The Last Legend

by Ernie Lindsey

  Another shot rings out, and I make myself smaller. I look back, over my shoulder, and have a clear line of sight all the way back to where everyone is hiding.

  I’m not as high as the sniper, and my vantage point isn’t as open as his, but I can see that I should’ve been more careful about where I led them. The path we took was too open, too exposed, and I should’ve known better. We had been scrambling along the edge of a clearing, and I’d been so intent on getting them all moving faster that our vulnerability hadn’t registered.

  It’s too late for regrets. I have to do something while I’m here.

  The sniper fires again. We’re over a half a mile away from the clan, yet with my new abilities, I can make out the distant screams of pain as he scores a hit on his target. He fires again, and again. More screams in the distance. I look up at the blind. Has he given up on me? What’s going on back there with James and the others?

  When I hear multiple weapons firing, back with the crowd of citizens, I understand what’s happening.

  17

  It was a trap, and while the goal likely wasn’t to get me away from the group, because there’s no way they could’ve known about my abilities, it worked. They used the sniper to lay down enough fire so we would all duck and cover, become immobile, while the rest of the DAV runners approached to kill resisters and snatch citizens like plucking fat red apples from a low-hanging limb.

  Briefly, I consider running back to help. Would it help? With the sniper still out here? No. So instead, I spin around the tree and run, darting across the forest floor, a fox hunting her prey. No special abilities present themselves, and they couldn’t have picked a worse time to disappear. I’m not bounding like a deer. I can’t run with ridiculous speed. Time moves at its normal pace.

  It’s only me and my pumping legs, planting one foot in front of the other, muscle moving muscle, shoving my body ahead. The burn in my thighs is accompanied by the ache of being on the run for days. My wounded feet send throbbing pain up and into my spine. My lungs feel as if I’m breathing through one of the reeds around the lake back home.

  Home.

  Briefly, I think about home and how we’re so far away from the comfort of what we knew. It’s probably a pile of blackened, smoldering wood.

  I hear the sniper fire and instantly feel my arm stinging. I throw myself to the right, down and behind a bush, glancing at my shoulder. The bullet has torn through my jacket and shirt. It barely grazed my skin. The warmth of running blood trickles down my tricep. So the answer is yes, I’m not invincible.

  I’m up and moving again. Twenty-five yards, twenty, fifteen. If I can get close enough, the angle will prevent him from getting a clear shot.

  Ten yards. A mixture of leaves and dirt explodes at my feet as the shot rings in my ears.

  The tree. I’ve made it. I jump and grab the nearest limb, lifting my legs and clambering around to the northern side, away from the blind above. I reach upward and my fingers curl around the next limb, then the next. Pain arcs through my shoulder. I lift, pull, and extend my arms, digging the rubber soles of my boots into the bark.

  Pow-pow-pow.

  It’s not the sniper’s rifle. It’s a smaller weapon. It sounds like the captain’s weapon, the one that murdered Brandon. That was days ago. It feels like a month.

  Pow-pow.

  All five shots miss. I throw myself against the trunk and pause, breathing, trying to plan my next move. I look up. I can only see a hand, and the gun it’s holding, cautiously emerging from the blind’s entrance.

  Wait and die, or attack and live.

  The choice is simple.

  I propel myself upward, limb by limb, and when I’m close enough, I grab the barrel and yank hard and fast. The sniper doesn’t expect it, and the gun is firmly in my grasp. I’ve never used one, but it can’t be that hard.

  I hear a yelp and then the dull scrape of boots on wood.

  One last push, and I’m up to the final limb and through the opening where I see… a girl?

  She’s a couple of years younger than me. Her hair is almost the color of orange leaves in October, and it’s tucked into a DAV infantryman’s cap. She’s wearing one of their black uniforms and her rifle is propped against the corner. Her eyes are wide. She holds her hands out in front, palms facing me.

