I run as fast as I can, veering away from Jacob and Kenny so we separate, giving multiple targets, multiple sources of noise and movement. And I do not look at Storm. I do not try to see where she is and what she's doing.
I have never prayed in my life, but at that moment, I send one up. Wherever the sniper is, let him realize what he sees is a fleeing dog, and there is no point in wasting precious ammo on it.
I run, and I know Dalton follows
, but his footsteps fade fast as he heads in another direction. He must, same as I did with Jacob and Kenny.
Dalton has run to my left, which I don't like. It takes him closer to the sniper's likely location. But there's nothing I can do except curse him--
A whistle. A bark.
No. Fuck, no. Eric. Tell me you are not . . .
Of course he is. Of course he will, and I'm a fool if I thought otherwise.
Another whistle. Calling Storm to him as he runs. I glance over to see him bend in midstride and grab her leash and then run with her at his side, with all the noise an eighty-pound Newfoundland makes running through the forest.
You fool. You goddamned fool.
That's what we are, isn't it? We are those vampires who cannot continue until we have picked up every grain of rice. The shepherds who cannot ignore a sheep in danger. The law keepers who cannot shoot to kill if there is room for mercy. The humans who cannot put their dog at risk, cannot let their lover suffer the loss of her pet.
No matter what the cost to ourselves, we keep making these damn mistakes, and we know they are errors in judgment, but we truly are no more able to stop ourselves than those vampires of lore. Compelled to help, to protect, to save.
It is weakness. I know it is weakness. I hate that weakness. But I know we won't overcome it, no matter how many times we are shown that it's a mistake.
We keep running, and I try not to think about Storm being with Dalton, Storm endangering Dalton. Try, try, try . . .
A shot hits the tree above my head.
"Cover," Dalton yells. I'm already diving. I hit the ground just as another shot passes over me. I roll fast. Keep moving, keep moving. That is the trick here. Do not try to hide and hope for the best. Present a moving target.
I roll and then leap up and weave through trees. Jacob and Kenny are safe--they've reached the rocks and gone behind one, disappeared from sight. Dalton sticks to thicker forest with the dog, opting for safety over speed. I can see a rock ahead. I just need to--
A shot passes so close that I swear I feel it. I'm not going to make it. I'm too exposed, and the sniper has gauged my speed and is refining his shots.
I can't go faster. I don't dare go slower.
Just a little closer, a little closer . . .
"Hey!" There's a shout behind me. "Hey, you! Over here!"
I think it is Dalton--it's exactly the kind of fool thing he'd do. But I can see him, and I know where Jacob and Kenny went, and there's no way either of them has circled behind me.
Another shot, and it goes nowhere near me. The sniper accepting the newcomer's invitation.
"Here!" someone calls ahead, and Jacob peeks out.
He's gesturing at a rock. It's farther than the one I chose, but bigger, and while the newcomer distracts the sniper, I cross the last few paces and dive. Then I twist to see who is helping us.
I am almost afraid to see who it is. Afraid it is Anders or Sam or Paul come to find us. Afraid it is Cypher or some other settler who has come to our rescue and may pay the ultimate price for it. I even think it may be Wallace, that he has escaped captivity.
It is not any of those.
It is the absolute last person I expect.
Oliver Brady.
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