I remember how the bullet felt in my own side when Fort Caroline shot me, and I squeeze his hand tight. He won’t live, but I don’t want him to be alone when he dies.
“Jamie!” Denton is there, trying to pull me up. But I don’t want tolet go of the guy’s hand yet. He’s still alive, but not for long. Denton keeps trying to get me to move as gunshots echo around us. Niki is there now, too, and she helps Denton, pulling the young man’s hand away from mine. Someone else from our side is shooting back the way we came, but bullets tear through the front of their jacket, narrowly missing Niki. She screams as the person drops to the ground, dead. I push Niki ahead, and Denton shoots blindly behind us.
This is just going to continue every day until Rosewood and the other leaders are dead. Which means every day, more people are going to die. But if Rosewood dies tonight, it’s over. And if I’m right about where he is, I can end this; not wait a week or more for them to starve or die of dehydration. Or for them to get even more desperate and kill more of us. Like Niki, who shouldn’t be here but just wants to protect her brother.
Or me. Who shouldn’t be here either. But this is for Andrew, to protect him so he can protect the others. I have no clue how many people have died already for Danny Rosewood, but no one else is dying tonight. Especially not for me.
When we reach another roadblock to our right, neither Niki nor Denton notices as I fall back and let everyone pass me. I stop, waiting for them to look for me; when no one does, I turn away from them and run for the barrier. None of them seem to notice, as there are no shouts after me. I climb up onto the cars that make up the roadblock, black soot coming away from the cracked and burnt paint.
In under a minute, I’m over the blockade and on the other side.
Alone.
The sheriff’s department is only a few blocks away. I can check itout on my own, see how well guarded it is. Maybe Rosewood is there, out in the open. And if he is, maybe his men will let me get close enough to take him out.
I turn down a road, sticking to shadows. I’m moving in the opposite direction from the gunshots, so things are getting quieter.
There’s movement in the street ahead of me, so I duck into an alley and wait. Voices drift through the night, getting closer and closer. I back down the alley, away from the street, hoping the shadows between the building are enough to hide me.
A young man is speaking. “—probably distracted by the assault on Stillton. I say we make a run for it while we can.”
Another voice—younger, more boyish—answers. “What if they just shoot us?”
“They won’t, bud,” answers the first. “We’ll just go out with hands up and—” Their voices get farther and farther away. Still, I don’t risk going out just yet.
Halfway down the alley, there’s a right turn, and I glance down it at the white cinder-block sheriff’s department. Smoke drifts slowly beneath an orange light at the front corner of the building. There’s gotta be a generator. And if they’ve chosen to power a generator using the limited resources they have, it must be because the leaders are there.
That’s where he is, I know it. Like some dictator hiding out in his bunker while the opposing troops close in.
And judging by the two men I just heard, they seem ready to give up. Maybe if they know their leaders are falling, they’ll be more willing to lay down their guns.
I sprint down the alley toward the station. The road is clear, but I look both ways to be sure, then take my chance and cross the street to the empty sheriff’s station parking lot.
I run around the back, into the shadows. There’s the low hum of a generator farther along the building’s back wall. I turn back to see the alleyway is still dark. No one is following. I continue around to the other side and hear voices from the front of the building. Yelling. But I don’t know what they’re saying.
There’s a truck on this side with tarp-covered boxes in the back of the bed.
More gunshots, six or seven overlapping pops. But they’re much closer than any others I’ve heard.
Someone rounds the corner, limping. He’s a short, thin white man with a gray mustache and bald head. Blood drips down his face from a cut across his forehead. There’s more blood on his chest and a thick, dripping trail behind him.
He doesn’t see me in the shadows. Neither does the man with the gun behind him. My heart stops and everything goes silent except for the pounding in my ears.
Danny Rosewood lifts the pistol in his hand and fires one final time into the other man’s back. The bald guy drops to the ground, tries to crawl, then stills.
My fingers tighten around the gun in my own hand.
There he is.
Rosewood limps over to the man. There are red splotches of blood on his white suit. One near his shoulder. And another on the right side of his abdomen. Almost exactly where the scar on my side is.
He throws his own gun—a six-shooter, of course—aside and reaches down for the other guy’s gun. Another six-shooter. Probably standard-issue for the selectmen of Fort Caroline. Something that looks old-school, dignified, and Wild West-y. It makes sense given the wanted posters. Rosewood picks up the gun and goes to open the chamber but stops when he sees me.
I’ve stepped out of the shadows, my legs moving on their own. My arm must, too, because I don’t remember raising my gun, but there it is. Pointed right at his chest.
He seems nervous for a moment and puts up his other hand like he’s about to surrender.
“It’s all right, son,” he says. “No need to go shooting anyone now. I was just defending myself is all.”
