A few seconds later it went off, accompanied by screams, and he felt a bit of satisfaction at his aim as answered the former soldier. “The burning tent, gotcha. Just remember that me, Rick, Lewis, and Jane are all wearing blockhead uniforms.”
Then he threw back his head and bellowed at the top of his lungs, grateful that few if any of the enemy spoke English. “Prisoners run to the burning tent!” He sucked in another breath. “That’s our exit! Run for the burning tent at the west end of camp!”
He popped out from behind the tent, sprayed burst fire at the enemy soldiers he saw ahead, then glanced back and saw a stream of prisoners heading down the lane towards him. “Follow me!” he shouted, running.
The next few minutes were a nightmare of screams, explosions, and gunfire all around. He saw prisoners fall by the dozen, blockhead soldiers drop all around him, and even friendly fire from both sides. Secondary explosions from near the armory kept the chaos up there going, hopefully keeping most of the camp occupied with that disaster.
If the prisoners hadn’t had the tents to run between none of them would’ve gotten thirty feet from the barn. But as it was the canvas maze provided just enough cover from enemy sight that the blockheads had to be practically on top of them before they could start shooting. And enough of the haggard men and women were armed that it wasn’t a completely one-sided fight.
Trev finally reached the edge of the camp, passing the burning tent, and skidded to a halt. “If we run out from the cover of the tents we’ll be instant targets for every blockhead on this side of the camp,” he told Gutierrez.
A familiar, but unexpected, voice replied. “They’ll make themselves targets for us first, don’t worry.”
Trev gaped into the darkness ahead. “Vernon?”
The former sheriff sounded amused. “I’m one of Harmon’s relief squads, Smith, so here I am. Relieved?” Before Trev could answer he continued. “We’re taking out any blockhead that pokes his head into view west of the barn. Get your prisoners and get out here, before the rest of the camp overwhelms you and they send trucks to surround us. Which will probably happen anyway.”
Nodding, Trev glanced back at Deb and the prisoners behind him. More were coming, although they hesitated when they saw him stopped. “Keep going!” he shouted. Then, gritting his teeth at the bullets he knew were about to head his way, he turned and bolted past the camp’s perimeter towards the nearest cover.
Gunfire sounded all around him, but that was nothing new. A lot of it was from ahead, but he heard the whine of bullets all around, and saw one spark off a rock only a few feet in front of him. Only a few steps behind him Deb sobbed as she struggled to keep up, either panting for air on the verge of exhaustion or completely terrified. Maybe both.
“Lewis, you alive?” Gutierrez asked in his earbuds.
“For now. The blockheads are all running away from your attack, but that’s not stopping them from shooting any prisoners they see.”
“You’ll be out soon,” Vernon said.
Stinging pain on his thigh made Trev stumble, and he dropped to one knee and felt at his leg. Blood, but not much; he hoped that meant a graze. Still, the fact that he just got shot indicated that not all the blockheads were running away.
“Keep going!” he shouted, waving for Deb and the prisoners following close behind him to run on. “You’re almost to our friends!”
Not stopping to see whether they listened he twisted around and lifted his rifle, searching for the soldier who’d shot at him. He spotted a few blockheads poking out from behind tents shooting at prisoners, and he focused on returning fire as more and more men and women fled past him.
There were a lot of people getting away. Dozens. Maybe the enemy hadn’t killed as many of them as he’d feared.
Every few shots he dropped, rolled a few feet, then popped back up. He had to favor his thigh with each roll, which slowed him down, but hopefully in the darkness the enemy was going after his muzzle flashes. Even after he stopped seeing blockheads he kept shooting into the tents to the north and south ends of camp, where he was confident he wouldn’t accidentally hit any prisoners. He doubted he’d get lucky and hit anyone, but he might get close enough to spook some and keep them pinned down.
The stream of prisoners finally flowed to a trickle, accompanied by Lewis, Jane, and Rick, and Trev popped up to join them as they bolted for safety. One of the armed prisoners in front of him went down with a cry, looking as if he’d tripped. It wasn’t until Trev stopped to haul him up with his free hand that he felt the blood soaking the man’s shirt. He was moving though, and groaning, so Trev slung the wounded prisoner over his shoulder and kept running.
Up ahead, among the flashes of gunfire, he saw men waving frantically. “Go, go, go!” they shouted, cheering him and the others on. Trev dug for an extra burst of energy and ran faster, stumbling and nearly going down but somehow staying on his feet.
Hands caught him as he reached the line of volunteers, lifting the wounded man from his shoulder to carry for him. But nobody stopped running and neither did Trev. Ahead of them the prisoners were still staggering in ones and pairs and clumps for the southern slope. Some stumbled, some fell, but there was always someone from the Aspen Hill volunteers to pick them up and keep them going, or carry them if need be.
With a start Trev realized that the man now carrying the wounded prisoner beside him was none other than Vernon himself. The former sheriff and his men were forming the rearguard of the retreat, bolting from cover to cover and keeping up their fire on the camp behind them as everyone else ran.
Vernon nodded at him. “Smith.”
Trev nodded back, forcing his reply out between panting breaths. “I have to admit… Vernon. You were the last… person I expected to pull… us out of the fire back there.” Then, although it wasn’t easy, he forced himself to continue. “Thanks.”
The older man’s eyes were on the ground ahead of him. He didn’t have night vision, so he had to trust that the silhouettes of the people in front of him were leading him across clear ground. “You don’t think much of me,” he said bluntly, “and you’ve got good enough reasons not to. But I’m willing to admit I made a bad call back in the canyon, and because of it five good people died. I couldn’t just leave it like that.”
Even after Vernon’s save tonight, the last thing Trev had expected from the man was an apology. He couldn’t help but push it. “You didn’t think it was a bad… call after it happened.”
The former sheriff risked looking over at him, anger briefly flashing across his face. “The bad call wasn’t disagreeing with your plan, Smith. I still think it was reckless, it went against our mission there, and you tried to force me into it even after I objected. But in spite of that I still should’ve helped, since the alternative was leaving good people in a bad spot.”
Trev backed off. That wasn’t where he wanted this to go. So he moderated his tone. “If you’re willing to admit you… made a bad call then I can, too. I should’ve made sure you… were on board before trying a plan that might… rely on your help. It wasn’t my only mistake… that night, but it’s the one I blamed you for.”
Vernon hesitated for a second, then grunted. “We can’t pretend there’s not bad blood between us, Smith, and I wouldn’t recommend any joint missions going forward. But it can’t hurt to remember we’re on the same side.”
“Fair enough. Thank you, again.” Trev broke away from the former sheriff to join Lewis, Jane, and Rick, who were running just ahead of the rearguard looking ready to join the fighting if they had to. He was still out of breath, but now that he was no longer carrying the wounded man, and everyone was moving slower to accommodate the exhausted prisoners, he was starting to get it back.