Andrew Klavan - If We Survive

He threw the rifle into the mud and drew the six-shot revolver from his belt. He fired a single shot to keep the squat guard pinned down. He waved his free hand urgently at the cemetery across the way.

“Let’s go, Jim! Let’s go!”

Jim leapt up from the cover of the graves and let loose a burst from his AK. I heard a scream from the jungle and thought he might have hit another of the guards, leaving only the squat one left.

We’re going to make it , I thought. We’re going to get away!

But in the next few seconds—the next few terrible seconds— all our hopes seemed to unravel in awful slow motion.

I was in the trees with Nicki and Meredith. My hopes rising, I was shouting at the girls to get in the plane. I had my hands on their arms and we were all turning away from the gunfight, turning toward the edge of the jungle to where the Cessna was waiting.

I don’t know what made me glance back, but I did.

I saw Palmer fire another shot from his revolver. Then I heard a burst of answering machine-gun fire. I saw a line of blood shoot out of Palmer’s arm. He dropped into the mud, the pistol flying out of his hand.

“Palmer!” I screamed.

Then—still in the horrible underwater slow motion of a bad dream—I turned back for him. I took a step toward him out of the trees. He was already rolling to his feet, the wound just above his elbow spilling blood down over his forearm and wrist.

I broke out of the cover of the trees and grabbed his other arm to help him—and as I did, I saw a jeep screaming up to the checkpoint, turning off the road onto the open field, and racing straight toward us over the muddy ground. There was a rebel behind the wheel and another in the passenger seat.

I saw at once that this second rebel was Mendoza.

Now, as I helped Palmer into the trees, Jim made his move. He broke out of the cemetery, shooting wildly, and rushed toward us across the field. The jeep swerved to get out of the way of his fire. Its tires lost their grip on the mud. It slowed as it spun round toward the jungle and then I heard the crunch of metal as its fender went into the trunk of a tree.

But Jim was out of bullets now too. He threw his rifle to the ground and started running toward us.

He got two steps before the squat guard rose up from behind the cemetery wall and shot him down.

The machine-gun bullets raked across Jim’s legs. Jim cried out and threw up his arms and tumbled face-forward into the mud.

I didn’t think. I let go of Palmer and ran to get him.

I dashed across the field and slid to Jim like a runner going into home plate. I grabbed his arms.

“Go!” he said. “I can’t walk! I’ll be all right! Go!”

But there was no way—no way—I was going to leave him there. I wrapped both hands around his arm and jumped to my feet, trying to haul him up with all my strength. He screamed in pain.

“I can’t!”

“You have to!”

I saw the squat guard take aim at us and pull the trigger. Then he cursed and tore the magazine off. His gun was empty too. He fished a fresh magazine from his belt. I kept trying to pull Jim up.

And now Palmer rushed to us, bloody as he was. He grabbed Jim’s other arm. Ignoring Jim’s screams of pain, we both dragged him to his feet. We draped his arms across our shoulders and began carrying him across the field toward the trees while his useless, wounded legs trailed through the mud behind us.

A troop truck was now barreling up to the checkpoint, rebels already pouring out of the back. I thought we might make it to the plane before they reached us. I even thought we might make it into the cover of the trees before the squat guard could reload.

But there was no way we were going to outrace Mendoza.

The rebel leader had leapt out of the crashed jeep. He had drawn his pistol. He was running toward us, screaming wildly in his desperation to stop our escape—in his determination to bring down Palmer Dunn.

As Palmer and I dragged the wounded Jim toward the jungle cover, Mendoza got close enough to take his shot—a good shot. He planted his legs. He lowered the pistol. He aimed straight at Palmer. No way he was going to miss at that distance. No way we could make the trees before he fired. No way we could escape if Palmer went down, leaving us no one who could fly the plane, and yet there was also no way Palmer could save himself—not while he was helping me carry Jim to safety.

I saw the wild rage for vengeance in Mendoza’s eyes and I thought all hope was gone.

Then Meredith stepped out of the trees. In one swift and weirdly graceful motion, she bent down and swept up the pistol Palmer had dropped in the mud. She stood very still, very straight and tall, and took careful aim at Mendoza.

How long did she hesitate before she pulled the trigger? Some fraction of a second maybe? Even with all our lives on the line, I couldn’t blame her. To kill a man, to send his soul to judgment—it’s a terrible thing to do, a terrible thing to have to live with afterward, a terrible sacrifice to make even when you have no other choice. I knew that.

And Meredith did hesitate. And Mendoza saw her. And quickly he shifted the aim of his pistol from Palmer to her.

And Meredith pulled the trigger.

The blast of the pistol was loud even in the open field. The powerful recoil made Meredith’s arm fly up into the air and even pushed her backward half a step.

Among all the crazy racing images around me, I saw Mendoza’s face go blank with surprise as a black wound appeared in the center of his chest. I saw him lower his pistol and stagger where he stood. He gave Meredith a look—a look, I thought, of incomprehension—as if he couldn’t for the life of him understand how she could ever do something as nasty as that to a sweet guy like him.

Then he toppled over—like a falling tower—and his body thudded into the mud.

The next moment Palmer and I had carried Jim into the cover of the trees and Meredith was with us, pale and grim, and Nicki was beside us and we were all racing through the jungle together, racing to the plane.

We had no weapons left. Meredith, in horror, I think, had dropped the revolver in the mud and left it there. Behind us, the squat guard had reloaded and was firing after us in short bursts. The bullets ripped through the leaves all around us. The rebels from the troop carrier—I don’t know how many—were racing over the open field behind us, trying to get around the trees and cut us off to keep us from escaping. We were dragging Jim and dodging tree trunks and leaping over roots and pushing through foliage. Our pursuers were closing on us quickly.

We broke out of the trees and reached the plane. It didn’t look large enough to hold us all, but it would have to. Meredith and Nicki, unencumbered by Jim, had rushed ahead of us. Nicki yanked the door open and bent the front seat forward. Meredith climbed in quickly so she could help pull Jim aboard.

Palmer and I brought the groaning Jim up to the plane and hoisted him through the door. Meredith grabbed him and dragged him through as he screamed in agony. His legs were a mass of blood.

Now Palmer was gone—around the plane to the pilot’s seat. Nicki was climbing in and pulling the seat back to make room for me up front. I jumped in shotgun.

Even as I shut the door, the engine was roaring to life, the propeller turning and the plane starting to strain forward against the resistance of the muddy ground.

“Come on!” Palmer shouted at the Cessna. He was covered in mud and blood and his eyes gleamed white with intensity.

As if in answer to his cry, the Cessna went forward a little faster—then a little faster still.

There was no runway, but there was a stretch of dirt where the grass grew sparse. The earth was packed tighter here and the mud was not as bad. As the Cessna’s wheels reached the spot, the plane sped up and turned.