But she could deal with minor discomfort. Especially if it meant surviving.
They should be here any moment now.
She waited, staying as still as she could. Her breathing was heavy and she tried to control it. She didn’t want them to hear her.
Heavy footsteps running down the driveway, the soles of boots slapping against the pavement.
They were here.
Janet held her breath. She wouldn’t let any sounds give her away.
Hopefully the bushes and the cover of night would be enough. Hopefully her trick with the shed door hadn’t been too subtle. Hopefully whoever showed up wouldn’t be smart enough to realize that Janet was a militia member herself, that she knew where they normally looked.
Looking out through the tangle of the dense leaves and branches, Janet saw two figures moving through the dark yard. One had a shotgun and one had a handgun. That was standard practice when there weren’t enough guns of the ideal type to go around. Pair a guy with a handgun with a guy with something bigger.
Janet had her own handgun pointed out through the bushes. Thorns dug into her flesh but she ignored it. She knew she was bleeding and she didn’t care.
Neither of the figures spoke. They were approaching the shed cautiously, walking slowly now.
Janet knew she had to wait just long enough. They needed to be past her, with their backs to her.
Janet couldn’t hold her breath any longer. It happened all of a sudden. Her body suddenly cried out for air. She breathed in sharply and involuntarily. She’d been so caught up in the moment she hadn’t allowed herself to feel the lack of oxygen.
“What was that?”
Janet recognized the voice. It was Sloane, a man with a woman’s name for some reason that no one had ever figured out.
Janet didn’t hesitate. She squeezed the trigger.
Sloane was a bastard. He’d stolen her food more than once. And he’d rubbed it in her face too, enjoying the fact that he was bigger than she was and could do what he wanted.
The recoil must have knocked a branch loose, because the next thing Janet knew, she couldn’t see anything.
A shotgun blast rang out.
Janet wasn’t hit. They must have aimed blindly in her direction. Whoever the partner was.
Pushing aside the branches, Janet saw Sloane’s body lying on the ground. He didn’t seem to be dead. His body was convulsing on the ground violently. His partner crouched next to him, holding the shotgun. He seemed unsure if he should fight or help Sloane, his injured partner.
Helping fellow militia members wasn’t the norm. In fact, the rule that Sarge had drilled into their heads was that they were supposed to leave a fallen comrade no matter what. Under no circumstances were they to compromise their victory by trying to help one of their own.
It was a vicious, heartless policy, but it worked.
Punishment for disobeying was severe.
It’d been hammered so hard into Janet’s head that she hadn’t batted an eyelash at leaving the traitor Art there on the ground. And she also couldn’t understand this soldier’s actions. He was hesitating. It was strange. Weird. Unusual.
Janet felt a surge of anger, as if she hadn’t fled the militia. As if she hadn’t deserted her unit. What was this soldier playing at? Didn’t he understand the rules?
She snapped out of it, suddenly remembering which side she was actually on.
Janet’s finger was on the trigger, pulling. Almost at the catch point.
But then she recognized, in a split second, the other soldier.
It was Bobby McAdams. Maybe the only kind person in the entire regiment. Somehow he’d managed to straddle the line between vicious killer and caring person. He was always helping out his fellow soldiers, often incurring the wrath of Sarge because of it. He was notorious for being genuinely kind and helpful.
She couldn’t kill McAdams, could she?
Not only that, but she shouldn’t do it.
It was wrong.
Then again, the whole militia was wrong.
McAdams turned, the moonlight on his face. She saw his features clearly, the boyish charm that he carried, the baby fat that he never seemed to lose no matter how little he’d eaten. It was the first time she’d seen him without that lopsided grin he always seemed to carry with him as if it was his lucky charm.
He wasn’t trying to kill her. He wasn’t shooting at her.
But he wouldn’t let her go. He had his orders. And he’d never let anyone go before. Sure, he’d help his fellow soldiers. But now Janet was no longer a soldier.
If she revealed herself, he’d shoot her.
So she had no choice.
She could spin it any way she wanted to herself.
Actions were more important than thoughts.
Janet squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled.
It was a good shot. Right in the forehead. His body remained upright for a few moments before he fell face-forward onto the yard, making a dull thud.
Janet’s ears rang from the gunshots.
She got up quickly and out from behind the bush. Her clothes and skin were torn up from the branches.
Sloane was still alive, lying on his back. Blood gurgled out of his mouth. His eyes moved, following Janet. His expression was strange. He looked emotionally hurt, as if she’d done something to hurt his feelings.
“Sorry, Bobby,” muttered Janet, looking down at Bobby’s body.
The gunshots would be heard by the next pair of soldiers. They’d be coming for her soon.
Sloane tried to speak, but nothing but unintelligible gurgling noises came out.
Janet had no words for Sloane. She grabbed his shotgun. The handle was slick with blood.
Janet took off running, checking over her shoulder for the next pair of soldiers that she knew would come. Because they always came.
5
Dan wasn’t as ready as he’d thought he’d been.
The door burst open suddenly. The next thing Dan knew, before he could act, the muzzle of a gun was pointed in his face. He could see up into the darkness of the barrel, a tunnel that lead to nothing but death.
“Drop the knife,” said a deep male voice.
Dan didn’t have a choice. One false move and he’d be dead. He hadn’t even seen the man’s face, but he knew from the voice that he meant what he said.
Dan dropped the knife, letting his fingers relax and the knife clatter to the kitchen floor.
The woman let out a moan of concern.
“Neither of you move,” said the man. With his foot, he kicked the door closed behind him.
The three of them were alone in the kitchen. A slight breeze blew in through the broken window.
“What are you doing here?” said the man. “Who are you with?”
Dan’s mind was racing. His heart was pounding.
He’d survived so far by using his brain, avoiding danger. And also by fighting his way out. He’d stabbed how many men? Two. He couldn’t quite remember. It was a blur. Probably some kind of protective measure his own mind was taking, not allowing himself to fully be cognizant of the violence he himself had committed.
Of course, he didn’t regret it one bit. He’d done what he had to do.
Dan’s gut feeling was that violence wasn’t going to help him here. Not now. After all, what could he do?
What’s more, his gut was telling him that this man was reasonable. And that was in spite of the gun in his face.
Dan decided his best course of action was cooperation.
“I’m trying to help my friend here,” said Dan. “She’s injured.”
“I can see that. What happened to her?”