Page 131 of The Island

Heather crawled for her life now, south, away from the compound, away, away, away.

She didn’t try to avoid the little thornbushes or the jagged rocks. She crawled on her hands, elbows, knees, feet as fast as she could. Sand, rock, stone, red dirt, thorns…gunfire near her. Sporadic at first but then more concentrated. A dozen or more men and women shooting into the bush to the south of the house. Shotguns and rifles and then, cutting through the other sounds, the disheartening, terrifying chug-chug-chug of an AK-47.

She flattened her body in the dirt.

The AK tore up the field twenty-five feet to her left, the shells hammering into an old cast-iron water tank, ricocheting off in all directions. A ricochet could kill her just as easily as a straight shot.

“Do it, Ma!” someone yelled behind her.

“Get going!” Ma said.

Going where?

A shotgun blast screamed through the air.

Heather stole a look behind her. She could see Ma in the cab of the Toyota Hilux, which was driving in roughly her direction. She was leaning out the window with a weapon. Ma erupted in light as she fired a shotgun.

Heather flattened herself as the white-hot buckshot scraped the air above her head.

I thought that old bitch couldn’t walk!

Heather had no choice now. She got up and ran toward the darkness of the mesa. The Toyota’s headlights found her. Ma reloaded the shotgun. Heather hit the deck as Ma fired. The shotgun pellets were so close this time, she could hear them whinnnn above her.

She got up on one knee and aimed the Lee-Enfield at the Hilux driver. Matt. He saw her aim at him. He desperately turned the wheel. She squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. She ejected the spent cartridge. She rummaged in the bag, found a .303 round, loaded it, aimed, pulled the trigger.

A bullet punched through the windshield. She heard a screech of brakes, and this time the Toyota did not follow.

Either she’d killed Matt or he’d thought better about pursuit.

She ran and ran and ran.

Motorcycles came out looking for her, one going south, another east. The ATV came out and even the drone.

When she was nearly a thousand yards away, she stopped and caught her breath and drank water from the canteen.

Suddenly all the farm lights went out.

The generator had been bled dry of diesel.

She checked the ammo situation. She had three bullets left in the bag.

Was it worth risking a thousand-yard shot? Was it worth wasting one of her final three rounds in an attempt to ignite diesel and gasoline fumes?

Why not?

She lay down in the dirt and flipped the long-range sight and aimed slightly above the black mass that was the fuel tank for the generator.

The music in her head was “Day of the Lords” by Joy Division.

Careful, now.

Slow.

She pulled the trigger.

The .303 slug went straight through the diesel tank without igniting anything.

Damn it.

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