Warchild: Pawn (The Warchild Series) (4 page)

Brandon says, “We have to try.”

“There’s four of them, Brandon. How?
We don’t even know how far away we are from the rest of their army.”

“Do you hear anything?”

“What?”

“Answer me. Do you hear anything?”

I tilt my head to the side and
listen. “Rain, wind.
You
. Why?”

“If ten thousand troops were nearby,
we’d hear them. That means they’re far enough away that we can get rid of those
four without the main group finding out. They weren’t armed. They’re on strange
ground, and the two of us know this valley better than them. We can do this. We
have
to do this.”

“With what? Sticks? Rocks? My
slingshot?”

“Whatever we can find,” he says, and
before I can protest again, he’s up, moving through the trees like a shadow.

CHAPTER ● FIVE

A hundred years ago, our outpost was
staffed with over two hundred soldiers from what was left of the PRV army. They
were mostly men and a few women who were sent up here from Warrenville to keep
an eye on the DAV. They set up camp in our current location because it was the
best place to take advantage of the natural surroundings. Game paths, available
water, and natural cover gave them all they needed.

Grandfather says that if they had
been smarter, or less lazy, they would’ve set up camp on the top of Rafael’s
Ridge so they would’ve had a better view of any enemy advancement. But, under
the false pretenses of the Peace Pact, they were lethargic, too unmotivated to
work for what was required for their survival.

Over time, any semblance of
structure broke apart. They grew less and less reliant on word passed up from
Warrenville and began to run things their own way. Regulations were ignored. Babies
were born. Stragglers were taken in, and we became more of a community and less
of a military outpost, far away from the place that many used to call home.

And once President Larson completely
disbanded our military, it made it easier to continue living a quiet, peaceful
existence. The scouts were kept in place to warn the village of Republicons and
to occasionally pass word down south that all remained quiet way up here in the
north. I can’t remember the last time we sent someone back. There hasn’t been a
need.

This old military outpost that was
too lazy to do its job right the first time became home—for most of us, all
these years past, it’s all we’ve ever known—and now it’s up to Brandon and me
to save the lives within it—or die trying.

We trail the four DAV soldiers, far
enough back that we can’t be heard, but close enough that they remain within
sight. We’re darting from tree to tree, taking quick, light steps and then
spinning, pressing our backs against them for cover, waiting, breathing, before
we move again. Every step further away from our camp, every step closer to
theirs, feels like miles away and mere feet closer. I can barely breath I’m so
scared.

We gain some ground, getting close
enough to hear their voices again, and I still don’t know if Brandon has a plan.
He’s not saying anything or stopping to tell me. Just moving…moving. I want to
stop him and demand that he come up with something before we get too close, but
I’m sure that if we pause for too long, they’ll escape, and we’ll be that much
further from home and have less time to tell Hawkins what he wants to know. Less
time to tell them that a few extra layers of protection around our shacks won’t
be enough. Not with ten thousand soldiers, not with tanks.

Retreating, running for their lives
is the only way to survive.

About thirty seconds later, we catch
a small break when the trailing soldier says something to the others and then splits
from their single-file formation. Brandon and I slip behind a large pine tree.
It’s so wide that we can peek out from either side. We watch as the soldier,
who looks to be the youngest one—maybe it’s the one they call Samuels—steps off
into the bushes, lowers his pants, and squats to the ground. I close my eyes,
knowing what he’s doing, not wanting to watch.

Brandon touches my shoulder and
moves up behind me. “Give me your slingshot,” he says.

“You’re not—”

“Yeah, I am. Where is it?”

“In my pack. The rocks, too.”

Brandon eases the pack open, removes
my slingshot and my handpicked rocks, says, “Stay right here,” and then moves fast.

Sliding through the trees, he
doesn’t bother to stop and hide. I’m amazed at how quiet he is. I’ve been with
him in the woods before, hunting for deer, and I’ve seen how noiseless he can
be when he wants to, but this is different. It’s almost as if he’s gliding
across the ground, walking silently on the air.

I reach for my knife, because it’ll
make me feel better to have some sort of weapon in my hand, no matter how far I
am from the action.

But it’s gone. My hand rests on an
empty sheath. Brandon must have taken it when he had me distracted. Now I know
part of his plan.

When he’s within range of the young
DAV soldier, who’s still squatting over the ground, Brandon never slows his
pace as he loads the slingshot, pulls the thick, stringy straps back to his
shoulder, aims, and then fires. The rock hurtles through the air and hits its
mark, dead center in the back of the soldier’s head.

Knocked out, or dazed, he falls
forward with his pants around his ankles, and before I can turn my head,
Brandon is upon him, and using my knife, he finishes the job. It happens
without a sound. The other soldiers up ahead don’t turn. They walk, clueless,
unaware that we’re out here, and that we’re coming.

Brandon glances back and motions for
me to join him. I move, as rapidly as I can but staying covered as much as
possible until I reach his side. I look down at the DAV scout—neck slit from
ear to ear—and feel a measure of pity for him. What a horrible way to go.

Brandon doesn’t share my sentiments.
He whispers, “I got him. He never had a chance.” There’s a wild look in his
eyes, one that worries me that he enjoyed it too much. It’s a look of someone
different, someone I don’t know, but it’s brief, fleeting, and then my
friend—the boy I’ve fantasized about lying beside on cold winter nights—returns.
“Three left. Hurry. Here, you take the knife. The next one is yours.”

It’s red with DAV blood and I watch
the raindrops dilute it, washing it away in pink rivulets. “I don’t want—”

Before I can finish, Brandon moves
again, dashing from tree to tree, and I follow in his footsteps.

The three remaining soldiers aren’t
too far ahead of us, and I’m worried we’re getting too close. I try to get
Brandon to slow down, but he ignores me.

