I shift, about to make a break for it—but then that miserable seagull settles itself on the sand in the wrong place and sets off a mine. The earsplitting explosion is close enough to scare me still. Smoke and feathers obscure the guards’ sandy footsteps, obliterating my only clue as to where the safe path is. Before last week, when they planted hundreds of fresh mines, I could have run it in my sleep. Not now.
People come spilling over the seawall, five and ten and fifteen, more with every second. If they’re desperate enough to run this way, straight toward the sand and the mines, I don’t want to know what they’re running from. I scramble to the edge of the boardwalk. There’s an opening below it, where wind has blown the sand away from the posts and planks. I will wait this out and try again, or I will die. It’s a tight squeeze, just enough room for me but hardly enough room to breathe. My breaths are shallow anyway, shallow and quick. Sand sticks to the slick sweat on my neck and cheek, coating the entire right side of me. The grit is everywhere: inside my nose, between my teeth, behind my eyelids. But I breathe, never having felt so alive as I do in this moment, so close to death.
The noise is inescapable now, the sound of the desperate as they run from death to destruction. Footsteps pound the boardwalk, shaking it. If it gives out, I will be splintered and crushed beneath it.
Sand scatters under the first pair of brave feet, not terribly far away from me. Two more pairs follow, and ten more after that. Then twenty.
The mines spray sand and skin high into the air. All over the beach, explosions burst like fireworks. Yet the feet keep coming, winding through pillars of smoke until—pop!—they are forced to stop.
It isn’t pretty. It is a sickening, revolting mess.
Something heavy slams into the boardwalk, directly above me. The boards creak, sagging so low they press into my shoulder blades. Quickly, the pressure recedes—but then there are fingers, long and tan and delicate, curling over the plank’s edge two inches from my face. A noise almost slips out of me; I bite it back.
Shots ring out, cracking wood, deafening and close. I don’t feel anything—but would a bullet burn like fire, or would it be a blast of numb shock? The fingers grip tighter, knuckles white even in these shadows, and then they are gone. I shift, as much as I can in this tight space, and see three perfect circles of sunlight streaming through the wood just past my head.
Another shot rings out, and then, just like that, darkness overtakes the light—there is a thud above me, even heavier than the first, and a limp arm hanging over the boardwalk’s edge. A limp arm clothed in crisp, tan fabric that would blend into the sand if not for the blood.
An officer. An officer is down, and they will find him, and if I stay where I am I will be covered in his blood as it drips through the cracks.
I could run now. I could follow the footsteps of the dead, step only in places where the sand has been tested. I could make it to the sailboat, if I am smart. If I am smart and quick. I could finally, finally sail to Sanctuary.
I inch out of my hiding place, careful to stay low. An enemy of an officer is a friend of mine, but that doesn’t mean I’m safe—I still need to be as careful as possible, and quiet. A blast of saltwater breeze hits me, cool against damp sweat.
“Wait.”
I freeze, though I’ve obviously already been seen.
“The guards are making rounds,” the voice says. Soft, urgent. “They’re not close, but they’ll see me if you run.”
I turn my head, just slightly, enough to look at her. She’s petite, Asian—I don’t recognize her. Her long, tan fingers ravage the fallen officer’s pockets. Could this girl really have killed him, David against Goliath?
“Here,” she says, tossing me a lanyard heavy with keys. Clever, an attempt to share the blame if someone sees, because why else would she hand over this freedom? Not that I’m complaining—I don’t plan to be around long enough for blame. She stuffs his ID tags into her pockets and tucks his pistol into the back of her shorts. “I’m coming with you.”
The pistol makes me nervous, but at least it isn’t aimed at me. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”
She tilts her head to the beach, to the sickening display of blood and bone before us. “I know you’re not staying here,” she says. “That’s all I need to know.”
“Is it clear yet?” Still crouched on the low side of the boardwalk, all I can see is the girl, and the officer at her feet. Even this much blood turns my stomach, but I keep it together. I have to.
“Clear enough that we’ll have a head start. People are avoiding this beach now. . . .” Her eyes drift to the mess of death in the sand. The tide doesn’t reach far enough to lick any of the blood away, and neither of us can look for more than a few seconds. “It’s only a matter of time until they’re all killed. The guards won’t be distracted for long.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. We can do this.”
“We have to do this. What else is there?”
She’s right. And it isn’t like I have anyone to go back for, not anymore. I take a deep breath. “Follow—”
“Crap, they’re on the seawall—they see us. They see us! Go!”
I spring to standing and take off. The smoke has cleared, not completely, but enough. I don’t look behind me to see if she’s there. I don’t look at what remains of all the people I might have eaten breakfast with later this morning. I only look ahead, at the ravaged sand, darting left and right like the officers did when they first noticed the air shifting.
Bullets burrow into the sand, into bodies already dead, into a wake of people who trail behind us. So many bullets from only—I risk a glance—two guards. I dodge their shots, keep running until the sand is smooth ahead of me, untested. I stop short, not sure exactly how to proceed, and the girl from the boardwalk barrels into me. It’s everything I can do to keep from losing my balance, from taking one wrong step that could end everything.
But of those who’ve fallen in with us, only two stop. The others push past us, sights set on the sailboat. Between their footsteps and the spray of bullets that follows them, the sand is broken—and they are dead—in a matter of seconds.
I suck in a breath, choke on sand and smoke, but force myself to keep going. The boardwalk girl follows, along with the two girls who stopped with us. I recognize both their faces from the seawall, peeking over, today and yesterday and the day before.
I lead the way, fast as I can. The guards’ boat isn’t far now. If we press on we might actually make it. More shots ring out, but this time they’re fired by the boardwalk girl, directed at the officer who usually guards the boat—bullet and blood, he collapses before he can make it back to the dock—then at the other guards who chase us, their pistols dead. This girl is an impressive shot, unsettlingly so. She keeps pulling the trigger long after she runs out of bullets.
No one shoots at us anymore.
No one follows us at all.