The night is moonless. A few birds are calling. My earbud is silent. My stomach is pressed against a thick branch about fifteen metres above ground. Dirt covers my face and hands, the remainder of my body is cloaked by my ghillie and the thick tree cover. The ruck is strapped to the trunk behind me.
It strikes me how natural this routine feels. My old life is far away and utterly strange, a tiny world in a different universe. The sorrows I had seem ridiculous and insignificant. Why did I ever waste a single thought on bad school grades? Who gives a fuck if I had friends or not?
The wind picks up and I lift my gaze from my scope. The greenery before me has a nicely shaved hole of approximately thirty centimetres width — large enough to allow a mild breeze to move the leaves without disturbing my view too much.
Only a brief gush of wind. The weather seems stable. The clouds are thick.
My night-eye shows me the camp. My IR laser measures seven hundred and sixty-two metres from my scope to the tent at the very centre of the camp. The vegetation is thinner in front of me than it is behind me. One foxhole is forty metres to my left, the other roughly two hundred and fifty metres to my right.
What Runner once said about owning lives echoes in my ears. Right now, I own the lives of eight guards. They are scattered in pairs at the perimeters of the camp, their backs leaning against trees, submachine guns slung over their shoulders. No lights anywhere — not in the tents, not a single fire lit to cook, not one stink candle to fight off mosquitoes.
My neck tingles, the small hairs at its back standing at attention. I stare through the scope, willing relevant information to show itself. Details of the men’s faces are blurred by distance and poor light. It’s blindingly dark. No moon, no stars, not even a firefly. The night-eye shows a flickering mush of green and black — the perfect night for an attack, and the perfect night for an ambush.
‘Runner. They are different tonight. Quieter. Do you think this could be a trap?’ I whisper.
‘Yes. Ours,’ he replies calmly. ‘Tell me what you see.’
I do, and almost jump when one of the guards shifts his weight from one leg to the other.
My heartbeat crackles in my fingertips and toes. I don’t know if I can even hold my rifle steady. My vision through the night-eye is wobbly. I readjust my fist under the gun’s stock.
‘Breathe, Micka,’ sounds softly from my earbud. ‘Breathe — in and out, slowly. You will take lives tonight. Remember how it felt: the rage, when you wanted to stick me with that knife, when you killed the dogs, when you saw the man cut the girl’s throat. Use it, Micka. Use the rage. But don’t let it control you. You are the weapon. Push aside what’s not relevant. Shut your eyes now.’
I do as he says. My breath grows calmer. My mind shows me the images Ben and Yi-Ting took of the kids down in the camp, and it shows me Ezra. Happy, beautiful Ezra. I can’t even imagine her with empty eyes and a pack of C4 strapped to her stomach.
‘The fog has risen,’ he whispers. ‘Open fire when you are ready.’
‘Are you ready?’
‘Always.’
I aim at a pair of guards straight ahead of me. They are so close to each other, one slightly behind the other, I might be able to take them out with a single shot. I hear nothing but my heart hammering against my ribcage. I see nothing but what my finder shows me. Time slows to a crawl. The pressure increases. A round lodges itself from the chamber and flies through the barrel. Two men fall. I didn’t hear the muzzle report. What’s wrong? Did Runner shoot them for me? Am I deaf?
Twigs are crackling, men are shouting and running. I can clearly hear them, so my ears seem to work just fine. I check my rifle and find that it did fire. I fired it. The chamber is empty and warm. I stick a finger in my ear and find the earbud. I’ll worry about the missing muzzle report another time. I aim and fire. The taste of bile begins to register.
A man two hundred meters away is in my crosshairs. My conscience is wiped clean off my chest. I engage the target. I’m trembling. It takes three bullets to finish him off.
I will my breath to slow. Deep. Calm. In, hold, out. Repeat.
Five rounds fired, three men down, the first row of bullets in my arm strap gone.
Second row.
Engage target.
I’m sharp and precise. There’s no better description for this. I’m in my tree. I’m a sniper. I spread terror.
‘Cease fire,’ snaps through my earbud. ‘Retreat.’
Finally, I understand his plan in its entirety. The men have no idea where death comes from so suddenly and effectively, or when it will return. Soon, they’ll learn that we come with the fog. They’ll fear the fog even if we’re not in it.
They are firing now. Bullets spray from their automatic guns, piercing the white void, chipping bark off the trees. We leave the noise behind. The fog cloaks us.
* * *
I dream of blood. It’s on my hands and seeps from my chest. My rifle plops out bullets the consistency of blueberries. Men laugh, lick the purple juice off their faces, and pin me to the ground. I wake up with a hiss. Runner’s hand is on my arm a moment later.
‘You are safe,’ he says.
I’m struck by the fact that he never says things like, “hey, it’s only this and only that. Don’t feel the way you feel, because it’s silly.” I don’t even know how to properly comfort people. I’d never seen it done before I met him.
I wonder how he copes with shooting people. Does he ever see their faces? Does he think target engaged, target fell, instead of this man died at my hands? Would he ever think, I killed a man? Or, I killed my father?
Does it even matter?
The world doesn’t seem to give a shit. Down in the camp, bodies are dragged to the square, ransacked, and thrown in a pit.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
‘Um. Yeah. Thanks,’ I answer. ‘Didn’t you sleep at all?’ We are safely tucked away, not even the birds seem to notice us.
‘I slept, don’t worry. Are you hungry?’
‘Thirsty.’ I reach for my canteen but he’s faster, picks it up and hands it to me. ‘Are you worried about me?’
‘A little. How are you feeling?’ he asks.
‘Erm…’ Do I have to feel something specific? ‘I’m glad I’m not bathed in blood and my bullets aren’t blueberries.’
He snorts. ‘Is that what you dreamed?’
‘Yeah. Ridiculous, isn’t it?’
‘I have the same dream, or…similar. The barrel of my rifle is like rubber, it gets all floppy when I try to aim. Then I’m shot and wake up. Shooting practice usually helps me with the insecurity.’
We’ve both been talking to the netting and the foliage above us. Now, he rustles in his hammock and sticks his head over the rim of my hammock. ‘You were the first to shoot and a damn good shot that was! Two guys dead with one bullet. I’d expected much more…inaccuracy.’
I don’t say a peep. Vivid memories of spraying blood and holes punched into chests make my heart race.
‘You killed four men, I killed seven. If the fog is as thick tomorrow as it was today, we can take down the remaining fifteen men. Then, we’ll find Erik.’
‘Why did we retreat? We could have killed them all tonight.’
‘You didn’t notice they hauled the rocket launcher out and pointed it in your direction?’
‘Uhm…’ Shit. All I saw was in the restricted, circular view of my finder. ‘Did they kill one of the kids?’
He nods, touches my arm, and says, ‘I didn’t expect you to perform so well, Micka. I thought I’d have to pull you out much earlier. This was your first night — you focussed on what was most important — as I taught you. I’ve got your back. You’ll learn to broaden your vision, to keep your senses sharp for the things that happen around you, not only the things your finder shows you. And next time, change your location after five shots.’
I nod. ‘What about the other kids?’
‘If they don’t attack us, they’ll be evacuated as soon as possible. Kat is waiting for my go-signal.’
Only five hours later, our plans are worth the dirt under our fingernails.