Warchild: Pawn (The Warchild Series) (13 page)

CHAPTER ● SEVENTEEN

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 resistors 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-yards, 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, and 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 once 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 alive than having
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 and 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’d demanded. The last report is still echoing through the valley, and my
ears are ringing when she pulls away and shoves her weapon to the side. “Done.”
She holds her arms out, 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 right behind us.”

She doesn’t tell me anything that I
don’t already know. As I’d suspected, the number of DAV runners was winnowing
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. The only thing that remains are 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 that 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 would 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 their families who’d 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 her husband’s wound in his thigh. He winces in pain,
but she’s so relieved he’s alive that she can’t stop laughing and touching his
face.

The day before, I’d 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. Instead, 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’d been 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?”