  She shakes her head, the corners of her mouth pulling down in justifiable terror, because she knows she’s about to die.

  I lift the revolver. It’s heavier than I expect, with a long black barrel and a wooden handle. I’ve never shot one before, but the Elders taught me enough to know that they only hold six shells.

  There’s only one bullet left.

  I want to squeeze the trigger so badly—for Elbert, for Lala, and for whomever else she’s maimed or murdered that I’m responsible for—but I can’t bring myself to do it. Why? Because maybe I can use her. As much as I hate the idea, maybe she’s worth more to me than the satisfaction of opening a hole in her forehead.

  “Don’t,” she pleads. Her voice is weak and hollow.

  Through clenched teeth, I ask, “How many are with you?”

  “I don’t—I don’t—”

  Gunshots in the distance. My people are dying or being captured. “Hurry! How many?”

  “Eight,” she answers.

  “Do you want to live?”

  She nods.

  “Get your rifle.”

  “What?”

  “Get it, now!”

  “Wh—why?”

  “Do it! Shoot them all, every one, and you’ll live.”

  “If my commanders find out, they’ll—”

  I lunge and shove the barrel against her forehead. “Or they’ll do what? Kill you?” I put my thumb on the hammer and pull, feeling the cocking mechanism sliding into place. That’s such a satisfying feeling. I scrunch up my mouth and fire blasts of air from my nose. I must look like a rabid animal.

  Tears erupt from the corners of her eyes. “Okay,” she says.

  “Eight shots, eight kills. Do not give them a chance to get away. Hurry. Now.”

  She reaches to her left, grabs the sniper rifle, and positions it against the south-facing opening. She pulls it tight against her shoulder. There’s some sort of device on the top that lets you see closer. I remember that now. That’s how they’re able to shoot so far.

  I hold the revolver’s barrel to the back of her neck.

  She flinches. “I—I can’t concentrate like that.”

  “Learn how, quickly.”

  She takes a deep breath, holds, holds, and then fires. Readjusts and fires again. And again—eight shots total, like I demanded. The last report is still echoing through the valley and my ears are still ringing when she pulls away and shoves her weapon to the side. “Done.” She holds her arms out and puts her face down with her forehead against the wooden flooring, surrendering.

  “All of them?”

  “I think so.”

  “Don’t think. Know. Did you put a bullet in every single—”

  “Yes!” she screams.

  “Where are the rest of your runners?” I shove the barrel harder into her neck, the top of it disappearing into soft flesh, underneath fire-red hair.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me. We know you have ten thousand marching, we know you have tanks, we know you have a vanguard coming, and we know you had a group of forward runners. You’ve been chasing us for days. We know, so don’t try to pretend like we don’t. You had fifteen the last time we counted. Where are the rest?”

  “Back. They went back.”

  “Why?” I grab a handful of hair and pull hard, lifting her head.

  She winces and tries to look at me with one eye, from the side. “We’ve been capturing your people along the way, and we couldn’t move fast enough. Some of our men went back with them as guards, and some were injured. There’ll be more coming to replace them.”

  “How soon?”

  “Two days. Maybe less. The vanguard is r
ight behind us.”

  She doesn’t tell me anything that I don’t already know. As I suspected, the number of DAV runners has been decreasing as they captured and delivered their bounty. It didn’t make sense to force their slaves to run with them. I expected the main vanguard to be close, but not quite two-days-close. We’ll need to pick up our pace if we’re to get back to Warrenville and give them time to prepare.

  I need to be moving. “Two choices,” I say, putting my face close to hers. She smells like sweat and unwashed clothing. “They’re easy. One last bullet and you die here where the crows can pick off what’s left of you; or, you bring that rifle and you come with me. Either you die, or you’re my sniper now.” I want her to come with me because I hate to waste such a good shot, especially since we’ll need someone that can hit the enemy at a distance, but part of me also expects her DAV loyalty to show through. Will she die for what she believes in? Or does she even care?”

