Run, Hide, Die by Ian W Sainsbury

Author:Ian W Sainsbury [Sainsbury, Ian W]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fuse Books
Published: 2021-10-10T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Two

After Bonnie and Clyde split off from the main group, Clint, Buster, and Miss Felicity kept moving, obeying a primal instinct to put distance between them and the hunters.

Buster shot regular glances at the wiry military-looking type beside him. The pace was a sight quicker than he was used to, and he needed a smoke, but he didn't want to ask the guy who'd been shot to slow down.

"We'll find the container where they expect us to sleep," said Clint. "Take what we need, then pick a spot to rest. Take shifts keeping watch, ready to move if we have to."

Miss Felicity regarded the ex-soldier—if that's what he was—as if he had farted at a dinner party.

"No. The container is the only safe place during the day. You heard the captain."

Clint kept walking, taking the weight on his crutch. He didn't answer for a while. Buster did his best to keep up.

"Look, no one's in charge. You don't have to take orders from me. But I know more than you about Brakesman and his crew. The kind of people they are. Don't ask how, because I won't tell you. But I'm not spending tomorrow in a forty-foot container with one door, waiting for a bunch of thugs with sub-machine guns to pay a visit."

Miss Felicity thought about saying something, but Clint's expression changed her mind.

"It's a big ship," he continued. "They have a crew of ten. They won't leave the bridge unattended. I'd guess at least two of them will protect it at all times. That leaves eight men to search the ship, probably in pairs, in radio contact. Our best bet is to climb a container. One that can't be seen from the bridge. We'll rest there tonight."

Buster wanted to add something, but it took most of his strength to keep up.

"What then?" he managed.

Clint looked at him, raised a questioning eyebrow. Great. He wanted Buster to elaborate. The old thief did so, choosing short words, punctuated by a few panting breaths.

"Say we... survive... what then? Tomorrow... We're still up... shit creek, ain't we?... Still... no... paddle."

When they heard gunfire from the far end of the ship, Clint halted. Buster sucked in a few lungfuls of oxygen, then coughed for thirty seconds, his lungs rattling like bags of marbles.

Miss Felicity put a hand on his shoulder. Was she human, after all?

"Can't you cough more quietly?" Maybe not.

After the coughing fit subsided to his usual wheeze, Buster listened with the others to the terrible sounds coming from somewhere between their position and the superstructure.

A scream like all the cats in hell followed the gunfire. It could only be Bonnie. When it cut off suddenly, all three of them exchanged glances. No one spoke.

Clint limped away, the others scurrying after him. Buster waited for the ship's horn to announce Bonnie's death—Clyde's, too, possibly—but it didn't come.

Clint noticed it, too. "They didn't blow the horn. Either the Hunger Games idea is off base, or something's changed."

"Like what?" said Buster. Clint's only answer was a shrug.

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