When the Killing Starts (13 page)

"Right." I swung my rifle to cover Michaels. It wasn't really necessary. He was shaking. This wasn't the kind of game he had trained for. He didn't know that friends got hurt when the bullets start flying. The sight of Wallace with a couple of fingers missing from his right hand was more than he'd bargained for. "Okay, Jason. We're heading out. You run ahead of me, keep up with my partner. Don't try to duck aside or I'll shoot you in the arm. That way you'll keep running, but you'll never disobey me again. You got that."

"Okay. Okay, for Christ's sake." He was shaken enough to enunciate every syllable. "If we've got to go, let's go." He turned and headed toward George. I paused, looking at Wallace. He would be a handicap. He was injured and angry and would be hard to keep moving, but on the other hand, he was a hostage, and if we could get him out of the bush, I could arrest him and prevent his doing anything to George Horn, legally or otherwise. "On your feet," I said.

He looked up at me, and his eyes were filled with hate. "Fuck you," he said. "I ain't goin'."

"In that case I'll have my dog tear your face off." It isn't a trick Sam's trained for. His attack work is all counterattack. I knew he would hold Wallace forever if I gave the command, but he wouldn't grip anything except arms or legs. I knew that, but Sam's appearance doesn't give the fact away. He looks rugged with his torn ear, a battle scar from a previous firefight. Right now he looked ready to eat Wallace where he sat.

Wallace said, "I'll get you, Bennett. I'll shoot your dog and cut your goddamn heart out."

"Later. On your feet," I told him, and touched Sam on the head. "Easy, boy." He fell back a pace and relaxed as Wallace stood up, still holding his right hand, with blood dripping out between the fingers of his left.

I turned and called to George. "Have you got a canoe at the other side?"

"Yeah." He didn't say anything more, just hooked his arm ahead silently. Indian again.

I turned one last time and fired my last two rifle shots high over the heads of the oncoming boatload of men. They swore and shouted, and someone in the stern stood up and returned fire, wildly, hosing down the waterline, hoping for a spinner that would put one of us down. Dunphy trained his men well. Fortunately the shots hit the rocks and jumped over our head, buzzing away like a swarm of killer bees.

George led the way, with Michaels behind him, moving at a jog trot between the well-spaced pines. Wallace stumbled behind them, a pace or two in front of me. He started to slow down, and I hissed at Sam, who barked angrily, and Wallace picked up the pace again.

George Horn's long, loping pace never faltered, so I swallowed hard and kept up. We had twelve men behind us, wet, humiliated, scared, and ready to kill without any more provocation. We had to be gone before they could cross the portage.

The thought reminded me that there was another boatload out somewhere to the west of us. It was unlikely that they would be in the bush this far south, but I didn't want to chance it. I panted, "Seek," to Sam, and he took off away from us in a big looping curve that carried him fifty yards ahead. It meant he would be the first casualty if the mercenaries were ahead of us, but as much as the thought worried me, I had to use him. I didn't want George Horn harmed, and as point man, he was the most vulnerable. I just hoped that we were alone.

We ran until we reached the rock where I had rested two days before. George stood and waited for us to catch up. Wallace and Michaels both sank to their knees and sucked in air. I stood, while George listened silently. My own blood was pumping too loudly for my hearing to be acute, but I trusted George's fitness. After a minute he said, "Can't hear them. They may not know which way we've gone."

"Hope you're right," I said. I was looking at him as he stood, every muscle taut in concentration, and then I saw his nose twitch.

"Smell something?"

"Yeah," he said, and I turned my head to look back the way we had come. Far off over the trees I saw the sign he had picked up first.

"Smoke," I said.

He nodded again. "Yeah. I'd say they've set fire to the bush. Now we really have to run."

 

 

 

NINE

 

 

The bush was bone-dry, and the wind was out of the north. It wasn't strong, but the fire would strengthen it, whipping the flames ahead faster than we could run. We had to hope we had enough of a start to reach the canoe before the flames overtook us.

"Let's go," I told the prisoners. "You run or you roast."