  “I’ll come,” she says. “I don’t want to die.”

  “Smart choice. You’re too young anyway.” As if I’m old enough to be telling her that. “Down the tree. You first.”

  She obeys, and I follow with the revolver tucked in my waistband and the rifle slung over my shoulder. She reaches the last limb and drops, then moves to the side, giving me room.

  On the ground, I see that she’s about my size, and her uniform is too big for her frame. The jacket hangs limply on her shoulders, and the hat keeps falling down her forehead, nearly covering her eyes. She pushes it up again, revealing her face, white cheeks flushed with pink, green eyes that remind me of moss on a river rock.

  She smiles, and I imagine it’s a nervous reaction. When she does, she reveals a set of perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth that aren’t typical for the underlings of the world, at least not down here in the PRV. The Elders used to tell stories about people whose only job was to fix teeth, and they gave you these special sticks to clean them. I wonder if those workers still exist up in the DAV where people can pay for luxuries like that.

  “What’s your name?” I ask. “Take off your jacket and your hat.”

  “Teresa,” she says, dropping them to the ground. All that remains is the black pants of the DAV uniform, and those don’t necessarily identify her as the enemy.

  “Move, Teresa. That way.” She heads south, and I follow closely behind.

  When we reach the group, I find Crockett and her men squatting over the dead DAV runners. They’ve lined their bodies in a row, shoulder to shoulder, and they’re raiding their pockets and stealing their boots, jackets, and weapons. Crockett has one soldier’s hat sitting on her head, while another one of her men whistles when he pulls a silver flask from inside the dead man’s coat.

  “Crockett,” I snap at her, “leave them some dignity.”

  She laughs. Her men laugh, and I know this order will go unheeded.

  Crockett asks me, “Who’s your little friend? Got your own prisoner there, I see.”

  “She’s with us now.”

  “Is that so?” Crockett stands and wipes DAV blood onto her pants, cleaning her hands. “She the one that killed some of your friends here?”

  I shrug, and I don’t explain.

  Crockett chuckles. “Can’t wait to see what James says.”

  We leave the filthy scavengers to their spoils, walking through the horde of people who seem lost, scared, and confused, not knowing which way to go or whom to turn to. They must know that their attackers are all dead—otherwise they’d be scrambling through the forest. They would’ve been gone by the time Teresa and I returned. It looks like they’re reassembling as mothers call children’s names and fathers desperately search for families who’ve been lost in the chaos. Others tend to the wounded.

  Some scream. Some are dying. Many have already gone to the Great Beyond.

  I stop beside a couple who are about my mother and father’s age, if they were still around. The woman pours water from a canteen and washes a wound in her husband’s thigh. He winces in pain, but she’s so relieved he’s alive that she can’t stop laughing and touching his face.

  Yesterday, I found an old handkerchief—blue with white flowers—in an abandoned shack. It was still clean, and I wanted to save it to wash my face. Now I pull it from my back pocket and hand it to the woman. “Take this,” I say. “It’ll help clean the wound.” The woman smiles and won’t stop thanking me.

  Teresa hangs her head and avoids eye contact. I don’t blame her.

  If any of the citizens knew who she was—what she was—they would shred her like a pack of wild dogs. For now, it’s best no one knows the complete truth, except for James and Finn. I have to let them know. I have to tell them that we can use her.

  We find James hunched over a woman I knew as Barma. She was a seamstress in her village. Blood seeps from the gaping hole in her stomach, and when James looks up, he shakes his head. Her chest rises and falls. He tells her to get some rest, that he’ll find a healer for her. She smiles faintly, and as she reaches for him, her eyes go blank and her arm falls.

  Beside me, Teresa puts her hand over her mouth and tries to stifle a sob. “Do you recognize her? Was she one of yours?” I ask, pointing at the rifle.

  Teresa nods and closes her eyes.

