by Nathan Jones
In the darkness and confusion they hadn't seen him leave the safety of the platform and were still firing at it. For now.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Andy rolled onto his hands and knees and took off towards the nearest tent, running with every ounce of speed he could muster. His heart thundered in his ears and his recently returned breath burned in his lungs, so it was painful to breathe too deeply. Or maybe that pain was from his wound.
At any second he expected to feel another heavy punch. One that would take him down for good.
It almost came as a surprise when he reached the tent. He was about to stop running when he heard the shredding sound of bullets tearing through cloth and realized he'd been spotted and they were once again shooting at him.
So he dropped to the ground again. That was always a good option to make yourself a harder target, and he'd seen in more than one fight against the bloodies just how effective it was. Especially when he was out of sight behind the tent, and enemies would have to be lucky to shoot exactly where he was.
In a way it was a relief to lie down and rest for a second. His chest was really hurting, and when he tugged at his vest to loosen its binding constriction he felt a sharp stab of pain that made him freeze. More carefully, and with trembling hands, he got a few fingers beneath the reinforced kevlar material at the neck.
They came away bloody.
Andy felt his heart beating faster, which hurt, but he did his best to stay calm. He didn't feel weak, and the pain felt like it was on the surface, like the mother of all slivers. He knew that even if the body armor did its job, bullets could sometimes punch into the material hard enough to puncture the skin beneath. Especially rifle rounds.
That had to be it. Just a flesh wound.
Distantly, he was aware that while he was freaking out he hadn't been shot dead. He also noticed no bullets seemed to be tearing up the tent above him, or thudding into the ground anywhere nearby. That, and there was a lot more gunfire than there had been just a minute ago.
He was probably going to end up dead if he just lay there fretting about a wound he could do nothing about, so he carefully eased around until he could peak past the corner of the tent at the vehicles the bloodies shooting at him were using as cover.
When he did, he saw that they bigger things to worry about.
Andy's salvation had come from the trees on the south side of the road, where a long line of dozens of guns had opened up on the soldiers behind cover around the vehicles, as well as any bloodies drawing attention to themselves in the southern part of the camp.
Judging by the numbers and the coordination, that had to be Tanner and his boys; more than a few of the slaves had known how to fight, and the older man had gathered them into a group as soon as the jailbreak started and passed them the small number of rifles Gray had given Brandon. They'd scooped up even more from fallen Sangue during their desperate flight from the camp.
And now, rather than making good his escape when he had the chance, Tanner had led his people back to keep up the fight and cover the other fleeing slaves. Bless him.
Not one to look another gift horse in the mouth, Andy pushed to his feet, relieved to find that he didn't feel any weaker in spite of the slight shortness of breath. He also didn't feel blood pouring out from beneath the vest to indicate a serious wound, just a slight trickle working its way down his chest.
So he decided to keep ignoring it and bolted towards the road, keeping low and hoping he wouldn't get shot by bloodies or the men he'd just freed. He could've made for the cover of the platform before risking the narrow stretch of pavement, but considering he'd just had a bunch of enemies shooting at him there that seemed like a bad idea, so he just made a beeline for the safety of the trees.
If anyone shot at him he wasn't aware of it. He was too focused on running for all he was worth and not tripping and falling flat on his face. It seemed to take forever and no time at all to reach the trees, where he nearly brained himself on a low branch before ducking behind it.
“Friendly?” a harsh voice demanded within a stone's throw of him. Andy froze, and the man swore at him impatiently. “In English!”
“Friendly!” he gasped. “With Brandon Gerry's people!”
Harsh Voice grunted in reply, then another gun joined the racket coming from the trees to Andy's left, where the others were still shooting at the camp. Not long after that he heard a sharp whistle, almost as piercing as what Trapper could manage, and the shooting seemed to redouble, along with shouting voices.
He was only vaguely aware of that as he sagged against the tree, gasping in relief. All things considered, he was having a serious debate with himself about whether to join Tanner's men firing into the camp, or let them serve as rearguard and get to the rendezvous spot so he could check his wound. A serious consideration was that he'd lost his rifle and just had his pistol, which wouldn't be all that useful in a firefight like this.
After wrestling with the options for a few seconds, he reluctantly peeked back the way he'd come to see what the situation looked like. Then he froze, staring in baffled disbelief.
Dozens of ragged figures were bolting across the road. That wouldn't have been too surprising if the freed slaves were headed south, but these men were on their way back into the camp they'd just escaped. They moved in focused sprints, probably using up much of their remaining strength, and covered each other as they went.
Were they taking the fight to the bloodies? That didn't make any sense, since all the guards had been headed towards the southern end of camp anyway in pursuit of the fleeing slaves. Not to mention that the trees south of the road provided far better cover.
Yet there Tanner and his boys were, streaming back to camp to take positions of cover behind the vehicles they'd just cleared of enemies, some pausing to loot the soldiers they'd killed. The others were laying down a storm of fire into the rest of the camp, apparently having decided that any slave who was going to escape already had, and anyone they spotted amongst the tents and portable buildings were enemies.
