Another bullet, but this one went wide and hit something several tents away.
Importantly, that tent flew backward. Which meant that he was still ahead of me. I was still heading in the right direction. I dodged to my right and sprinted down the narrow aisle that had been left between the tents, counting on him to either be reloading or watching the main aisle instead of this one.
After four tents, though, I stopped again—and listened.
I could hear him in the distance, I realized. He was breathing heavily, like he’d been running or lifting something heavy, and there was something panicked about it. Or… excited.
“You have no idea how deep you’re in, boy,” he muttered. “No idea who you’re up against.”
“Then tell me,” I answered, making sure my voice was loud enough for him to hear it over the heaving of his own breath.
I didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but it sounded like he was in pain. Had he been shot? Had a stray bullet struck him when he’d rushed into this room before? It was the only thing I could think of, and though it made sense, it was also obvious that whatever had happened, it wasn’t slowing him down enough.
He might be wounded, but he was still dangerous. Still shooting. I had to find a way around his hiding place so I could come up behind him. Avoid the guns and surprise him.
His voice boomed: “Where do you think I got all those men? Where do you think I got the weapons? Hell, where do you think I’ve been getting them for the last three years?”
Three years. Interesting. “I have no idea,” I called back, creeping forward again. “Why don’t you tell me?”
There was a long pause, and I froze in place. Was he moving? Had I misjudged where he was? I leaned up against the tent in front of me and peeked around it, listening for the sound of his breathing. Trying to figure out how far away he could possibly be at this point.
But all I heard was silence.
Shit. What was going on over there? Had he died?
Then I heard a deep, shuddering breath, and realized that he wasn’t dead. But he was definitely suffering. And he was only about twenty feet ahead of me, if I was judging the distance right. If I made my way several tents to my right, and then moved toward the wall, and he stayed still, I’d be able to come at him from the right rather than straight-on.
If I got lucky, and he was facing the spot where he thought I still was, then I’d be able to get to him before he even knew I was there.
“Where’s your friend?” he asked suddenly. “Marlon? He tell you he killed my wife?”
In pain and possibly also delirious, I thought suddenly. Because this fell under the heading of rambling. And lying.
“He told me about her,” I allowed, standing stock still. “He also told me that she had chemicals in her blood that no human should have had access to. And that there was nothing he could do for her.”
I darted to the right after that, moving on my toes and as quickly as I could go without making noise. Once I’d passed three tents, I turned left and started moving toward the wall, going more slowly now that I knew I was getting closer to him.
“He killed her!” Randall shouted out, his voice now furious. “He’s lying about her having chemicals in her blood!”
He fired again—in the wrong direction—and I ducked out of instinct, my hands going up over my head.
Terrific. He was furious and he had loaded guns, and he was already crazy. This wasn’t exactly the sort of person I wanted to be stuck with. But at least he was firing in the wrong direction—which meant he had no idea where I was. Or rather… he thought he knew. He was wrong.
“Marlon will kill your woman, too, if you’re not careful! He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Doesn’t care about anything but his mission. He’s dangerous, John. You can’t trust him.”
Ah, now we were in classic trying-to-convince-me-not-to-believe-in-my-friends territory. A beloved interrogation technique. Only he wasn’t very good at it. And I knew something he didn’t know.
I wasn’t going to be playing that game. He was expecting me to interact with him. He was giving me the high-stakes statements that he thought would get a response.
But I knew the game, and I knew how to win it. I also knew that I wasn’t going to be responding to him, since that would give away my position.
And I was now only one row of tents from him.
I got to the last tent from the wall of the room and crouched down, listening closely. If I was right, then he was behind the tent on the main aisle. Two tents away from me.
“Do you hear me?” he shouted. “That man is not your friend! I thought you would know better about picking friends, John! I thought you were supposed to be good at your job! Thought you were supposed to be one of the best at reading people! Turns out you’re no better than me, eh?”
Right, that was a whole lot to unpack, in terms of him knowing things that I didn’t think anyone outside of the military knew, but I’d think about that later.
I contemplated my next moves. I could fire toward where I thought he was, though that would do one of two things: give away my position or possibly kill him. At this point, I wouldn’t have minded if he were dead, though he was much more valuable to me alive.
I heard another shuddering breath, then, and realized it was now or never. I had to make my move.
I crouched down, tensed my muscles, and darted out from behind the tent, running right for where I thought Randall was hiding.
37
A few moments later, I was rushing toward Randall, who was crouched down, facing toward where he’d thought I was. Too bad he’d been wrong.
His eyes widened as he swung his gun toward me, but I was already slamming into him, like a linebacker tackling a quarterback. He let out an oomph as all of the air escaped his lungs, and the grip on his weapon loosened. His gun skittered across the floor, coming to a stop about five yards away.
I had him right where I wanted him.
I raised my gun, ready to slam it against his head in an attempt to knock him out. But he parried that blow, knocking my arm to the side, then slamming his other hand into my chest, knocking me backward.
The force was unbelievable. This man was struggling from some sort of injury, yet he still had enough strength to pull a move like that? And in the next moment, as I lost my grip on my gun and it went flying, that was the least of my worries.
I landed on my back and was struggling to right myself when Randall lunged toward me, putting a knee into my chest. I reached toward my knife—it was in a sheath strapped to my calf, concealed by my pants.
But my attempts were futile.
Randall launched a series of vicious punches, and I did my best to parry his blows and counter his attacks, but he was just too formidable. It was as if an honest-to-God bear was on top of me, clawing me to death.
Meanwhile, muted gunshots rang out in the other room—the battle was still raging.
In here, I had a battle of my own on my hands as he continued his assault.
One of his blows sent my head slamming into the hard floor, and stars blossomed into my vision.
“Time to die, John,” he said, the corners of his lips ticking up into a wicked grin as he pulled his own knife out, holding it down like an ice pick. Where had he gotten that? Of course, he likely had it strapped to his body, much like I had a knife strapped to my leg, far out of reach.
“Nothing personal,” he said, chuckling softly.
This was it. The end of the line. It was in that moment I knew that I was about to die. But I wasn’t so worried about death. No, I was more concerned about my family. I’d never see Angie or Sarah again, that much was clear. And then another thought careened through my mind: Who would defend my family from the monsters in this cruel, new world? For some reason, I froze, and all I could seem to do was snap my eyes shut in reflex, waiting for the inevitable.