Jake hit the ground. He coughed. The dirt was sour on his tongue, the root had scratched his cheek, and the smoke hung heavy and acrid in the air. Taste. Touch. Smell. I’m alive. Run. Don’t look back. Jake scrambled to his feet and took off. “HEY!” Go. He missed once. He won’t do it again. He raced toward the clearing. The building. Visible now. Through the branches. A hut. Like the one Jake had seen the day before at the ridge. “NOT THERE!” BLAMMMMM! Jake dived again. Blindly. “GO LEFT!” Weymouth was right behind him. Think. Jake darted to the right. “I SAID NOT THAT WAY!” Motion. Near the hut. A figure in the shadows. Human. Weymouth’s Confederate pals. Gathering for the ambush. Forget the hut. Only one direction remained. Straight up the mountain. Behind him, footsteps crashed through the underbrush. More than just Weymouth now. “Stop!” “You can’t go there!” “Get him!” Voices. Lots of them. You’ll be in the crossfire. GO! Jake veered away. Sprinted.