It wasn't until Andy noticed several figures clustered around the reinforced metal box that served as the motor pool's key depository, having most likely cut the lock with a set of the Camptown fighters' bolt cutters, that he realized what was going on.
Tanner wasn't taking the fight to the bloodies or covering the slaves' escape. He was stealing the trucks and getting his people out of there, leaving Andy and his friends and the rest of the freed slaves to their fate. Not only that but he was taking all their rifles with him, aside from the ones carried by the other volunteers. Assuming they hadn't also lost theirs in the confusion.
Son of a b!
Andy grit his teeth as he gave the camp one final look, satisfying himself of the same thing Tanner's people had; that if any more slaves were still in there, they'd either been recaptured or were too wounded to get out. As for the guards, they were too busy with Tanner's men to waste time or ammo firing blindly into the trees.
So, cursing under his breath, he turned and fled into the woods towards the hill Jenny and the horses were hidden behind.
At least it wasn't all bad news. Sure, Tanner had taken all the best fighting men they desperately needed to make good their escape, as well as the best weapons. But at the same time, he was also stealing a bunch of Sangue's vehicles.
If there was one thing guaranteed to really tick off bloodies, it was having their trucks stolen. But also loved when it happened, since they had radios and plenty more vehicles to run down the thieves with. Which meant Tanner's group was the most highly visible of the escapees, driving off with the greatest prize. With any luck they'd draw most of the enemy's pursuit, giving Andy and his friends long enough to get the freed slaves away, or at least get a good head start.
Assuming, of course, that Sangue didn't easily have enough troops to chase both groups. Which they did. Still, it was a faint hope to cling to.
* * * * *
Brandon nearly stumbled head
first into a tree when the kid he was carrying suddenly began thrashing like a lunatic. It still threw him off balance, making every step a battle, and he was half sure he was going to end up impaling the freed prisoner on branches as he struggled to stay on his feet.
It was a miracle a bundle of skin and bones, and wounded to boot, had that kind of strength left.
He cursed, then when that just made the kid struggle even harder in his grip did his best to keep his tone mild as he continued. “Easy, easy! I'm a friend. I'm getting you away from that camp.”
“Put me down!” the freed prisoner snarled.
Brandon didn't think that was a good idea at all, but it was a choice between that or him tripping and them both landing in the dark on a forest floor strewn with deadfall and other hazards. So he veered behind a clump of trees that should hopefully block them from view of the camp, then lowered his squirming bundle to the ground.
“Easy,” he said again. “You're free, now. You're safe. We just need to join everyone else and get away from the bloodies.”
The kid had sagged back against a tree, clutching it desperately to stay upright as he panted with pain or terror or both. When Brandon offered his hand to help him back up, itching to get farther away from the chaos behind them, the freed prisoner shied away and nearly fell flat on his face.
He'd expected a bit more cooperation than this under the circumstances. But then again the poor kid was wounded, likely exhausted from overwork, and obviously panicking.
Better to spend a minute calming him down now, to get his cooperation so they could go faster later. So Brandon settled down against another tree with a weary groan of relief. “Name's Brandon. Used to live in Emery, a few days south of here. Now we're holed up in the mountains with a fairly big group, fighting the bloodies.” No response. “What's your name?”
“Jared,” the kid finally muttered.
Well, that was some progress. “Listen, Jared. Everyone else is fighting and trying to make a clean escape. I need to go and help them, but I need to help you, too. I've got horses, food, and medical supplies nearby, that's where I was headed. How about we get you there and see what we can do for your arm, huh?”
After a suspicious pause, Jared nodded reluctantly. “Fine.” Relieved, Brandon started forward to offer him a shoulder to lean on.
Before he take more than a step, the kid once again flinched away. “I can walk,” he growled. “Don't touch me!” To suit his words, he shoved away from the tree and stumbled in the direction Brandon had been going. His steps were halting and accompanied by sharp hisses of pain, as if each one was agony. Which suggested that he must've had some injury beyond the obvious gunshot wound on his arm.
But he snarled like a wounded animal when Brandon once again tried to offer him a hand, forcing himself to go faster in spite of his condition.
Fine. Hopefully the kid insisting on making it on his own wouldn't get them both killed, since he wasn't leaving any other option. Brandon veered around him, giving him plenty of space, and led the way forward.
They started passing people before too long, men holding shotguns who Carl had assigned to cover their retreat. Most were looking antsy, glancing over their shoulders as if on the verge of abandoning their assignment and fleeing with the others.
“You're the first guys we've seen in a while,” one said. “See anyone behind you?”
Brandon shook his head. “No. Doesn't mean there aren't more stragglers.”
“Hey, you got another of those?” Jared said abruptly, pointing at the freed slave's shotgun.
Brandon drew his pistol and offered it; nobody should be unarmed tonight. But he also pointed firmly south, towards nearest way around the hill. “Here's a gun, but you're not fighting. You need to get to the horses and get your wound treated before you drop and need to be carried.” The kid faced him, glare apparent even in the darkness, but he just he scowled back and waited.
