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“Dude.” There’s a dull sound, like that of one boot kicking another. “Are you sleeping?”
With a snort, the sentry awakens.
Heart beating to a frenzy in my throat, I crab-walk backward toward the center of the tent. The rattle of the pills in my pockets pounds in my ears, seeming louder than cannon shots. I sit to give my legs a rest. Still like a stone and bathed in almost utter darkness, I dread even the sound of my breathing will be too loud.
“You’re lucky it was me, dude,” the same voice says. “Smith would’ve taken your scalp.”
“Relax, my man. No one’s here. And I had my boots on the weapons all along, didn’t I? No one is going to sneak past me.”
If the situation wasn’t so tragic, I’d evil-laugh.
“All right, man,” the guy who was sleeping continues. “Your gig now. Run it as you like.”
There’s a scraping noise, and then the shuffling of steps until everything goes quiet again. A new sentry, and I have a feeling this one won’t conveniently fall asleep for me.
What now?
I can’t risk going out the way I snuck in. Not with a freshly awakened, alert soldier out there. The chances he’d spot me leaving the tent are too high. I have to find something to cut my way out from the back. Good thing I’m in a supply tent; there must be a tool in here I can use.
A thousand times more careful not to make a sound than before, I grope for the toolbox. When I find it, I unhinge the plastic locks, their soft clicks echoing too loudly in my ears, and feel my way through the various tools. I sigh in relief when my fingers slide over a cutter.
Blade in hand, I find a spot of wall clear of supplies and try to steady my hand as I slice a vertical opening in the sturdy fabric. The cutter must be new, because it slices downward as if I were cutting through butter.
Outside, I close the cutter and pocket it. Okay, now the hard part. I move away from the camp until I find a small clearing where a ray of moonlight is filtering through the trees above. The faint light is enough for me to read the pill labels and identify the antibiotics and the paracetamol. Archie was shivering like he was burning up, so paracetamol should help to take his temperature down. And even if he’s not feverish, I bet he could use a little help managing the pain.
I hide the rest of the pill bottles in a patch of grass; I can’t risk getting confused when I have to give them to Archie. Summoning the last dregs of energy and courage I have left, I keep going toward the prisoners’ corner. I’m not far now.
Once there, I stop again, considering. My friends are all asleep, slumped as best as they can against the tree. A pang of worry pulls at my chest as I notice Archie’s head hanging lower than all the others.
This is the tricky part.
How do I get to them without being spotted by the sentry?
The prisoners aren’t directly in his line of view, but the soldier must have at least a partial visual on them—and judging from the way they are oriented, on Archie in particular.
Damn!
What do I do?
Tucker is sitting next to Archie, and he should be shielded enough from the soldier’s position. My best bet is to hand the pills to Tucker and have him give them to Archie. Assuming he’s able to do it tied up like that. But first I need to wake him without him making a sound, and thus giving our game away.
I crawl right in front of him and place my palm squarely on his mouth.
Tucker’s eyes fly wide open, but my hand prevents him from crying out.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “It’s me, Winter.”
With my face covered in dirt, I must be unrecognizable and possibly frightening. But Tucker is quicker than I would’ve been in recovering from the shock and gives me a curt nod. So I let my hand drop from his mouth and press a finger to my lips.
Tucker stares at me interrogatively, and I don’t need him to actually ask what’s going on for me to understand the unspoken question.
“We don’t have much time,” I explain. “Logan is looking for your satellite phone to call for help. I brought antibiotics and paracetamol for Archie, and some water. How long have you been stuck here?”
“Since yesterday morning,” Tucker whispers back, his voice hoarse.
“How is he?”
“Not good. It’s been hours since I felt him move, and he’s burning up.”
