My feet stumble in the mud, and I drop to one knee, ready to fall forward. But then Rye is there, shouting, grabbing me by the jacket, wrenching me back up. He lifts the backpack to shield us, and we run toward the pines as the bullets fly around our legs. Blood is gushing onto my hand. Warm. Thick. I try to fix my eyes on the forest ahead. It’s taking us a lifetime to reach it. The blood is buzzing in my ears. The thunder echoes the cracking guns. Then we reach the trees, and the guns stop firing. Rye hauls me along behind him until we find a thick spot of undergrowth. He pulls me to the ground, yanks off his shirt, and ties the cloth around my arm. “We don’t have much time,” he says. “They’ll find us in here soon enough.” “The Rangi?” I wheeze. “Yeah. It’s them all right.” “What do we do?” “Fight.”
