“Come out and face us!” one of the gunmen shouts, taunting me. “We want meat!”
Meat, that’s the word he uses. It takes a moment for it to register in my mind, and then…Are they hunting us for food?
I feel another bullet drill into the post, and a chunk of wood splinters off, leaving a gap that exposes my head perfectly. I need to find better cover. Letting my instinct take over, I discard any semblance of caution and lean out from behind the post. My eyes desperately scan the field and I pinpoint the thicket where the attackers are hiding, a clear line of sight to pick off anyone like Claire and I who happened to be passing by the ruined fence. I point the service revolver in their general direction and, without taking the time to aim, fire. My shot rings through the air and the force of the gun’s recoil nearly makes me tumble over backwards.
I hear one of the attackers swear in surprise. I assume it was a near miss, so I pull the gun up to my face, line the thicket up in my sights, and fire another round, this time bending my arms and leaning forward over the gun to withstand the recoil. I see my bullet hit a mound of dirt just to the side of the left most shooter’s head, and a small cloud of dust billows into the air.
I raise the gun, taking aim to fire again, but I’ve forgotten to pay attention to the gunman on the right, who fires a round that thuds into the ground a mere centimeter from my left knee. Have to get to cover! I lower my gun and gaze wildly around, trying to find another place to hide and—there! I throw myself onto all fours and, blindly firing a round over my shoulder, crawl along the length of fence to the next post, where a rusting metal crate, just tall enough to shield me, lies discarded.
I make it to the crate just as another bullet slides into the ground beside me, showering me with dust. I press my back up against the cold, hard steel and rest for a few seconds, my breathing heavy and panicked. I hear the men laughing in the distance, enjoying toying with me, and suddenly, I’m hit, full force, for the first real time in my life, with the shocking realization that someone is trying hard to kill me. I don’t think I’ve ever truly appreciated the danger, the brutal savagery of the wasteland, before this moment. Until now, it’s always been abstract danger, easily avoidable if you followed a few simple rules. It happened to others, but never to me.
How am I going to escape from this?
I risk my life again for a split second and peek around the corner of the crate, trying to pinpoint for certain how many attackers I’m up against. I quickly spot the two men at the front, and just manage to make out the third, whose head is just visible, sticking out from behind a rock. I’m not sure if he was there a few seconds ago, but a fourth man has joined the fray—he’s standing just behind the third man, his rifle trained on my hiding spot. At the last second, he notices me and begins to pull the trigger. My heart jumps and I pull my head back behind cover just in time to hear the metallic scrape of his bullet colliding with the hardened surface of the crate.
Four men. It must be sheer luck that I’ve managed to survive even this long, there’s no way I can take out four experienced shooters on my own. I’ll have to think of some other way to get away, but how? Maybe if I can distract them for a second, then I can take Claire and...
“Are you comin’ out?” shouts one of the attackers. “We’re getting a little tired of having to waste bullets! You don’t seriously think you’ve got a chance do you, taking on all four of us?”
“What do you want from us?” I call back, trying to keep the terror out of my voice. “You can have our supplies, if that’s what you want! Just let us go!”
“Your supplies?” the marauder shouts back, cutting the air with manic laughter. “Sure, we can take them, but we have to eat too, you know? We’ve been waiting here for someone to come along for hours now!”
“You…you want to eat us?” I manage to stammer back, instantly cursing myself for letting a noticeable whimper of horror escape with it.
“That’s the whole idea,” the marauder laughs jovially, as if it’s an excellent joke.
His insane laughter echoes on the wind for all to hear, and I spend a few seconds listening to it as I try to compose myself and think of a way to escape. I look around me, scanning the field for a means of escape, and horror dawns on me as I realize that I’ve been herded into the prefect trap. Besides this crate, there’s no more cover for at least fifty meters. The marauders would pick the both of us off before we’d even have made two paces towards the trees. The only option I’ve got is to shoot back, hope to come out better than them in a fire fight.
