heading back to his post.
“What?” he says. He’s noticed the grappling hook. He’s approaching it, confused, trying to understand what it is that he’s seeing. As he reaches out to touch it, I take him from behind. Right arm around his neck so far that I am touching my left shoulder, left hand sliding in behind his neck. I kick my foot into the back of his knee so that he drops down and we are both out of sight of anyone that might be looking at this section of the wall.
His carotid arteries clamped in my rear choke hold, the blood supply to his brain cut off, he goes limp in a few seconds, but I hold tight just a little longer to make sure. Not long enough to kill him. When I let go, he’s still breathing but out cold. I take out the roll of tape that was another of the Dreamer’s gifts to me, use it to bind the unconscious man’s ankles and wrists together, then fasten a strip of tape over his mouth just in case he wakes up and tries to cry out an alarm.
Dong! Dong! Dong!
It’s the three bells for the changing of the wall guards. It’s also the signal for Mom and Ana and Victor to run for the wall and start climbing. I’ve already sensed them below me. And if my plan is working, Hussein will be with them. I stand up and see them starting across the short distance that separates them from the rough spot in the wall where they can scale it just as I did.
I pull the pin from the first grenade. I’ve never thrown one before, but I was told by Guy, who used a number of them during his time serving in the Maghreb, that the proper protocol when you toss a grenade is to call out “fire in the hole!” or “frag out!” So, as I heave it in a high, long arc, I whisper, “Frag out.”
One and one pony, two and one pony . . . it’s still sailing through the air and is heading right on target toward the furthest of the three guard dormitories, the one used by the Jester’s troopers, whose green-arm-banded boys are the ones who should just be heading out to relieve the current guards.
Three and one pony, four and one pony. And it lands on the flat metal roof, bounces once and . . .
KA-BOOM!
It explodes before hitting the ground in a burst of flame. The shock wave caves in the wall and knocks out the windows on that side of the long, low building.
Shouting, incoherent screaming, general panic.
I do believe I have gotten their attention. But why stop now?
As I hurl hand grenade numero dos, Victor crawls up over the wall to my left. Perfect. But what I see beyond my family is less than perfect.
Crap. Hussein was late. He’s running across the open space between the nearest building and the wall. Right out in plain sight where he might get shot.
KA-BOOM!
My second grenade was aimed at the Red Dorm of Diablita’s boys. It’s proven to be even more effective than the first. It didn’t bounce off the roof when it hit. It ricocheted right into one of the cooling vents in the roof that used to be part of the defunct air conditioning system and dropped into the building itself.
More screams, some of which seem to be in actual agony. The enemies I have killed may now include real human beings in their number. But I can’t take time to sympathize or feel guilt. Every one of those men who serve the Ones has blood on his hands. I can’t even begin to count all the terrible things I’ve seen or heard about during the year we’ve been here.
Victor has grabbed Ana’s arms to pull her up as Mom pushes from below. Now Mom has reached the top, too. I reach for her hands to help, but she shakes her head and in one quick athletic motion reaches the top on her own. I don’t see Hussein. But I can now hear the scrabbling sound of someone, hampered by a maimed hand, making his awkward way up the rough inner face of the wall.
I point with my chin to the rope behind me. Mom nods and the three of them disappear from my sight as I lean the other way and look down. Dark hair, broad shoulders. I can’t make out his face, but I can see the bandage wrapped around his hand.
I pull the pin from grenade numero tres, and launch it toward the White Dorm of Lady Time’s myrmidons.
Before it explodes in another satisfyingly destructive blast, I’ve dropped to my knees, grasped Hussein’s uninjured hand and yanked him up next to me.
Plus his guitar, which is slung over his shoulder in its soft cloth case and is another reason why his climb up the wall was a difficult one. His guitar! Talk about bringing a knife to a gun fight! Although maybe he actually has an AK-47 in there? But as he accidentally drops the case the hollow ringing sound from wood hitting the stone hard enough to make the strings vibrate, it’s clear that his love of his music is at least as strong as his desire to be free.
I’m not sure if I want to hug him or hit him because of that. I am as glad to see him as I am sad to see him, but this is not the moment to sort out my feelings.
