The Endless Struggle, page 17
part #3 of Random Survival Series
Mark rehearsed his movements, sliding the barrel from left to right then back. If these men were untrained, they would freeze for an instant after the first shot, giving him time to change targets and fire. Trained soldiers would hit the ground immediately leaving him searching for a shot.
Twenty yards. He couldn’t wait much longer. Mark inhaled and released a breath, increasing pressure on the trigger. A gentle squeeze and the rifle barked. The target in front of him dropped from sight. Pivoting the barrel he found number six’s head had turned, staring where his buddy had just been. His knees buckled, looking for the safety of the ground, changing the target the scope had set on his chest. Mark’s shot hit high ripping off the top of the hunter’s head. Two down.
Without looking for the other four men, Mark peeled off to the right and ran. Shots tore through the area where he had been. The shooters fired nonstop, but Mark was no longer a target. He set up in a hurry ten yards to the south. His scope found one shooter who had risen to one knee to shoot. He put a shot under his left arm where the heart would be. Three down.
As another man turned toward him, Mark pulled the trigger again. This time he didn’t see any results of his work. The remaining men switched lines of sight and poured rounds in his direction.
A quick look through the scope showed many darkened forms heading his way. He swept toward the tree line. More than one man had entered the woods to the north. He had little time. He fired two hasty shots at the oncoming men, dropping one and forcing the others to slow their approach.
Switching out magazines, he shot twice more at the nearest men, unsure if either shot struck home. It was time to move again. He ran south toward the street, then turned west and tore through the undergrowth. In a shorter distance than he’d hoped, the trees ended. Ahead of him stretched another wide and open field. South, they would know he was near the camp. West, they could see him for a long way. His only choice was north, toward Doc, but he would have to slip past his pursuers.
He ran outside the western tree line for about ten yards. That allowed him to move faster and quieter for the moment. Mark ducked and stepped into the first row of trees and brush. There he waited and listened.
Voices filled the woods coming from many directions, leaving him unsure where the nearest man was. With extreme caution, he slid forward then headed north. He stopped, moved, and stopped and moved. Bodies stepped through the undergrowth to his right. They made no attempt to hide their presence, perhaps figuring there was safety in numbers. He pressed to the ground and waited.
Much of the noise moved away from him. But how many more are still in the trees, searching? He listened intently.
“Make a line and spread out. Make sure you can see the people next to you.” An authoritative voice boomed.
A flurry of voices followed as they formed their line. Then, everything went silent. The eeriness of the sudden change embraced Mark like an arctic wind.
Forty-Two
“All right, move out. Call out if you see anything.”
Mark froze, his heart in his throat. They were systematic in their search. But where would they start? To the north, they would find him for sure. He had to find where they were.
Crawling back to the edge of the trees, Mark peered at ground level left and right. He couldn’t see anyone. However, that didn’t mean someone wasn’t there watching. He alligator-crawled to the north, dropping flat and staying still every five feet. He went as far as he dared in the open before ducking back inside the relative safety of the trees. There he put all energy into his ears.
Far to the right, movement gave him pause. The search line was moving away from him. He relaxed, expelling a breath he had not known he held. Then, as easy as that breath had left, the intake was cut short. A stealthy step fell somewhere very near to his left. Against all desire to see where the person was, Mark buried his face in the ground. Digging his fingers into the soft earth, he pulled up dirt and wiped it over his sweaty face. Only then did he risk a peek.
A sound came again. Someone who had stalked prey before was moving through the area with only the merest of noise. The slight crunch of a dry leaf. The soft scrape of a slim branch dragging across cloth. Mark’s heart seemed to stop beating, as if afraid its normal function would be heard.
With great care, Mark slid his hand down his body, stopping at the handle of the knife. He eased the blade from the leather sheath one section at a time. Another disturbance, this one seemingly a foot from his head. That had to be a false read by his angst-filled brain, or the man would have seen him.
Inching his head sideways to be able to see upward, Mark watched, expecting a bullet or cry of alarm at any second. The sound ceased. Yet nothing was in view. Then, a change of darkness flashed like a phantom not five feet away. The shadow stopped as if alerted to his presence. The darkened shape of its head swept side to side.
Mark’s brain screamed “run” as the head turned in his direction. The knife wasn’t completely out yet. He’d been afraid to move the blade further. Basically unarmed, the rifle pointing forward away from the hunter, Mark fought the urge to jump up. He wanted to scream, lying there with no defense or chance to survive if discovered.
Another crunch. The man moved on. Little by little, second by agonizing second, the sounds of his passing became fainter. No longer able to see the shadow, Mark though anxious to move, was afraid to do so. Anyone that attuned to his surroundings would hear him, even at a distance. He waited. Minutes passed, the natural sounds of the woods resumed as if calling out an all-clear.
Mark slid a knee under him and levered his torso from the ground. He pivoted his head in a long scan of the entire area, a panoramic camera taking in a vista. The almost total darkness within the trees made finding his pursuer next to impossible. Instead, he relied on his hearing. Satisfied he was alone, he stood. With a last glance behind he started forward. Three steps later he ran head first into a startled man. Both men gasped audibly.
