Shouts echo through the woods, bounce off the trees, and are swallowed by moss and soil. Runner left more than an hour ago. I don’t know where, precisely, he is and that makes me feel as if my life support has been cut off. My hand hurts from gripping my rifle too hard. I’ll miss my targets if I don’t relax.

Targets. There must be a reason for calling humans that and it has nothing to do with where you aim your gun.

‘Do not engage,’ whispers from my earbud. ‘Find the foxhole nearest you and close the hatch. Be invisible.’

‘Acknowledged,’ I croak. My palms itch. I rub them against the bark. Listening to Runner’s breathing, I pull myself together.

I unstrap my pack from the tree trunk; check the fifteen rounds in my arm strap, the knife that’s fastened to my left leg, and the pistol on my right. A sip of water, a stretching of muscles, and I slip off my tree, step into the dense greenery, and begin to crawl. With danger lurking at my back, my pace feels painfully slow, but it keeps me invisible. My earbud transmits huffs and crackling twigs. They sound farther away and can’t be Runner’s. Is he so close to the approaching men?

‘How many?’ I ask.

He taps twice. Either he’s still counting, or he wants me to shut up. The faint gurgling of water tells me he’s probably close to the stream — a fifteen minute walk from here.

I reach the foxhole and move the lid aside, then I slip in, rucksack, rifle and all. I blot out prints that could give away my hideout. Hm… he said close the hatch. But then I won’t be able to see a thing. Being in this hole and not seeing what’s going on outside feels wrong. I place a stone between hatch and ground and push my rifle through the opening, insert the barrel between forest floor and a strategically placed branch, and pull a piece of netting over it. Runner put branches in front of every such foxhole to help conceal the infrared signature of the muzzle from above. If anyone on the ground happened to stare right at it, they could possibly see it. But before they could react, I would shoot their night-vision goggles off their faces.

‘Micka?’ Runner whispers. 

‘I’m in the hole. Lots of movement in the camp now. They know that backup is coming.’

‘Close the hatch, dammit!’

‘Acknowledged.’ Slowly, I move my rifle, the stone, and finally the hatch. Blackness swallows me. ‘How many men?’

‘More than sixty.’

My heart hollers. ‘Fuck.’ 

He must have informed Kat by now. There’ll be no evacuation of the kids anytime soon. The BSA’s ship must have arrived already. How’s this even possible without Kat warning us beforehand? Are these all the men who disembarked? What the heck do they want here anyway? There’s nothing but forest here. No people they can terrorise and kill, no… What precisely does the Bullshit Army want, anyway? If their only goal is to kill all humans, wouldn’t they be the last left alive? Would they shoot each other then, and would the last one kill himself? I shake my head. There’s no use in trying to make the illogical logical.

‘Which foxhole did you pick?’ Runner asks.

‘The one with the red plush pillows.’ I snort at my own joke. Shit, I’m tense. ‘West of and closest to my previous position.’

‘Good. I’ll be to your right. We’ll open crossfire when I say it. Keep your head down till then. I don’t want any of them to stumble over your rifle or the open hatch.’

‘Okay.’ My muscles are stretched so tightly, my body is aching everywhere, even my face. And I need to pee. Badly.

Time slows to a crawl. The thumping of booted feet on soft forest floor. The men are loud, stepping on twigs, talking and laughing. As if the loss of half their forces here in the camp doesn’t matter in the least. Does Runner know whether there are more reserve teams, or additional ambush teams, or whatever? I’ll ask him later. I’ll shut up now. I mean, I’ll try to shut up my brain that whispers, They’ll find you. They’ll find you.

They pass my location and my bladder is about to burst. I fumble for my squeeze light, place my palm over it, and switch it on. Dim red glow illuminates the outlines of my legs, my gun’s stock, my ruck. I find one of my water canteens, drink the last sip, pull down my pants and awkwardly curl or squat or whatever this squeezed position can be called, and aim into the bottle. I manage without wetting my hands. So, canteen full, bladder half empty. I switch off the light, and listen. It’s quiet. I tilt the hatch a crack, and sneak my hand out to empty the piss in the dead foliage. I repeat the procedure and find that I can think and focus much better without having to clamp my legs together. Now, all I need to remember is to not confuse the two canteens. I open the MedKit, tear a piece of tape off the roll, and stick it to the pee canteen. 

The earbud is silent except for the occasional deep breath. I take the time to eat and drink a little, flex my fingers and stretch my arms as best as I can in this constricted space. I slip more ammo into my pockets, then pack my stuff, ready for a hasty departure.

‘In position,’ says Runner. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. I’m ready. Can I open the hatch now?’

‘Go ahead. The next guard is about fifty metres to your left. Ten o’clock, last time I saw him. One more thing: Erik is back.’

‘He came with the new men?’

‘Yeah,’ Runner answers.

Well, shit. No, actually, the opposite. It’s good he’s here, I remind myself. Better to see what your enemy is doing. But it’s more than weird that the enemy is my own father.

I push at the hatch, gently opening it a crack. I block it with one rock on either side, spread the netting over the branch before pushing my rifle through. I arrange a few more twigs, leaves, and bundles of grass to shield my muzzle report from view. The fog begins to crawl in, cloaking the bases of the trees, softening the noises, spreading a protective blanket over me. The flavours of the forest lose their intensity.

I aim my rifle at the back of the man nearest to me. He’ll be able to locate my muzzle report if I don’t take him out first.

‘Requesting permission to open fire,’ I whisper.

‘Permission granted.’ 

A boom! shuts off the silence. The man tips forward, falls on his knees, and collapses on his side. Before his face hits the ground, the camp erupts with noise.

