“You be more careful,” he said.
They smiled at each other, then Benny pulled her to him and they kissed. They had no time for this, but Benny took the time. If it was going to be their last kiss, then it was going to be one of history’s best. There were no words, no “I love you”s shared back and forth. It was not a good-bye kiss, either. After that kiss, as Benny released Nix and they both staggered back from that moment, Benny knew that he damn well wanted to live.
He turned and left without another word.
Benny faded back into the forest and circled the camp, running fast, slipping now and then in the mud. Any sounds he made were lost to the roar of the falling rain. He was soaked to the skin, and his clothing and weapons felt heavy, but he held an image in his mind as he ran. Those kids huddled together, and the oldest girl’s smiling face filled with hope. Filled with the belief that despite all of the evidence to the contrary, someone in this world still cared what happened to her and the other children. When Benny fell, that image was what picked him up. When his lungs began to burn from the effort of slogging through the mud, that image put steel into his legs and fire in his muscles. When the fear threatened to take the heart out of him, that image made him keep going, step after trembling step.
He reached the last of the paths that led into the camp and skidded to a muddy stop between a pair of dead trees. There was a guard. A big man with a yellow rain slicker and a shotgun, the big double barrels pointed at the ground to keep them from filling with water. Benny had only two chances, and he’d thought long and hard about them this afternoon while waiting for this moment. He could try and sneak past the man or he could attack him.
He liked the first idea better, because it seemed to have a future attached to it. But the reality was that if he left the guard in place, then Lilah would probably be spotted when she returned. No, Benny decided, this was the moment to stop acting like a kid and start acting like a man. He crept forward to the trunk of the larger of the two dead trees. Old branches littered the ground, and Benny had to be careful where he stepped. If the branch was old enough, then breaking it would sound like a gunshot. They might not hear that from the camp, but this man certainly would.
The man stepped closer to the cliff wall, to try and keep the rain from pounding his head, and began fishing in his pockets. He brought out a pipe and some matches and leaned into a cleft to light it, turning completely away for a few seconds. Benny used those seconds. He bent and picked up one of the dead branches—a length of gnarled hardwood nearly as long as his bokken. He held it like the wooden sword as he crept catfooted through the mud, and he was nearly within striking range when the man turned, his pipe lit, smoke funneling out from under his hood.
He saw Benny.
The man was fast. He dropped the pipe and swung the shotgun up, the deadly weapon sliding easily on its wet shoulder sling at the same moment as Benny jumped forward and hit the guy across the face as hard as he could. The old branch was brittle, and it shattered into a hundred soggy splinters as it broke over the man’s cheek and nose.
The blow slammed the guard back against the cliff wall. The strike from the stick did not knock him out. Hitting his head on the wall, however, did.