Our last stop. A bit more than one kilometre from the camp, we drop our rucks and hide them. Runner takes out his SatPad once more and tries to contact Kat. We need to know why the attack has been moved ahead and what’ll happen now that the helicopter is down. Will there be a backup? Does she need something specific from us other than an assault on the camp and a rescue mission if anyone has survived the crash?
Runner’s questions go unanswered, and we don’t even know if it’s a problem with our SatPad, the connection, or if Kat is unable to answer. He groans and rubs his forehead.
And all of a sudden, three dots blink on the SatPad’s screen.
‘Cacho?’ I ask.
Runner checks the time. ‘It’s not his window.’
Heat crawls up my neck.
Soon, my dear, appears in black on light-grey. Soon, you’ll meet me.
I squint at the letters, their significance grates against the inside of my head. Runner speaks in a voice that’s cold as ice. ‘We’re alone now.’
‘Erik is mine,’ I croak. ‘That man was playing with us all along. He killed my friends.’ I hate this guy so much, I might actually be combusting.
‘They were my friends, too.’
‘He’s mine,’ I insist. ‘I get the first shot.’ My fury dampens the pain in my leg and the throbbing in my side.
‘I hope you’ll miss,’ he says, and I know what he means. He wants to rip out that man’s throat. And by all that is dear to me, I do want that very badly, also.
We crawl through the forest. The gas is still lingering in the air and my throat tickles, my eyes burn. Coughing and barked commands echo from the direction of the camp.
Runner helps me into a foxhole and disappears. I put in my earbud. He’s checking on the helicopter crew, first in the camp, then at the site where it came down. I switch on the squeeze light, drink my fill and check my bandages, ammo, and rifle. Today, I’ll keep shooting; there’ll be no cease fire until every single one of them lies in the dust, with life bleeding from their bodies. They’ll have to bomb my ass out of this hole to get me to stop.
‘Requesting permission to open fire,’ I say and get one tap in return.
I open the hatch a crack, and arrange netting and twigs, making myself and my rifle invisible. Slowly, the fog begins to rise, mingling with gas, smoke, and ash, mingling with my friends’ remains. I scan the camp and the perimeter. Hectic movements. Men flit back and forth between tents and huts. Bending low, they stay behind the wall; only occasionally do I see the top of a head in my crosshairs. Muffled cries of ‘The Fog!’ echo through the woods.
You bet! Tonight, you’ll not get out of The Fog alive. None of you.
‘No survivors at the site of the crash,’ whispers in my ear. ‘Do you see any in the camp?’
‘No,’ I answer. ‘They are very cautious. I can barely see anyone.’
‘I’ll fire from a tree and drive them out.’
Soon, I hear the first shot. But it’s not coming from the woods. It’s from the camp. And another. And a third, fourth.
No survivors left now, I think, but then Runner says, ‘They have a woman.’
A scream cuts through the mist, an eerie wail that speaks of torture and loss of hope. A moment later, the muzzle report of Runner’s rifle hollers through the depths of the forest.
For the blink of an eye, silence falls.
And then, without warning, the night splits wide open.