After a few seconds of sullen silence Jared snatched the pistol out of his hand, then turned and limped away.
He was about to get the men organized, assign messengers and turn them into a proper rearguard, when he heard crashing through the trees behind him.
He turned to see Andy appear almost exactly on the path he and Jared had taken, face pale and panting like a bellows. He'd lost his rifle and was clutching his chest with one hand, teeth gleaming in the dark in a snarl of either anger or pain.
Brandon hurried over to him, offering him his shoulder. Unlike Jared, his friend was quick to accept the help. “Are you okay?” he demanded.
“Got shot in the chest,” Andy wheezed. “Think the vest mostly stopped it.”
“Mostly?” He didn't like the sound of that at all.
His friend ignored him, continuing urgently. “Tanner and his guys stole Sangue's vehicles. That might distract the guards from us, but we need to get going . . . there's no one else behind me, as far as I know, and nobody coming but bloodies.”
Brandon was momentarily ticked that the freed slave's leader had ditched them with some of the best fighters among the group, not to mention the best weapons. But he didn't have time to worry about that at the moment. “You heard him!” he called to the shotgun-toting men around him. “Gather up, let's get this rearguard moving!”
The freed slaves made relieved sounds as they abandoned their meager cover and moved to join him, glancing warily over their shoulders. Brandon reluctantly got out from under his friend's arm as they did. “Andy, get back to the horses. If you're up to it, look for anyone who managed to scavenge a rifle and get them passed out to people who can shoot. Send them and the skirmishers back to me, while you and the other volunteers organize everyone else, make sure all the guns are distributed, and pack up. You're in charge of keeping the group moving.”
“Fantastic,” Andy panted as he quickened his step. He was soon circling around the hill.
Brandon paused with his small rearguard of a dozen or so men. Some looked as if they regretted signing up for the job, while others seemed eager for a chance to put bullets in the guards who'd mistreated them for so long.
“Okay, folks, here's the deal,” he began quietly. “There's two kinds of bloodies we're going to run into. The hopping mad ones who're going to come charging in, probably in small groups, to try to catch us before we can get far, and the ones who stopped to think and will be coming a bit slower, but better organized. Ideally we need to shoot the first, since they'll be more careless and we should hear them coming, and stay ahead of the second.”
Otherwise they'd have dozens of cutthroat soldiers sniping at nearly a hundred exhausted, starving men from the trees as they struggled south, which would be an unimaginable nightmare. And that was assuming the bloodies didn't call in help from the squads already searching these mountains for Camptown, who were all farther south and could lay ambushes.
Brandon was going to have to send out his volunteers to scout, as well as every freed slave who had any sort of skill in hunting or tracking. He'd also need to send a rider or two down to the bowl valley to let Gray know his situation, in the hopes the man might be able to do something to clear his path and help them get the last of the way to Camptown without leading any enemies following their trail there.
The more he considered the realities of their situation, the more hopeless he became. He was starting to get the inkling that, even more than the plan not going off without a hitch like he'd hoped, this may not have been the best idea.
* * * * *
They stumbled through the darkness for a few hours longer.
Brandon's rearguard encountered a few groups of bloodies, from what he could tell from the muzzle flashes during the firefights ranging from three or four soldiers to a dozen led by a dog. The fighting was brutal, and he lost some people in the darkness and had to send even more wounded up to the main group to be carried by the horses.
Thankfully, the pursuit tapered off after only an hour or so. Brandon was able to relax some, get better organized with
scouts patrolling around their force of struggling people and riders sent ahead to call for help from Camptown. He was even able to leave the rearguard to their task for a bit so he could strike out ahead and pick out the best route for them to follow going forward.
Traveling at night was a nightmare, slow and exhausting and risking injury, sometimes severe, in the dark. Brandon had only done it because of urgent necessity, which was why as soon as he was confident they'd shaken immediate pursuit, he ordered everyone aside from a strong force of night sentries to settle down and get some food and rest.
“We'll be moving again before dawn, and pushing hard all day and into the night,” he warned his exhausted charges. “So make whatever sleep you can get count.”
Most of the people around him simply collapsed with groans of relief, while Jenny organized people to go around handing out food and water and all the blankets they had. There were less of those than he would've liked, few enough that the freed men would be forced to share three or four to one.
Well, shared body heat.
Brandon urged his volunteers, who were the freshest out of the group, to scout while the freed slaves who thought they were strong enough to take the first short sentry shift got some food. He felt guilty about not going out with them, but this was the first chance he'd had since the fighting started to take stock of how the jailbreak had gone.
The answer was: not great. Of the better than two hundred slaves in the camp, less than half had reached the rendezvous point. Many of the rest would've left with Tanner's group, but even so it meant that something like eighty men were either still prisoners or, more likely considering what he'd seen in the camp, had been gunned down.
Bill was dead, his failed surprise attack on the northern guard platform what had started the chaos. Three of the volunteers hadn't rejoined them, and one was confirmed dead by a group of freed slaves. Ray had taken several bullets to his flak jacket and was barely on his feet, although still as full of piss and vinegar as always.
