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“Where’s Kat?” I stumble onto my feet, the pain in my chest so sharp that I almost pass out but manage to stand.
“She’s right over there,” he says, panting. “Get her out of here!” he shouts to a guard.
“Archer!” Kat is fifty or so feet away, sandwiched in-between several guards who keep shooting around.
“Go with them!” I yell. “We’re coming!”
But there’s another explosion, right between us, and Droga drags me away, into the darkness.
A guard follows with his back to us, shooting at whatever he can see in his night vision. “Move North! They blocked the way to the shore!” he yells. “We have to go around!”
I can barely stand but feel Droga’s arm around my back, my arm suddenly around his neck—I think I blacked out for a second.
“Move, Crone. Move. We have to move,” he murmurs, breathing heavily, both of us stumbling on rocks, gunshots piercing the air.
I know that’s not the proper way to the shore. We are on the rocky part that ends on cliffs at the ocean. This is not right. But our access to the beach where the boats are is cut off.
“Moving toward the caves,” the guard blurts into the radio. A gunshot pierces the air and he yelps. “Fuck! Fuckers!” He sends a round of shots toward the Ashlands.
It smells like seaweed. The dark ground is now in contrast with the lighter sky—we’re on the cliff tops, an open target here, and the only place to hide is the caves down below.
“I’m injured. Fuck,” the guard curses. “Move toward the caves,” he orders. “I’ll cover you. Don’t come out until we come get you.” Then he blurts into the radio, “Thirty-two. Injured. The subjects are moving into the caves. Access to shore blocked. Send reinforcement.”
Droga nudges me to move faster. “We have to hide in the caves.”
“Where’s Kat?” I can’t see much with rain trickling into my eyes. It might be blood, I’m not sure anymore.
“She’s with the guards heading toward the boats. She’ll be fine, Crone. But we need to hide.”
The guard isn’t behind us anymore. It’s quiet. The rocky surface we are on is sloping down.
Only Droga knows where the hell we’re going. I can’t focus. Can’t see much. Only feel his arm around me.
Droga fumbles with something and a circle of light appears on the ground—his flashlight. “Careful,” he guides me.
There’s a soft lapping of the water ahead of us, a sound of an explosion somewhere far in the distance, and occasional shots.
A gaping hole ahead signifies the arched entrance to one of the caves as we step into it, and the sounds start disappearing, eerie hollowness closing around us.
My feet step into the shallow water. I lose the footing and almost drop to my knees, but Droga’s arms catch me.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. “We need to stop here.”
Just then, the sharp whistle of a bullet zips through the air.
We duck.
“They’re following. Fuck, Crone, move.”
The water rises as we walk forward, the flashlight showing the monstrous cave around us.
“How far do we go?” I ask.
Droga turns around, shining the flashlight onto the ceiling and the slimy walls. “We can’t go back. And we can’t stay in this cave.”
“Why?” The water is only up to our thighs.
“It’s high tide. The entrance will be blocked soon.” His voice bounces in echoes between the walls. “This cave is not tall enough. It’ll fill up with water in a matter of an hour.”