Instead of grappling or using the rifle as a club the frightened man attempted to bring his rifle down between them to shoot. He stepped back to gain room. Mark was quicker with the knife. He lunged forward impaling the man, but unable to stop the cries of pain. He pressed in closer, body to body, and tried to cover the man’s mouth. At the same time, he pushed the blade in deeper and lifted through the soft flesh of the man’s large stomach.
The gun exploded past Mark’s head, the sound deafening. He flinched but continued to drive the man backward until they hit a tree. The shooter’s body slammed hard and twisted to the right, then fell. Mark landed on top, the gun went off again. Releasing his hold on the man’s mouth, Mark found the rifle barrel and ripped it from the weakening grip.
The man continued to cry out in pain. Mark had no choice, but to pull the knife free and plunge it into the man’s throat. The shouts turned to gurgling, then to silence.
Mark turned his head and listened. Crashing. At high speed. From multiple directions. Quickly he rummaged through the man’s pockets finding some loose cartridges. He couldn’t grip them all, and some fell to the ground, but he didn’t have the luxury of time to search for them. He sheathed the knife, snatched up both rifles and fled north.
With no chance to use stealth, Mark had to hope the noise made by his pursuers would partially conceal his. Voices shouted out directions. They were closing in. Perhaps they already had him pinched. He had to think, to find a way out, but panic overruled thought. He ran on, desperate for distance and safety.
A sound to his right told him neither was possible.
Swerving to his left, he hit a root, tripped and went down. Scrambling, he hid behind a tree and fought to control his breathing while extending his hearing. His breathing was too loud in his ears to hear anything.
Lifting the rifle, he sighted and swept the scope. A shadow. He fired. Everything seemed to stop at once. The shot was too fast. He doubted he made contact. Now they knew where he was. The longer he waited, the easier it would be to surround him. About to move, the woods suddenly lit up with gunfire. The flashes looked like a swarm of lightning bugs.
Mark ducked, curling his knees to his chest, to wait out the barrage. Bullets smacked trees and ripped through leaves all around him. The shooters had the basic direction but hadn’t pinpointed the spot. Still, moving would be difficult. Any sound would redirect their aim, and a lucky shot could kill.
His brain worked feverishly to find a way out. He aimed toward the open field to the west. If they hadn’t thought of it yet, men would soon come that way to cut him off and come up behind him. If he could break free, he could run north, but they would hear him. Sliding backward, he might reach the field undetected, but he would be in the open for a long way.
Regardless, he had to do something. Staying was certain death. The rate of fire decreased. Mark assumed men were moving into better shooting positions. It was decision time. Gathering his courage, Mark slid backward, keeping a tree between him and the shooters. He prayed this was the right decision, knowing it was the only one he had.
Forty-Three
With the hair on the back of his neck standing at constant attention, Mark reached the tree line, waiting for the bullets to tear into him at any second. Keeping his head near the ground, he looked right then left. Right was clear. Two men approached at a jog from the left.
He looked straight out, the open field both inviting and dangerous. If he took these men down the others would know where he was. How far could he run into the open space before someone saw him, drew a bead and took him down? If he got out far enough and hit the dirt, he might be able to burrow in deep enough to cover himself, at least until dawn.
That was his best option. Sliding the rifle forward, Mark took aim at the first man and squeezed the trigger. The man acted as if he’d hit a wall. He straightened, staggered back and dropped. The second man skidded to a stop, but instead of dropping for cover, ran for the woods. Mark tracked him and put him down.
He didn’t watch to make sure either man stayed down. He scrambled to his feet and ran as hard as he could in a northern direction. He did a mental countdown, figuring at most he had ten seconds before someone discovered his flight and sent bullets in pursuit.
At nine, he dove for the ground, landing with an oof he could not contain. Scurrying, he turned to face the woods and dug ferociously at the dirt, like a squirrel burying his find. All the while he worked, Mark kept his eyes on the trees. They might be able to see him, but unless they came out of the woods, he would not be able to see them.
Knowing he was pressing his luck timewise, Mark pressed his body to the ground wiggling his torso to create a more concealing hole. He set both rifles on the ground in front of him and scooped dirt into a six-inch mound in front of him. Placing a rifle on each end of the pile Mark put his chin into the dirt and sighted through the scope on the right side.
He panned the tree line, but nothing moved. Had he gone unseen? If so, he couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe they still thought he was in the woods. He tried to recall the action, like a sports reporter doing a recap of a game. He had estimated a starting number of twenty. Kills he was sure of totaled six, maybe seven, leaving two to three unknowns. The odds were still bad, but getting better.
He waited. His body relaxed, exhausted, drained from exertion and the mental strain. His eyes burned. With a sleeve he wiped the sweat from his eyes and forehead, momentarily blurring his vision. He tried to blink them clear but had to wipe them again. His focus better, Mark saw men had emerged from the trees. This surprised him, increasing his angst. He scanned around him for fear his laxity had allowed them to get behind him.
Nothing.
He sighted on the men. Three of them stood just in sight, all of them held rifles to their eyes. They were doing the same thing he was. He moved further behind the mound keeping only his right eye clear.
