The Rebels by Nadya Siapin

Author:Nadya Siapin [Nadya Siapin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Travelling Storyteller
Published: 2025-06-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

We had maybe thirty minutes of light left and were checking out another small house to the north of the road we were to meet Dereva and Phoenix on. We’d just finished tossing the kitchen, to no avail, and were heading for the living room when the front door opened and two Steves came in, rifles out and held low.

We all stared at each other, shocked, then their rifles came up. I hurled myself backwards, shoving River through the door as I pulled a handgun from a thigh holster. For a moment, I felt like such an Old West gunslinger, until Steve started firing and healthy fear took control instead.

“Go, go, GO!” I screamed, shoving River toward the backdoor. We raced out of the house, the sacks of goods we’d collected abandoned in a corner, heading north towards the hazelnut orchards that covered the land for acres. I heard one of those damn Chimeras roaring to life behind us. “Across the rows,” I yelled.

River needed no urging, leaping the low hummock of dirt that marked out a row whilst ducking to avoid the branches of the trees. Our only hope lay in evading them until full dark, roughly an hour away. In bad-guys-are-hunting-you time, that’s about a year. In three strides, we leapt another hummock, followed by three more strides. Lights flashed behind us, an engine roared, and crashing sounds signaled the truck entering the orchard.

River glanced back and stumbled. Without pausing I grabbed the back of her jacket, yanked her up and bellowed, “RUN!”

Steve’s machine gun fired, an added incentive we really didn’t need. We were already running like Tom Carrington waited for us at the finish line. Ahead of us rose a line of taller trees, oak and firs whose roots were sunk in a gully snaking through the farmland. If we could make those trees, our survival rate might rise as high as one in a thousand.

Yay, us. We veered to make directly for the relative safety of the trees.

Behind us, a groaning engine, the sounds of a car in distress, and branches snapping like gunshots had me smiling through the aching lungs and burning breath. The trees were narrow and low, so Steve had to force the truck through too-small gaps if they wanted to keep us in sight. We widened the space, since adrenaline and imminent death are fantastic motivators, and the ground took a slight downward turn. Every step jarred, and my chest heaved like bellows as I leaped the last hummock and exited the orchard.

The machine gun worked overtime, but the poor lighting and the fact that we bobbed around like corks in a stream meant their aim was about as accurate as a stormtrooper’s. We’d probably be in more danger if they deliberately aimed five feet to our left. I couldn’t hear the sounds of gunfire, not over my own breath, but I saw the damage as twigs and dirt flew, peppered by the spray of bullets.

The land turned sharply downward, giving us a bit of added protection.

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