I quickly flip the tiny release on the gun’s grip, and the barrel slides out. I lean over and quickly count the number of bullets within. There’s only two left, and I’m no sharpshooter. Nowhere near enough ammo for me to do any reasonable damage, considering that none of the four shots I’ve fired so far have found their mark. Oh, maybe I can hit one of them, if I’m lucky, maybe cause a serious wound, but would that be enough to secure our escape? A half-formed idea flashes into my terrified brain, and suddenly I think of a way to disengage from the gunfight safely. I spend a fleeting second contemplating the gun in my hand and listening to the taunting of the men, before I make my decision-I have to wound one of them, two if possible, to distract them while I take Claire and make a break for the next clump of trees up ahead.
I slap the barrel back into the side of the gun and pull the weapon into the ready position, determined to save myself and my sister. I edge towards the corner of the crate and slowly begin to lean around it. As soon as my forehead is out from behind cover, I hear a barrage of gunfire as all four attackers fire in unison. I take a quick glance at their weapons before pulling myself back behind cover, feeling the crate vibrate as it’s pounded by bullets. Hunting rifles, I notice. They have hunting rifles. I’m no gun fanatic, but I recognize the model as the same one my grandfather owned in his last few years as a farmer. Once or twice, I’d watched him take potshots at a lonely fox or a mangy dog that had strayed into his grazing paddock. It needed to be reloaded after each shot, and he’d always swear loudly if he missed, knowing that the animal would be long gone before he’d be ready to shoot again. As I recall this seemingly insignificant memory, I can’t help smiling and my heart skips a beat. Now’s my chance!
Silently praying that I’m not mistaken, I leap out from behind the crate, bring myself to my knees and take careful aim, all the while aware that I’ve only got seconds before the men are done reloading and I’m dead. I quickly find their thicket in my sight, and I see all four of them ducked behind a mound of dirt, furiously trying to reload their guns so they can finish me off. I spend half a second in deep concentration, my frenzied brain quickly calculating which one will be the easiest to hit. The man on the far right, the late comer to the battle, has the top half of his torso exposed, so I line him up in my sights and pull the trigger, hoping that my aim’s spot on.
I’ve stopped being human.
I hear a shriek of pain and see blood spurt from the jagged tear that my bullet has carved into his right lung. Have I done enough? I watch as he crumples backwards and two of his friends rush to his aid, then I take a blind shot at the lone gunman who remains, and jump to my feet. While the rest of the marauders kneel beside their fallen friend, I flick out the barrel and slam a fistful of rounds into the empty slots, then I point my weapon in the gunman’s general direction and fire again to pin him down, as I tilt my body forward and sprint as fast as I can to the bush where Claire is hiding, probably scared out of her mind.
“What’s going on?” Claire screams, her voice shrill with fear and her face soaked in tears.
“Let’s get out of here!” I shout, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her, roughly, to her feet.
I tighten my grip around her forearm and begin running for the trees in the distance, my heart pounding so loud I can hear it, like a ticking time bomb ready to go off inside my head.
We reach the trees as a gunshot blasts behind us, but we’re already far enough away that we’re mostly out of range. Despite this, though, we’re not yet out of danger.
“They’ll be coming after us!” I say urgently. “We’ve got to make it back into the hills, where we can lose them! Will you be all right to keep up with me?”
Claire nods. “Maybe if we can make it back to the ranger station…”
I grab her hand in mine and we tear off through the field, trying not to be overwhelmed by the fear and ignoring the gunfire resonating through the air behind us. Not looking back, we keep sprinting, and just as a shooting pain surges through my abdomen from the exertion, we enter the forest of dead trees once again, and are consumed by the thick penumbra cast over us by the steep hills that loom ahead.
The gunshots and the subhuman shouts of the marauders begin to recede into the distance as the trees become thicker and thicker and the ground changes once again from dirt and grass to thick grey snow. I don’t notice it, but the sun sets as we run, and soon everything’s engulfed in the obscuring greyness of dusk.