I move my rifle and scan the area between me, the camp, and Runner’s location. The image amplification doesn’t work at all in the fog and even the infrared sensor runs into problems the denser the fog gets. I like it best when it’s as dense as pea soup. It means the others can’t see shit while running back and forth in my finder — green shadows, blurry and…ghost-like. I’m aiming at ghosts, while they don’t have anything to aim at. Fear me, fuckers.

Bullets zip past, men shout orders. The first shell hits more than a hundred metres left of me. I don’t allow myself to think of Erik. He’s the commander — he’ll be in the camp. 

Aim and fire, that’s what I do, that’s what I am. 

And then, just when my third target falls and I feel like nothing can kill me, a kid steps into view. I freeze. His eyes are huge, his shoulders tremble so hard, it looks as if his large ears quiver, too. He clutches a submachine gun, his waist unnaturally thick. 

I blink. 

Explosives. 

He staggers forward, legs as thin as sticks, barely able to carry the boy and his payload. 

The word payload tastes like the toxic pearl on my tongue.

He’s coming directly at me. He couldn’t have seen my muzzle flash! Could he?

He’s muttering something I can’t understand. Maybe a prayer. His eyes flick left to right, right to left. His knuckles are white. The gun is shaking with the boy.

‘Micka,’ sounds urgently from my earbud. ‘Does he see you?’

‘Don’t know,’ I whisper. 

Do they know where I am? How can they send a boy directly to my location?

‘The kids are everywhere now. Look.’

I’m so cold I doubt one can get any colder. Small ghosts walk through the fog, drifting in and out of view. All of them living bombs, holding on to their guns as if a firmer grasp could save their lives. The boy’s gaze lowers to where the tip of my muzzle peeks out of the foliage. A war cry issues from the small mouth and the boy begins to run. Straight ahead. Straight at me.

‘This is so fucked up!’ The whining in my voice tips me into panic.

‘It is,’ Runner answers, and I know he has the boy in his crosshairs, the boy who now takes yet another hurried step towards me. A boy of maybe nine years. I can feel the pressure of Runner’s finger on the trigger before the round impacts. The boy tips aside, as if hit by a crumbling wall. I sink into my hole, my personal hole inside my dark foxhole, and I want to be dead.

‘Get your rifle inside, close the hatch!’ Runner barks. He must have heard my gulping for air and the sob I failed to muffle. I obey, because that’s what I do — obey Runner when I stop functioning. I curl up in a ball. I’ve done my killing for today. Fire when the fog comes, cease fire, change location, wait, fire, retreat. Fire the next day when the fog returns, cease fire, repeat. Without my permission, my mind calculates the number of days I’ll be spending like this until all of the BSA men are killed. Ten. At the least. 

I don’t want to spend another minute here.

Faint pops seep through the blackness — Runner’s still firing. There’s also the sharp rattling of machine gun fire and the wheeee-woooomp of mortars. Dirt trickles off the walls and the hatch with every shell hitting the ground. They don’t even know where to aim.

I let the noise pass through me, shut my eyes and press my knuckles against my lids until lights pop in my vision and the pounding in my head grows unbearable. But the images won’t leave me: the slow tilting, the spray of blood and brain, the hole — this huge hole. I can’t do this. I can’t do this any longer. Sobs erupt from my chest and I stuff a fist into my mouth to silence the involuntary noises. I want to pour acid into my brain. I want to sleep. Let me sleep. Sleep…

‘Shut up, Micka. You’re getting yourself killed!’ hisses through my earbud.

I press my face against the soil, let the chill creep through my skin, try to not weep, try to be quiet. It doesn’t work. I hate this shit so much. I want to go home. Even if I don’t know what or where home is.

Faint rustling above my head kicks my instincts back into action. I pull my pistol and aim at the intruder before a milky sliver of faint morning light drops into my foxhole. A boot, then another, and the butt of his rifle. Runner folds his body into the small space and shuts the hatch. He pins me down with his weight, one hand in my hair, an arm wrapped around my neck, his face pressed to the top of my head. 

‘Quiet, Micka. Calm down,’ he whispers. ‘Ssshhh. Panic kills you. Control keeps you alive.’ 

‘Get the fuck out,’ I growl. ‘Get the fuck off of me. Take your fucking hands off.’

He slides his coarse palm over my mouth and breathes into my ear, ‘Two men heard you. I shot them. If you keep this up, you’ll get us both killed. I prefer to stay alive, so please, shut up, Micka.’

I squeeze breath through the gaps between his fingers. Slowly, he moves his hand aside, but keeps me pinned to the ground. His breath is a staccato. I grab his hair and try to yank him off, but all he does is press closer. I try to push my knee between his legs, try to shove it into his crotch, but reach only his thigh. 

Mute, I punch my rage into his ribcage until his shoulders tremble. That’s when all fight leaves me with a quiet sigh. Exhausted, my arms drop to my side. I turn my head away, let tears soak the soil. No need to hurt him, he’s hurting already. 

I don’t know how long we’ve been lying here. Not that it matters much anyway. Time…who gives a fuck about time? My hand sneaks up to his shoulder. He’s still trembling. We both are. It’s like two wavelengths interfering with each other, but not quite certain whether they should dampen or amplify the destruction. 

All air leaves my lungs. I rake my fingers through his hair, bury my face in the crook of his neck, and remind myself that he’s my friend, not my enemy. My hands relax. My breathing slows. I hold him now, and he holds me.

‘Thank you,’ he whispers.

I can’t bring myself to thank him for saving my life.