They didn't waste energy arguing. They heaved in one more long breath, then got up and ran behind George, who had picked up the pace even more. We had half a mile to go and nowhere to hide. Sam was still running ahead, but he stopped and cocked his head back the way we'd come, his nose twitching. Then he whined once in his throat and looked to me for directions. "Good boy. Seek," I reminded him, and he cantered on again, ignoring the threat from behind us.

A quarter mile farther on, the smoke reached us, dry and sweet, almost pleasant in its first faintness, carrying memories of campfires and outings in the canoe with my father. George paused a second and waved us on, then ran even faster. We were almost sprinting now, running like quarter-milers at a track meet. I found myself dragging behind under the weight in my pockets and my rifle, but I hung in. I would probably need everything I had before we were free.

About two hundred yards farther the fire itself started crowning through the tops of the trees over our heads, setting the trees off like tinder, roaring like a hungry animal. The smoke grew thicker, choking us, cutting down our ability to run. The heat seared our faces, making us all lower our heads as we ran. Wallace fell. He lay motionless until I reached him and kicked him in the rear end, not hard. He needed prompting, not hurting. "You wanna be left here, looking like Charlie after a napalm strike?" I shouted.

He groaned and took one more long breath before struggling to his feet, his face dripping with sweat, flecked with ash that was falling on us like black snow, starting fires of its own in the duff under our feet. I glanced around. The fire surrounded us now, burning lower on the trunks of the trees. The few dead pines still standing were burning like torches. The heat was unbearable, and I took a moment to flip up the hood of my combat jacket, cutting down the pain on my neck and cheeks. We had only minutes left to reach water. Otherwise, the men behind us would find our bodies next day, black and tortured, arms and legs drawn up like a fighter's in the agony of dying from superheated fumes in our lungs while our bodies cooked in their own fat.

George and Michaels hadn't paused, and I had to blink hard through the smoke to see them running on a hundred yards ahead. I dug deep into what was left of my strength, thanking heaven that I'd kept myself in shape. All those lonely hours of running paid off now as I called on the most my body could give me.

A tree suddenly crashed across our path, flashing the duff into a carpet of flame, but we couldn't stop. First Wallace, then I, jumped it and kept running, through waist-high fire, choking and stumbling, trying to breathe without inhaling, keeping the heat and smoke out of our lungs. Wallace fell again but rolled and ran on, the back of his combat jacket scorched, his hair whitened with ash as it singed at the tips. I plunged after him. And then the sheen of water broke through the trees ahead.

It gave us the strength we needed to complete the run full tilt into the water. George and Michaels had already launched the canoe and were standing offshore about ten feet. Wallace and I both paused to duck under the surface to douse our scorched clothing. The air close to the surface was almost clear of smoke, and I crouched neck-deep when I came up, filling my aching lungs with cool air.

I looked around for Sam. He was up to his knees in the water, whining gently. He had outrun the fire and patrolled the water's edge, combining duty with survival. Now he waited for his next command. I called him to me, and he swam out while George brought the canoe broadside to us. I hoisted Sam in, and he curled down in the middle, still keening low in his throat, worried by the fire, wondering if I'd got the message yet.

"Pull back to paddle depth," I shouted, and George dug into the water, bringing the canoe in to where the water was three feet deep, where he and Michaels could reach bottom and balance the craft while Wallace and I got in. I held it for Wallace, who still couldn't use his right hand, then said, "Hold on tight, George. I'm coming in." He and Michaels strained down on their paddles, and I leaped high in the water and sprawled as far across the canoe as I could, trying to keep my weight central. It rocked and shipped water, but I curled myself in without sinking us.

"Pull," George said, and he and Michaels dug into the water and dragged us away from the shore, slowly, with the canoe down to its gunwales in the water, overloaded to its absolute limit.

There was no chance to pick up speed. We inched out, the veins standing out on Michaels's neck, his paddle blade almost bending as if the water itself were as thick as mud. I didn't move. We were out of immediate danger now. We could choke in the smoke that lay like cream across the surface of the water, but we would not burn. My trying to paddle with my hands would only tip the canoe, so instead, I eased my handkerchief out of my pocket and soaked it in the water in the bottom of the canoe, pressing it over my mouth and nose. Sam was panting, his mouth open, tongue lolling. There was no way to make him a smoke mask, so I reached my free hand out and patted him gently, telling him, "Easy," over and over to soothe him.