We’ve been running for about half an hour, but it seems like we’ve been doing it all day. My heartbeat still pounds loudly in my ears and I can hear Claire’s panicked breathing as she runs beside me, but at last I notice that it’s silent again. We’ve almost lost our pursuers, but to stop now…
“Keep going!” I gasp, my voice weak from the shock and the pain. “They could still catch us any moment and we—”
Claire screams as her hand is pulled away from mine and she tumbles forward, tripping over a round stone that’s half buried in the snow. Her head hits the ground with a sickening smack, and she grunts in pain.
I stop and turn to help her.
“Quick! Get up!” I say. I hold out my hand, ready to help her back to her feet, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t get back up. Flecks of bright crimson glimmer on the snow around her head, which she’s split open on a solitary rock. Her eyes are closed, and her skin is deathly pale, except for the blood that’s pouring down her face from the deep gash on her forehead.
My heart now beating a million times a minute, I throw myself to my knees beside her and beg her to wake up. Oh god, not Claire. I can’t lose Claire.
“Wake up! Please!” I shout at her, shaking her arm with all my might. She doesn’t stir. Her breathing is erratic, labored. I wrap my arm around her back and lift her up, willing her to open her eyes and tell me if she’s okay. Her limp body flails uselessly in my arms as if she’s a rag doll. She doesn’t wake up.
Chapter Four
I rip the backpack off my shoulders and tear it open, dumping the contents all over the ground as I search frantically for the first aid kit.
Each second is crucial, and it seems like whole minutes have been wasted by the time I feel the familiar leather pouch between my fingers. I pull it out and hurriedly unzip it, nearly spilling everything inside in the process. I lean over Claire and prepare to dress the cut, but, seemingly without notice, night has fallen and I can’t make out any of the labels on the medicines in the twilight.
Swearing under my breath, I reach for the backpack on the ground beside me to get my father’s lighter, but then I hear something that makes my blood run cold.
A hungry attack dog, barking somewhere in the forest behind me. Immediately, I hear the marauders shouting, giving orders to their dog as it encloses on our location.
Damn! Not now!
It won’t matter whether I’ve dressed Claire’s wound or not if the monsters catch up with us. Somehow, I still need to lose them, get Claire to a place of safety, where I can take my time treating her, but as I take a quick glance at her pale, colorless face, I’m reminded that every second I waste increases her chances of bleeding to death.
Damn those bastards to hell!
I hear the dog bark again, closer this time, perhaps just on the other side of the last clump of trees, and I throw the first aid kit back into my backpack and grab hold of one the straps with my right hand, still tightly grasping the handgun that’s already saved our lives more than once today. I wrap my free arm around Claire’s back and, grunting with effort, hoist her unconscious form up onto my shoulder.
I manage to get to my feet, struggling to stay upright with Claire slung over my shoulder and gasping in pain from the terrible ache that’s taken over half my body. I spend a few seconds orienting myself, and then I scan the horizon for the black square that is the ranger’s station in the distance, and start running.
It’s a battle just to keep going, to keep up enough speed to have a chance of outrunning my pursuers, whose furious shouting seems to be bearing down on me, coming ever closer by the second as I struggle to get away. My footfalls are loud and deliberate, each one a concerted effort that crunches in the snow with a crackle that I know isn’t keeping my position a secret. Despite it being a cold night, beads of sweat run down my face and there’s a salty taste in my mouth.
I hear the dog bark again, and I hope that if there’s a God, he won’t let them find me. Shuffling though the snow, one hand wrapped around Claire’s midriff to stop her from slipping off my shoulder, the other tightly grasping the barrel of a handgun and dangling a backpack behind it, I’m an easy target for anyone looking to exact retribution for the man I shot.