Once we’re within fifty feet,
Brandon drops behind a boulder and kneels. I squat beside him. The rain has
washed most of the dirt from my hands and probably my face, too. As if we’re
communicating with our thoughts, Brandon notices the same thing, and we both
reapply a fresh layer of mud to our skin.

He’s not even breathing heavily. I
struggle to keep the sound of my inhaling and exhaling under control. For once,
I’m relieved that the rain has picked up and the hard pitter-patter against the
leaves overhead and the ground below manages to drown out the rest of the
ambient noise.

“What now?” I ask.

“We wait.”

“Wait? Why? They’re getting away.”

“He’ll send one of the others back
to look for him. We catch the next one alone then do the same thing.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s what I would do.”

“You
don’t
know that, Bran—”

“Ssshh,” he says. “Listen.”

Between the rhythm of the downpour,
I can hear grunting, heavy breathing, and boots stomping along the forest floor.
The soldier, whichever one it is, mumbles to himself, “Just couldn’t wait,
could he? Just couldn’t wait until we got back.”

Brandon flashes a look that says,
“See? I told you,” and scoots nearer to me and away from the edge, where he
can’t be seen.

The footsteps get closer and closer.
My heart pounds against the inside of my chest. If it pounds any harder, it’ll
break through into the outside world.

The DAV soldier trudges past us,
slowly. He’s heavier than I noticed before. Overweight—a sign of privilege,
some rich boy plucked from his fancy home to serve—and he pushes himself
forward with his hands on his knees. He’s bent over at the waist, gulping to
catch his wind, barely making it up the hill.

Before he gets too far away, before
he has a chance to spot the dead soldier and warn the others, Brandon stands,
whisks the slingshot back, and fires.

His aim is off and I feel my heart
leap into my throat when the rock bounces off a fat shoulder.

The soldier shouts, “Ow!” and spins
around.

Brandon’s next rock finds its mark,
striking him between the eyes and the soldier drops, but it’s already too late.
I can hear the remaining two yelling behind me.

I feel an arm at my back, pushing,
and I’m thrown forward, off balance. I hear Brandon telling me to hurry, get it
over with, and then his fading footsteps. I struggle to maintain my balance,
but it doesn’t work, and I fall on top of the DAV infantryman. He grunts,
groans, and looks at me through groggy, watery eyes.

Before I can reconsider, I bury the
knife deep once, twice, three times.

He’s too thick. He’s too layered
with fat. It doesn’t do any real damage.

My jabs send him into a rage,
shocking him back to clarity, and he growls, reaching for me.

I scramble away, roll, and avoid his
clawing hands. Whatever protection his thick body may have provided him also
hinders his movement, and he struggles to get on his feet. He slips on the wet
leaves, goes down to one knee, and I lunge, jumping on his back. The sharp
blade in my hand goes to this throat and I cringe when I feel the skin part as
I drag it across his neck. He gags and falls forward, landing face first on the
forest floor. A thick, bubbling gurgle erupts from his throat as he grabs at
his wound, trying to hold it closed.

I don’t have time to think about
what I’ve done. I turn and search for Brandon amongst the trees, and I run
toward the sounds of a struggle.

Ahead of me, and behind a cluster of
oak trees, I can see flashes of white skin and the red and black of DAV army
jackets flailing. I hear Brandon scream. It’s filled with rage and fear, and
I’m afraid of what I might see when I get there.

I run, panting, my lungs clenching
closed. I know I’m in better shape than this—years of hiking through the
mountains and running back to camp have given me the strength to do my job
properly—but it’s the dread, the uncertainty, and the terror that are squeezing
my chest so tightly. Rain splatters against my face and I taste dirt as it
washes into my mouth. I spit a brown glob and keep going.

When I round the cluster of oak
trees, the two DAV soldiers—the older, bearded one and his last
subordinate—have Brandon on the ground, face down with his arms pinned behind
his back. The captain stands over him, smiling, with a boot across his neck,
while the younger one straddles him, holding Brandon’s arms, leaning on him
with all his weight.

Brandon struggles to get free, but
it doesn’t do any good. They’re too much for him. He screams, “I’ll kill you! I’ll
kill you!” and they laugh.

I skid to a stop, uncertain, not
knowing what to do next. If they managed to capture Brandon so easily, who is
as big as a fully-grown man, then I have no chance to overtake them. There’s no
hope, I think. I should run. I should go back and warn the others while there’s
still time, but I can’t leave Brandon behind. No way am I leaving him behind. He
would fight for me, even if it meant dying. At least he would try.

The soldiers spot me, and for a
moment, we’re all frozen in time, staring at one another, trying to decide what
comes next. I’m sure they’re surprised to see that a girl my age has been
tracking them as well, but from the warnings I’ve heard, it doesn’t matter how
old you are, whether you’re male or female, men from the DAV have no mercy.

Before I can move, the captain
reaches inside his jacket and removes something. It’s black and dull. He’s
gripping it with one hand and steadying it with the other.

I recognize it. A gun. We have a
stash of them back at our camp, tucked away in a small shed decades ago, put
there by soldiers who ran out of bullets hunting game and never bothered to
request more.

A
handgun
.

I’ve seen them, held them, but I’ve
never experienced them in action. I know how they work, what they do, and that they’re
very, very dangerous.

“You there,” the captain says. “Don’t
move.”

I obey. I’m so scared, I don’t think
I could move if I wanted to.

Brandon growls and twists his head
around, yelling, “Run, Caroline!”

“She runs, she’s dead. Stay right
there, sweetheart.” The captain takes his foot off Brandon’s neck and takes one
step slowly toward me, aiming at my head. “You can’t outrun a bullet. Come on,
now, nice and slow. We won’t hurt you.”

I know he’s lying.