After a minute or so the water began to get choppy as the wind, sucked up and reinforced by the fire, swirled at the surface of the lake. "Hold it here," George shouted, and Michaels stopped paddling. He and the others took off their caps and soaked them, covering their mouths and noses as I had done. I noticed that Wallace's right hand was still dripping blood, and then, as he moved his left hand to resoak his hat, I saw that he was missing the last two fingers on his right. George's bullet had hit his hand where it curled around the trigger guard. In a weird way I was glad that Wallace had not lost his trigger finger. I didn't like the man, and he would have killed me, but the only trade he had was fighting. A worse injury to his hand would have been as bad to him as a wheelchair would be to me. I felt sorry for him, but glad he could still work, just as long as he practiced his craft somewhere else, far away.

We sat there isolated in our slopping canoe, scooping handfuls of water to our mouths as the hot, dry smoke coiled past us, thicker and thicker, searing our throats, making our eyes burn and run with tears. We were distressed, but we were safe from the fire and from Dunphy's men. They would have to wait until the bush cooled before they could carry their inflatable boat over the portage and search for us on the lake. When that happened, we would be in deep trouble. All our natural cover would be gone. George and I on our own could have escaped, rolling in the ashes until we were camouflaged so well the men would have had to step on us before they saw us. But with Wallace and Michaels we were vulnerable, and I wasn't counting on any mercy if Dunphy caught me.

I wanted to question George. I wanted to know how he had found me. How did he happen to be in the right place at the right time to save me? How did he plan to get us out? I needed answers before the fire burned past us and we had to hide from Dunphy's men. But as the smoke swirled about us, I needed oxygen more, so I concentrated on breathing through my handkerchief and soothing Sam, who was sneezing and panting in the smoke. Wallace had a field dressing in his pocket, and after a while he pulled it out and tried to wrap his injured hand, working clumsily with his left. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned and swore at me but gave up and let me wrap the wound, tugging the dressing as tight as it would go.

The sky darkened over us as the fire spread down both shores of the lake we were on. And the wind picked up, growing stronger as the fire spread. I glanced at George, and he nodded, understanding without words. Yes, we were catching the wind. Yes, we were floating toward the south shore of the lake. More water splashed into the canoe. I didn't panic. It had flotation chambers in bow and stern. Even if it sank it would support us all in the water. I sat and worked at bailing, splashing as much water as I could back out of the hull and downwind.

At some point I checked my watch. It was seven thirty. In Toronto people would be kissing one another good-bye and leaving for the office. Disc jockeys would be reporting on traffic tie-ups and making jokes. And here enough lumber to build a small town was turning to ash while every creature in the bush burrowed down or ran through the treetops to avoid the killing flames as we sat in our swamped canoe and waited for a chance to go ashore and survive.

To pass the time, I took out the dog biscuits I had packed into my breast pockets. They were damp and softened from the ducking I'd taken, but I handed them around, and we gnawed between gasps of air. Sam got his share, gratefully. Wallace took his with a sneer. A soldier's life, dog food and pain, but he was old soldier enough to eat while he had the chance.

It must have been nine o'clock when the smoke started to thin. It was as if someone had unfastened the flap of a tent. The gray light that had hurt us for so long, filling our eyes with tears, began to brighten. One by one we took the wet cloths down from our faces and breathed the cleaner air.

"It's passed us," George said.

"Okay. Do you have a rendezvous with the aircraft, what?"

"Yes. Tomorrow morning on this lake. The time you set up."

"That's going to be too late," I whispered. "The rest of these guys will be down here by this afternoon. We have to get away."

His face was streaked with ash and soot like a child's attempt to draw war paint. He ignored it, speaking hoarsely. "There's nowhere to go, Reid. We can't hide on this lake."

As he spoke, a gust of wind scooped a hole in the last of the smoke, revealing the shoreline to our west. He was right. A few trunks were standing, smoldering, trailing smoke downwind, but all of the ground cover was burned away. We would stand out like targets if we went ashore. And we still had twenty-four hours to put in before we could escape.