The first hint that something has gone wrong is that I can suddenly hear the sound of a single-engine plane overhead. I look around for the source, wondering if the enemy has brought fighter support, only to see Benny suddenly pop into existence above the enemy forces. I watch as Rodrigo hurls a grenade out of the cockpit and track its movement down to the ground, where it explodes among a squad of enemy infantry.
I am less than a mile away now, and I watch as the enemy turns their carbines and submachine guns on Rodrigo. Benny suddenly dips and spins, then tries to climb to get out of range of the enemy.
I am close enough now to hear the cough of the engine, and then a long, mechanical whine. Benny belches a single cloud of black smoke, then slowly arcs to one side and begins to descend in a barely controlled fall. I push myself harder, faster, my eyes wide as I watch the continued trace of enemy gunfire follow Rodrigo toward the ground.
The mouth of our canyon appears next, coming into sudden clarity where there was once a mountainside, and I realize that something has happened to Bellara to make her illusions fail. I think of the Changers I saw rushing ahead and swallow a sob. I am sprinting now, gathering every last reserve of strength in a last-ditch effort to reach my friends before they are wiped out.
I reach the blackened earth and ruined trail of destruction that marks where Benny went down. A moment of indecision halts me as I watch enemy soldiers take and hold the mouth of the canyon up ahead, then I head the opposite direction to follow the charred ground and burning shrubs to what remains of Benny.
The old fighter is riddled with bullets, landing gear sheared off by the harsh terrain. Smoke pours from her engine compartment, flames licking at the propeller. Rodrigo sits still in the cockpit, slumped over the stick. I ignore the heat and the smoke, blinking tears from my eyes as I shear the metal side off the cockpit with my talons and then carefully drag Rodrigo from the wreck. His chest and legs are covered with blood, and a single cough is all that tells me he is still alive.
I carry him far from the danger of the wreckage and lay him on his side, then force myself to abandon him, resuming my trip toward the canyon. I say a word for Benny and her broken hulk, and I weep for Rodrigo as I run, knowing he will be dead by the time I can return.
I reach the edge of the small battlefield where a jeep lies on its side, destroyed by one of Rodrigo’s grenades and upended by enemy soldiers to use for cover. A medic attends to a trio of wounded behind the cover.
In my pain and fury I kill all four of them. I make it quick, messy. My talons are slick with gore as I stalk up the slope, falling upon every enemy soldier that I see. Most are already wounded, or hiding until they are certain that their allies have secured the mountainside up ahead. A distant part of me remembers a time when they told us to spare the enemy wounded, but that was so long ago I barely remember it.
The sound of gunfire has all but abated. I can hear shouting, and wonder absently if it is a demand for surrender, or commands being issued to flush the rest of the canyon. I can still see enemy soldiers moving around in the mouth of the canyon so I know they have won.
I sob silently as I kill, wishing that someone would turn around and raise the alarm, that a hail of gunfire would overwhelm me, putting an end to the entirety of my little platoon of guerrillas. But the enemy is too focused on the canyon, and those that notice me only do so just before my claws slash at their chests and my teeth can open their throats.
I can taste nothing but the salty iron of blood and my own, all-too-human bile. I begin to ignore the enemy wounded. Some of them try to shout a warning to their comrades as they see me pass, but the enemy’s blood is still up, and the occasional carbine shot tells me that there is still something going on in the canyon.
Four soldiers hunker just outside the canyon. One sees me, raising the alarm. I sprint across the open, rocky ground between us. A carbine blast hits me point-blank in the cheek, spinning me around. The side of my face goes numb and I lash out, catching a handful of cloth and flesh and tearing blindly. The bark of carbines and pistols makes my head spin, and I silence them with four well-placed swipes and continue on into the canyon.
My ears ring, and everything I hear seems to come to me from within a dream. I stand upright, my big, Changed shoulders hunched, and limp into the mouth of the canyon. I glance up to Bellara’s little cave up above the scree and see the sun playing across it. I think that it must be very warm and comforting in that spot.
Bodies lie scattered all over, and the canyon walls are nicked and chipped by gunfire. More of the bodies belong to them than they do to us. I immediately spot the corpses of my friends.
Garcia lies behind our machine gun, both man and gun mangled by a grenade. He’s an old man, who used to take pride in his looks and wax poetic over sandwiches with ingredients I have never seen in my lifetime. Now his cracked, handsome face is barely recognizable.
Natal is slumped over a boulder, carbine in her hands, her body still and bloody. Her lover, Donilo, lies at her feet, hands outstretched, riddled with submachine gun fire as he reaches for her.
Commander Giado lies splayed in the middle of the camp. He is surrounded by enemy corpses and grips two pistols, both of them spent, his body a mangled mess. He has been dispatched by a shot to the head, as if he refused to die from a dozen other wounds.
I am exhausted. Tears streak my bloody, smoke-stained cheeks and I rock unsteadily on my feet. I have nothing left to give, and each step is as if over a mountain. Through my hazy vision I see a cluster of enemy troops, carbines hanging from their shoulders, and my breath catches in my throat as I see their prize.
They stand around a small group of kneeling figures. Selvie’s shirt is covered in more blood splotches than I can count. Bellara stares at the dirt, expressionless, her hand clutching at a bloody shoulder. Our medic, Harado, is unwounded, but he has never been a fighter. Vicente is slumped face-first in the dirt, trembling, clutching his stomach. They even have Aleta, her pretty face torn across the right cheek and bleeding profusely.
Someone, perhaps the leader of this expedition, is asking Aleta a question. She stares over his shoulder, proudly, refusing to answer. He backhands her hard enough to knock her on her side, but she crawls back to her knees and resumes her stubborn stare.
I can feel the fury churning in my belly. I beg my body to give me something else with which to fight. I search deep inside, trying to well up the strength to dash forward, but it is like dipping a bucket in an empty well, and it is all I can do to limp toward the small group with my gnarled, Changed knuckles dragging on the ground.
Their commander asks Aleta another question. It is more forceful, demanding. She opens her mouth, then stops. I see her eyes land upon me. They widen, fearful, and her face seems to change. The stubbornness melts away, and she slumps inwardly, as if she has given up the fight.
The enemy commander laughs and leans toward her, repeating his questions.
Her lips tighten, and she spits at him. The enemy commander reels back, blood spattering his face and clean uniform. He shouts, kicking her in the stomach, then draws his pistol.
I want to ask her what she is doing. I silently beg her to stop fighting—to surrender and live through this thing. Selvie and Harado attempt to gain their feet. My friends scream at the enemy commander, who waves his pistol under their noses and then puts the barrel against Aleta’s forehead.
She meets my eyes, and I realize with startling clarity that she is buying me time. She sees that I am spent, and must know from my state that I have no strength. And yet she still has faith to try and gain me the time I need to sneak up on these bastards.