One hunter stopped, his scope pointing directly at Mark, giving him the feeling the man could see right through his lens. Despite the low light, Mark angled the rifle down to deflect any reflection off the lens.
A shot rang out. The bullet struck the mound. Mark flinched and hid his face. He waited. Nothing happened. Were they approaching, or waiting for him to move? Another shot. This round struck near his rifle. He wanted to pull it back but was afraid to move anything. If they were shooting to draw him out, it wasn’t going to work. A third shot, same result.
Were they fishing, unsure if he was there, or was one man shooting to keep him pinned down while the others advanced toward him? He had to look. He had no choice. They could be on him before he knew it, even if his movement gave him away.
Mark righted the rifle and took a look. Other than separate, the men still stood by the trees. Now, however, they were joined by three others, with two or more rifles aimed in his direction. They were obviously unsure of what they were seeing or a full-scale assault would be underway.
They would be in as much danger coming across the open ground as he would be fleeing. He understood their anxiety. Until they flanked him, he could hold out here for a while. Of course, time was not on his side. As soon as the sun came up, he would be an easy target. If he intended to make a break for safety he had to do it when dark. In the hands of a good shot, the rifles certainly had the range to take him down while he fled.
He rolled onto his back and looked out beyond into the darkness, imagining the path of his escape. Running a zigzag pattern was a must, but would eat up precious time. The darkness swallowed the horizon. He only had his memory to use as a guide for how far he would have to run. All he knew for sure was it was a long way to anything remotely resembling cover.
If he could draw them out, they would be in the same situation: no one would have cover. He had as much chance of picking them off as they did him. The downside was he had no one in reserve.
At a loss, Mark looked toward the street, seventy-five long yards away. Across the street stood a narrow copse of trees that ran parallel to the western side of the compound. He couldn’t tell from there how far back from the road it went, but the sight offered him an alternate plan. The move would be dangerous, but no more so than staying there or running off into the distance. This would be a shorter dash, although, he would be moving across the shooters’ sight lines, offering himself as a target all the way. If even one of them had tracked and put down a deer before, the shot would be easy. Running away from the shooters, he would diminish as a target with each step.
But, if he could reach the trees across the street, the positions would be reversed. He would be in cover and the hunters in the open. He liked that thought. Getting there alive was the problem.
Turning his attention back to his pursuers, he saw two men had moved closer. One on the right, one the left. Time to choose.
Forty-Four
Mark acquired the first target, the man on the right and fired. Without waiting to see the result he switched to the second man, who was already dropping to the ground. Mark had no real shot but loosed one anyway.
As soon as he pulled the trigger, he was up and running. Return fire whizzed behind him like a swarm of angry bees taking up the chase. Afraid to stop lest they make the appropriate adjustment and begin leading their shots, Mark raced on.
The shot that changed his mind whipped past his nose, close enough to wipe it. He dove for the ground. He hit and rolled to a position facing his pursuers. Three men had taken up the chase. Others were stationary and firing.
Bullets plunked into the dirt around his head. At any second the next shot could finish him. He aimed at one of the runners and squeezed off a round. His lead was perfect, spinning the man like a drunken ballerina. He stumbled and fell. The others ducked.
He rolled one complete revolution to make the shooters have to adjust. Then, sighting as fast as he could, fired off a bullet in the direction of each standing shooter. The intent was not so much to hit, as to disrupt their aim and rhythm. As the last shot left the barrel, Mark was on his feet again.
Reacquiring him didn’t take as long as he’d hoped. Shots passed close enough to feel them. One shot hit the stock of the rifle, tearing it from his grip, surprising him, taking him off stride and down. Pain shot through his knee. At first, he thought he’d been wounded until he touched the injured area and found it blood-free. A strain was all, as he twisted to the ground.
Using the second rifle, Mark fired off two quick shots and took to his feet running. He hobbled as fast as possible, pushing aside the sharpness of the pain. Mark went another ten yards until once more the bullets zeroed in. Dropping, he absorbed the impact on his hands and arms to save his injured knee. The landing was far from graceful.
Mark scanned in a hurry. The road was still a good twenty yards away. The hunting party had gained. Two men had pulled up level with him, near the trees. He doubted he could make the trees across the road.
He thought of Doc. He had given her the chance to escape but Lynn’s fate was different. A lump formed in his throat. Frustration at the situation and anger at his failure flared. He pulled the trigger twice for no reason.
No!
He could not quit. If he were going to die anyway, he would go down fighting.
Mark rose to his knees. A spike of pain shot through him. Aiming in the direction of the two nearest men, he fired once and broke for the road again. The distance shortened. Ten yards. He should drop for cover. Mark continued. The shots flew past. How much longer would his luck hold?
Five yards. A bullet grazed his shin; another his left arm. Still he ran on. A depression, just before the street tripped him up and perhaps saved his life. Face planting, he came up spitting dirt. He rolled and pressed against the slope. He surmised his new position was a drainage ditch. Slapping the barrel on the rise he sighted and fired. A shrill scream pierced the night. The man fell but continued his cries. Everything else fell quiet.