  “You should’ve aimed higher.” If I want her to trust me, to be on my side, to let me lead her, I shouldn’t be torturing her like this, but I’m angry. Barma was a good woman. She had a son. I’ll need to go find him later.

  Teresa manages to say, “I’m sorry,” before she looks away, shoulders hunched and trembling.

  James stands slowly, glaring at the young sniper. “Who is that?”

  “My prisoner. She’s on our side now.”

  As usual, James does not approve of my decision. His cheeks fill with red. His body begins to shake. He shoves a finger at Teresa, pointing, saying, “Did she—is she the one? Her? Is she one of them? This… child? No! No, damn you. I will not allow it.” Spittle flies from his mouth and gets caught in his beard, the white flecks hanging there as proof of his rage.

  “She gave me her word.”

  “Her word? Her word? What good is her word, Caroline? Go pour your dreams into one bucket and her word into another, then tell me which one is heavier.”

  “She’s good from a distance. We need her.”

  His laughter is mocking and empty. “For what?”

  “The vanguard is two days behind. We’re too slow, and they’ll overtake us soon. With her rifle and the… the… what is this thing?”

  “The scope,” Teresa answers.

  “Right, the scope. We can see them coming. We’ll have a warning, and she can shoot some of them before they get here. We can use her.”

  James throws his hands into the air and stomps away. Over his shoulder, he says, “She’ll slit your throat first,” and then he disappears among the crowd.

  18

  We’ve managed to corral everyone except for three small families, a total of ten people, and Marla tells me she saw them heading west and not looking back. They reached the far ridge line, she says, and I tell her not to bother going after them. Let them go if they want. They know where Warrenville is, and they know how we’re getting there. If they change their minds, we won’t be hard to find.

  I hate to think that way, but it’s too dangerous to send good people into the woods chasing those that have either lost faith or assume they’re safer on their own.

  In a way, I can’t disagree with them. Those ten people will move faster without us. They can find a cave for shelter, and they could easily disappear in the woods, unlike us, unlike the massive herd shuffling along beside me.

  Finn is up on point in his usual spot, setting a faster pace as I requested, and most folks are having trouble keeping up. James won’t come near me and doesn’t want to speak. He’s somewhere in the pack, fuming, pouting, or trying to decide how long he’ll allow his band of Republicons to help the insane girl called Caroline.

  I wonder
how much he regrets his decision to help me. Does he still think the reward I promised, which I’m not even sure I can get, will be worth the effort?

  Before we began moving again, Crockett agreed to bury the bodies of the DAV soldiers in exchange for plundering the dead men. She and her men remain behind and insist they’ll catch up before nightfall.

  The thought still disgusts me—the way she and her gang were picking and choosing items from the runners like they were browsing for supplies in The Center. But if we leave the bodies behind and unburied, it’ll be a clear indicator which direction we’ve gone. Breadcrumbs, really, like arrows pointing the way.

  Teresa walks at my side. Her long red hair is down, and she’s wearing a spare jacket that someone has given her to protect her from the never-ending rain. It fits well, unlike the uniform I made her leave behind.

  She says to me, “I won’t do that, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Slit your throat, like that man said.”

  I have too many things on my mind for little discussions. “Thanks.” I turn away and try to finish my headcount. We have a river approaching, and I want to be sure Marla’s numbers were correct before we attempt to cross it. The way everyone is trudging ahead in fits and starts makes it impossible, though, like trying to count honeybees around a hive.

  “I’m serious. You didn’t kill me, so I owe you my life.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I think so.” She shrugs. “You never told me your name.”

  I sigh. She’s not giving up. “Caroline.”

  “I didn’t want to be a part of this anyway.”

  “A part of what, the army?”

  “The invasion.”

  “Then why’re you here?”

  “I either had to obey orders or face a trial for insubordination. I didn’t join the army for something like this. Not for this. My parents are… wealthy, and they’ve always had plans for me. I was supposed to attend Higher Learning and become a dentist like my father.”