I feel my foot collide with something hard, and my knees buckle, threatening to topple me like a bowling pin. I struggle to keep hold of Claire as I pitch forward, only now noticing the thick log that I’ve blindly run over, buried in the thick snow.
I try vainly to straighten myself, but instead find that I’m about to tumble face first to the ground, and I thrust my right arm into the air, pushing Claire further onto my back so that my body will cushion her from the impact.
Pain shoots through me as I sink into the snow and for a moment I’m certain that my rib cage has shattered into a million pieces. Claire’s dead weight presses into me from above and I’m pinned to the ground, too winded to make the necessary effort to free myself.
There’s a rustle in the bushes ahead of me, and a hungry growl cuts the air. A skeletal tracker dog stalks out from the shadows, staring me right in the face with its ravenous eyes. It stops a few meters away from me and seems to take a few moments to mock its helpless prey, pearls of saliva dribbling from its bared teeth.
It growls once more, and then unleashes a spine chilling howl, its hind legs tensing behind it, preparing to pounce forward and take its prey. Panicked, I feel through the snow beside me with my left hand, praying that I’ll find the cold, familiar shape of the revolver waiting for me. The dog starts barking furiously and then it charges, running at me with lightning speed. I close my eyes, preparing for the sharp fangs to drill into my face, when I finally feel the grip of the handgun, already starting to sink into the deep snow.
The next second determines whether I get to live or die. I groan in agony and raise the gun, willing myself to find the strength to tense my finger on the trigger. I wrench open my eyes and I see the dog bearing down on me, its teeth just inches from my face.
“Not today,” I spit at the dog, as I pull the trigger.
The gunshot rings in my ears and is followed by an unnatural yelp as the dog is flung violently backwards, blood spraying from the wound in its neck. It lays on the ground for a few seconds, twitching violently and gurgling out a guttural whimpering. It lets out one final, spluttering groan and dies, blood oozing from its open mouth.
“You hear that?” I hear a gruff voice shout from the trees nearby. “Gunfire!”
The crunching of running footsteps grows rapidly louder and, just before the three men come bursting into view, I muster what strength I have left and roll sideways, burying Claire and myself in a patch of shadow just beneath the fallen log.
“Bastard got Ratchet!” says one of the men in anger, pointing to the dead dog. “
I’ll kill him myself!”
“Where is he?” another asks venomously, scanning the path ahead for any sign of me. “We can’t let him get away, not after what he did to my brother back there!”
They split up and quickly search behind the mounds of snow that line the side of the trail. I hope they don’t spot me, wedged up against the log, though I can’t bite back the frightening idea that each breath I take is loud enough to reveal me.
For an agonizing fifteen seconds, they patrol the area, brushing aside withered branches with their guns and poking their feet into depressions in the snow. At last, after what seems like an eternity, they regroup, and I can hardly hear what they say over the frantic beating of my own heart.
“Not here,” says the one with the gruff voice. “He must have gone deeper into the woods.”
“Well, he can’t be too far,” says the man I spoke to during the gunfight, in his cold, mocking voice. “We heard that gunshot only a few moments ago. He must have fired at Ratchet and then kept running. Let’s hurry!”
The other two murmur agreement and, without a further word, all three of them sprint into the trees on the other side of the log, leaving us alone in the eerie silence of the night.
* * * *
It takes at least another hour before I get back to the ranger station. Night has fallen while I’ve been running through the wilderness and it’s only from the flame of my silver lighter, tenuously grasped in the forefingers of my right hand as I juggle Claire’s weight on my shoulders, that I’m able to make out the way back.
As I reach the door, I drop the lighter on the ground, unable to maneuver my hand to my pocket to put it away, and then I fumble for the hilt of my gun, stuffed inside the breast pocket of my coat. I nudge the door open a crack with the side of my body, and point the gun inside, ready to blast away any attackers that lurk on the other side, but the shack is empty—still in the same state we left it this morning.
Sun Bleached Winter Page 3
