Page 94 of Beehive
There was no room for hesitation.
I clutched my coat tight around me, not for warmth on the summery night, but to conceal the blood that had seeped through everything I wore. Will’s plan—if one could call it that—was barely more than gut instinct. The first step was to head west, weaving through the maze of rubble-strewn streets and avoiding patrols.
Beyond that?
It was hope, pure and simple. Maybe a prayer to the god of luck, too.
A floodlight swept over the road a hundred yards ahead, its harsh beam illuminating skeletal remains of buildings and piles of debris. We ducked into an alcove, pressing againstthe crumbling brick. My breathing was labored, each intake of air pulling at the wound. The morphine was just taking hold, keeping the worst of the pain at bay, but we’d dared not give me enough to do any real good. We would never make it across the border with me passed out.
Will’s hand gripped my arm.
He held up two fingers, then pointed to where shadows moved, then held up a fist, then sliced the air with his palm in the direction we wanted to go, signals I knew meant, “We wait for the two soldiers to pass, then we cross.”
I nodded.
Being the rock, everyone else’s shoulder, the one from whose strength others drew, that wasmyrole. It was who I was raised to be. It was all I knew. When Will and I first met, I found myself again playing that role.
Then I was captured, and he became my protector, my savior.
Now, with me again wounded and needing help, Will claimed the mantle of guardian. His calm in the face of the night’s danger was a kind of magic, a role reversal sent from heaven to guide us on our way. I drew from it, let it comfort me, even as I felt my legs might buckle at any moment.
The guards approached, their boots crunching over gravel. I caught snippets of conversation—a complaint about the rising summer heat, a quip about the sector, a shared laugh.
Will’s face was set, his jaw tight.
One of the guards paused, lighting a cigarette. The glow from his match flickered across his face, revealing a young man with tired eyes. His exhaled smoke mingled with the swampy air.
Then they moved on.
Will gave me the signal, and we darted across the street, keeping low.
Every step was agony, but I bit down on the pain, drew it in, tried to turn it to fuel for strength. Mostly, I gritted my teeth and just carried on.
“Are you okay?” Will mouthed. His hand brushed against my cheek, a fleeting moment of tenderness that made my chest ache in a different way.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Keep going.”
He didn’t argue, though his eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
We crept deeper into the labyrinth of the city, one foot in front of the other, exhaustion and pain threatening to drag me down.
The rumble of a truck’s engine snapped me back to attention.
Will froze.
We threw ourselves behind a crumbling wall. The truck roared closer, its headlights cutting through the darkness.
I held my breath. My shoulder screamed.
The engine idled.
Voices shouted orders, the harsh cadence of Russian filling the air.
I risked a glance around the edge. Soldiers spilled out of vehicle, rifles out and ready. They fanned out, flashlights flaring to life, and began searching.
“They know we’re here,” Will muttered.
I swallowed hard. We had to move, to find a way to slip through their net before it closed too tightly about us.
