Andrew Klavan - If We Survive

Then the two pacing rebels—Skinny and Squat—began coming our way.

You could tell by the casual way they strolled toward us that they were not really worried yet. They were just being cautious, that’s all, just checking things out. Jim and Nicki and I crouched low and breathed hard as we watched them come closer down the open corridor of grass between the jungle and the cemetery. I could see Palmer and Meredith watching bright-eyed from the trees across the way.

I tried to will the guards to turn back to their checkpoint— Stop! Turn around! Turn around! —but they just kept coming. I felt Jim shift beside me and turned to see him moving his hand on the grip of the AK, slipping his finger around the trigger. Getting ready for whatever happened next.

Another few steps and they were right across from us, only a few yards away. They scanned the graveyard, their eyes passing directly over the place where Nicki and Jim and I were crouching in fear. They didn’t see us. They turned the other way and scanned the jungle—then the skinny one stopped and said, “Que es… ?” What’s that?

I held my breath. Had he spotted Meredith and Palmer? No. He was moving away from where they were crouched in the trees, moving away from all of us. He moved to where the tree line started to curve away.

Then he shouted. He was waving to his squat friend. The squat guard joined him… And now I saw what they were both staring at.

“They found the plane!” I whispered.

The two guards were talking rapidly to each other.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” I asked Jim.

He shook his head. But then he answered in a very low whisper, “They’re going to call Mendoza.”

The squat guard nodded and started jogging back heavily toward the trucks in the road. The skinny guard—a meanlooking, snarly-faced guy I saw now—moved in the other direction, toward the plane. He was looking it over, but also looking all around him in case someone else might be near.

“What do we do?” Nicki whispered. “Mendoza will send more soldiers…”

I nodded. She was right. In a couple of minutes, the place would be littered with rebels. They’d be sure to confiscate the plane—or set it on fire. They might even search the jungle for us. We had to get out of here—and we had to do it now.

But the skinny, snarly-faced guard was keeping watch, standing in the open ground, studying the plane, searching the surrounding area with narrowed, suspicious eyes. There was no way to get past him.

I peered across the open field to the jungle. I saw Meredith—I could see her eyes gleaming at me out of the jungle shadows. I saw her make a gesture—pushing her open palm out toward me: Wait!

I waited. I glanced over at the checkpoint. The squat guard had now made his breathless way back to the others. He was giving them the news about the plane. One of the smoking guards dashed his cigarette into a puddle by the side of the road. He took out his cell phone and held it to his ear.

I glanced back to check on the skinny guard over by the plane.

He was gone! He had vanished!

“Look!” Jim whispered.

At the same moment, a movement caught my eye. I turned. And I saw the skinny guard—or at least I saw his long legs—being dragged through the mud and out of sight, into the cover of the jungle.

“It’s Palmer,” Jim whispered. “He got him.”

I looked across the way at Meredith. She was waving at me frantically, gesturing me to come over. But I already understood.

“We’ve got to move right now,” I said. “This is the only chance we’ve got. Nicki.”

She glanced at me—as if she didn’t know what I was going to say!

So I said it: “Nicki, go! Go fast! Now!”

She went. And she did go fast. But she didn’t stay low. She just dashed from our hiding place and started running. She raced full speed across the cemetery, leaping between the monuments like a deer.

“Nicki!” I said in a harsh whisper—but I didn’t dare raise my voice and she didn’t hear me. She didn’t pause.

She broke out of the cemetery and barreled full speed across the open field toward the jungle.

I turned in fear to the guards at the checkpoint. Two of them were gathered around the third—the rebel with the cell phone. He spoke into the phone another second as Nicki ran full speed across the open space.

Then the rebel snapped the phone off. He was slipping it into his pocket when Nicki’s movement caught his eye and he turned.

And he saw her.

And he shouted. “Alto!”

Stop!

After that, there was nothing but fear and gunfire.

The three remaining rebels unstrapped their weapons and ran toward us.

Jimshouted, “Go, Will!”

And I didn’t hesitate. I leapt up from behind the grave and dashed forward, dodging like a running back through the headstones toward the cemetery’s edge. The sound of the rebels’ AKs rattled through the quiet jungle. Birds exploded out of the trees, screaming. Clots of mud leapt into the air as the bullets dug into the earth.

I was running across the open field, the mud squelching under my sneakers. I saw the three guards racing toward me, their rifles spitting flame.

But then I saw Palmer step calmly out of the trees in front of me. He had a machine gun now too—the skinny guard’s weapon. He opened fire and, at my back, I heard another coughing blast as Jim jumped up from behind the gravestones and starting shooting as well.

I only got a panicked glimpse of the onrushing guards as I made my crazy dash across the field—but so help me, if the situation hadn’t been so insanely lethal, the looks on their faces would have been hilarious. One second they were all murderous intensity, rushing toward us like angels of justice ready to deliver the killing blow from their AKs. The next second they realized that we were armed as well, that we—Palmer and Jim—were actually shooting back at them. And the ferocity instantly went out of their expressions to be replaced by wild-eyed looks of terror.

The three rebels scattered. Two of them hurled themselves into the cover of the jungle on their left. The third, the squat one, waddled quickly behind the cemetery wall to his right.

I put on an extra burst of speed, trying to reach the cover of the trees before the rebels could start shooting again.

But that was a mistake. Just as I reached the spot where Palmer was standing, the ground seemed to fly out from under me. Like Meredith, I had run too fast and slipped. I went down—all the way down—landing hard on my shoulder, sliding through the mud.

The guards poked out from their blinds and started shooting again, trying to riddle me where I lay. Palmer and Jim returned fire, trying to keep them pinned down. I struggled to get to my feet—and as I did, Meredith rushed out of the jungle to help me.

“No!” I shouted. “Stay back!”

But she kept coming—crying out and flinching as bullets pounded into the mud between us.

She rushed to my side. I leapt to my feet. She grabbed me to help me stand, and I grabbed her to push her back into the trees. Holding on to each other, we ran behind the firing Palmer until we were back in the cover of the jungle.

“Get in the plane!” Palmer shouted to us.

But the second he glanced back over his shoulder at us, one of the rebels leapt out of the trees and drew a bead on him.

Palmer faced forward just in time and fired. The rebel flew backward, dropping into the mud.

The squat guard seized the moment, jumped up from behind the cemetery wall, and took aim.

Palmer fired once and the squat guard ducked—but the next moment, Palmer gave a cry of frustration. His magazine was empty—he was out of bullets.