“Lozen, I’m sorry I’m late, but . . .”
I push him roughly toward the rope before he can say anything more. He doesn’t hesitate. With his guitar case back over his shoulder, he rolls over the top of the wall and slides down the rope so quickly that I wonder if he is burning his hands until I realize that he has grasped the rope with his injured hand on the bottom so that the bandage is protecting his palm. Hussein may be more resourceful than I thought.
I hit the bottom a split second after he does, jerk the rope free with one hand as I gesture Hussein and my family back with the other arm so the grappling hook won’t hit them.
Then, without another word—no time for hugs or questions—I arrange our little party. Me on point, Ana and Victor behind me, then Hussein, with Mom on drag.
Follow me, I signal.
Ana pauses for a moment to pick up a stick. Even though we’re in a hurry, that makes me smile. I think I know why my little Chiricahua sister chose that stick. Perfect size and weight for throwing.
Then we start off at a pace fast enough to get us well away from Haven before the chaos I’ve created has been sorted out, but not too fast for Ana and Victor with their shorter legs to keep up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Reasons to Run
It’s almost dawn, that sacred time of day when the promise of new life returns to us.
We’ve traveled through all of the rest of the night. We ran, just as the Dreamer told me to. We had good reasons to run. Once the Jester, Diablita, and Lady Time dope out what has happened by discovering my family and me missing, they are going to order pursuit. Maybe even through the dangers of the night.
We haven’t stopped since gearing up at the place where I’d stashed the two crossbows and a few other useful pieces of equipment, including the two canteens full of water from Lozen’s spring that I listed as missing—a true enough statement—when I checked in with Guy on my return to Haven. Unlike weapons and ammunition, I’d figured the loss of a few canteens would not raise any alarms and I’d been right.
Hussein took one of the crossbows and added the load of a pack to the guitar slung over his shoulder. We didn’t speak. He has just silently followed my lead, nodded when I indicated he should follow behind me. Although I am sure that his wounded hand where he lost that finger must be paining him some, he’s shown no sign of feeling it. Whenever I’ve looked back he’s been there, never more than a hundred feet behind with Ana and Victor. He’s keeping up, mile after mile, showing no sign of fatigue.
I knew already
that he was strong, despite the fact that he’s not bulky like Edwin or Big Boy, but long of limb and lanky. He’s almost as tall as I am. I’ve wondered at times why he never thought of trying out for a position as a guard. I remember that day I watched him work the bags in the gym. Most men in Haven who have his physical abilities seem to want nothing more than a chance to join one of the corps. Dangerous, but a more exciting life than a lot of other jobs. Except Hussein was always content with his garden and his music.
Is he going to regret coming with us? He had to leave his garden behind. But it was his decision to come, wasn’t it? When the Dreamer gave him the message about when and how to escape, he took the opportunity. Or was it just an opportunity? Was it an order from the Dreamer? Was he told to do it or else?
Was that why he was almost too late, because he was being forced to flee? Was he hesitant, uncertain? Or, for that matter, is he here as a spy for the Dreamer? Can I really trust him?
All those thoughts make my head hurt.
It’s almost dawn and we’ve reached a good place to rest for a short time. There’s an old fallen cottonwood tree here that provides some concealment from the direction any pursuers would come. The slope faces east so that we can see the sunrise from here. My next cache of supplies, one that includes dried meat and is near a hidden spring so we can refill the canteens, is just two hills from here.
I stop and slip my pack from my shoulder, wait for the others to reach me.
Hussein comes first around the bend in the trail with Ana trotting along next to him. Ana is carrying by its back legs the fat rabbit she brought down an hour ago. When it crossed our trail, she killed it with a quick sidearm throw of the stick she’d been carrying.
Hussein is carrying something extra, too. Despite everything else on his back and the crossbow in his right hand, he’s also lugging Victor, who has his eight-year-old legs wrapped around Hussein’s waist, his arms around his neck, his head resting on Hussein’s shoulder. It gives me a funny feeling I can’t explain when I see that. Maybe it’s because I remember Dad carrying me that same way.
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