James Smith - The Flock

Even as he squirmed down the tight space, there was a new explosion of gunfire and some equipment shattered as this time bullets entered the dome. He was pushing his luck. He had to get out of the tunnel soon, before they surrounded the dome and saw him emerge to the northeast. He scrambled faster, pulling the little pack with him, abrading his knees and elbows.

The tunnel was semi-buried in the earth, and completely hidden by the sedges and brush that had grown to cover it. If any of the men who were firing at him stepped directly on it, they would realize what it was. But if he were quick, they wouldn't locate it until he was out and on his way. The length of the shaft was precisely sixty feet. The bulk of the dome, and the longleaf pine trees around the exit point would offer him at least some cover, he hoped. He was almost at the end, and was surprised when he passed through a series of spider webs. The little buggers had found a way through the far seal, which surprised him since he'd been assured nothing could. The spiders had obviously not read the manuals.

As he pushed on the flap of artificial material at the end of the tunnel, he listened as the rifles continued to open up on his former shelter, and there was the sound of metal being sheared by metal. His equipment was all ruined, now, he knew. It was a very good thing that he'd crawled out when he had. He pushed hard and felt the flap give.

With a soft pop, the Kevlar/nylon mesh let go and he felt night air on his face. Holcomb did not pause at all, for it no longer mattered if they were watching for him, or not. This was the only way for him. He burst out of the tunnel like some obscenely huge afterbirth, went to his feet and began to run. This was the open savanna, and while it was not without its pitfalls and its varied barriers, it was relatively open country and he would chance an all out dash for salvation. On the other side of the shelter the bullets flew again, bringing sound of material catching some of them and allowing others through. None seemed to be aimed directly at him. He flew.

Grisham sent Watkins in. He was the smallest of the team, and the quickest, also. The tunnel was probably the most dangerous way in, if Holcomb had survived the fusillade, but it was also the quickest entrance. A soldier had to take chances. The four remaining members stood outside, positioned around the dome in a semi-circle and waited for word from Watkins. It came quickly.

"He's not here," Grisham was told.

"Where did he go?"

"There's another tunnel entrance. North by northeast. Looks like he went that way. I'll follow it."

"We'll meet you," Grisham told him, motioning his men forward. They trotted around the clever dome the billionaire had erected out here. It was almost invisible, the way it seemed to grow up like a low blister from amidst the grass and pines. From a distance anyone might have missed it if they hadn't been looking for it. But Grisham had been looking for it. The need-to-know pages informing him of the possibility of some kind of permanent structure had been fed to them via the studio had come from that six-foot frail who'd sold Holcomb out. The old colonel shook his head in disgust. His people were made of better stuff than that.

In a few seconds all five team members were together, Watkins crawling up and out of the tunnel exit. As a unit, they brought their scopes up and aimed them out and away, dragging them across the landscape and looking for any sign of movement.

"There." It was Gant. He had a damned good eye, that boy.

"Where?" Grisham asked.

"One o'clock."

Grisham sighted down the barrel. Sure enough. There was Holcomb, vanishing into a line of trees on the far side of the open savanna. The boy had been smart and had headed for the nearest trees, disdaining the open landscape that would have meant easier running but would have offered Grisham and his men a clear shot. "Good going," he told Gant.

Starting off at an easy trot, Grisham went after his prey. His men fell in behind and began to slowly spread out, forming a skirmish line. Holcomb wouldn't last long.

"Where are we going?" Ron asked. He was behind Billy Crane, keeping an eye on the man's back and trying to pace him so that he didn't run into the dark form leading them to what he hoped was safety.

"Shut up," Crane replied. "Save your breath."

Ron frowned. He wanted not to like the Seminole, but he knew the guy had saved them when he'd alerted them and shot out the window so that they could escape. If not for Kate's deception, they probably would all have escaped. For the first time he considered Levin's fate, recalled the man's face after the shot had plowed through his torso, killing him. Ron knew the man had realized what had happened to him, if not actually who had fired the shot. And maybe even that, considering he had given up the gun to her without a struggle. Riggs shook his head to clear it of the image, choked back a sob.

Mary was right behind him. He could hear her labored breathing and had been surprised at it, since he'd thought that Niccols was in far better physical condition than he was. It was Mary who was always out in the bush, tracking wild animals, hunting and hiking and fishing for her hobbies, and wrestling gators for a living. But so far Ron had been able to outrun her. It was surprising. He hoped it didn't mean that he'd end up having to leave Mary behind if they had to sprint for safety. Ron wondered if he could do such a thing. Flying bullets could make a coward as quickly as they could make a hero, he supposed. He didn't want to know.

No sooner had that thought passed through his mind than he realized that Mary's footsteps had grown a bit fainter, and realized that she was falling behind. Crane had apparently noticed it, too, and came to a halt, turning to look back.

"You're sick, aren't you?" Billy asked Mary.

"Yuh-yeah," Mary gasped.

"What? What's wrong with you? I didn't know you were sick," Ron said.

"Nothing serious. Bronchitis until a week ago. I thought I was over it, but I'm having a hard time ru-running." She was a halved shadow in the night, bent double with her hands on legs bent slightly at the knees. It was obvious to the other two that Mary was all but out of it.

"What are we going to do, now?" Ron was looking to Crane, his head a very black spot.

The black spot didn't move for a moment. "They're right behind us," it finally muttered. "Maybe a couple hundred yards. That's all."

"But what are we going to do?" Ron insisted.

"I think they've got night scopes," Crane said matter-of-factly. "We'll be sitting ducks when they catch up to us."

"What do you suggest?" Ron hissed. He was losing what remained of his cool.

"There's a shallow ravine about a hundred feet ahead of us. I was hoping we'd just go through it and head toward the river. But now I don't think we can make it. We'll have to try to hide there, ambush them from cover." And then Crane turned and strode off at the same pace as before.

"Wait up," Ron started to say, but Mary suddenly straightened and trotted past him. After all, they only had a short way to go. "Damn." He followed them.

As Crane had said, they came to a low, narrow furrow in the otherwise flat landscape. Pines and pin oaks grew out of it, leaning at crazy angles and making a strange maze-like apparition in the night. At a point where the wall of the ravine fell sharply off, Crane eased into it and then lay against the slope, snaking down until his head was just beneath the lip.

"Do the same," he said to Mary. "You just squat down behind us," he told the unarmed Riggs.

The three prepared themselves. "When I hear them coming, I'll hiss," Crane said. "Don't shoot until I do. The chances of you hitting anyone from more than a few feet away with that.357 are slim so don't bother until you hear someone coming right up. My twelve gauge will have to do until then."