War by Peter Lerangis

…”
    “Weymouth’ll lead them into a trap,” Jake said. “Somewhere.”
    Edmonds sprang upward and leaped over the stone wall. “ABANDON YOUR POSTS! FOLLOW THEM!”
    “Jake, you’re a genius!” Samuelson said, leaping up.
    “What are you doing?” Jake said. “You were shot!”
    “Never felt better!” Samuelson grabbed Jake by the arm.
    The two of them ran after Edmonds.
    A shot rang out. The ground erupted inches in front of them.
    The open field.
    Suicide.
    THINK.
    DON’T DIE.
    Take cover along the way. Anywhere.
    Jake made a break for the supply cabin. “Come on!” he called over his shoulder.
    “NO! NOT THERE!”
    Samuelson grabbed Jake from behind, flung him to the ground, and dove on top of him.
    BOOOOOM!
    The cabin erupted in a ball of fire.
    Jake scrambled away, staring aghast at the flames.
    He hadn’t seen the cannonball.
    Thank god Samuelson did.
    “Come on!” Samuelson was yanking him upward.
    He ran toward the V formation. Jake followed close behind.
    Open field again.
    “Go exactly where I go!” Samuelson cried out.
    Jake didn’t question.
    Zig left.
    Clods of dirt shot up from the ground to the right.
    Zag right.
    To their left, bullets shredded an empty tent.
    My flesh, that could have been my chest, my arm, my face —
    Some of Edmonds’s men were charging forward, running flat out, on foot and on horses, pausing only to shoot toward the ridge.
    Where are the rest of them?
    Jake glanced over his shoulder. Toward the stone wall.
    There they were. Mutineers. Doubters.
    WHAAAAAAM!
    The wall burst upward in a sudden geyser of rock, dirt, and smoke.
    No.
    Jake’s heart skipped.
    Dead.
    All of them.
    I would have been, too. And Samuelson. And Sergeant Edmonds.
    If I hadn’t convinced them.
    “MOVE, BRANFORD!” Edmonds shouted.
    Jake turned toward the woods.
    Just ahead of them now, the last of Weymouth’s V formation was climbing the hill.
    Edmonds fired into the air. “Stop there!” he yelled.
    Weymouth’s men turned, muskets at the ready.
    Expecting Rebels.
    Their faces registered surprise. Disbelief.
    Weymouth locked eyes with Edmonds.
    “THE COLONEL IS A TRAITOR!” Edmonds announced.
    Weymouth’s face turned crimson. His upper lip curled back in anger. “Shoot to kill!” he commanded.
    His soldiers gripped their guns. But no one fired.
    “SHOOT, I SAY!” Weymouth roared.
    Crrrack!
    A flash of light.
    The man to Jake’s left vaulted off the ground. He fell in a motionless heap, his chest a red, wet mass of shredded material.
    Oh no oh no no no NO NO
    “GET DOWN!” Edmonds yelled.
    Hide.
    Jake dived. Rolled behind a tree. Curled up.
    CRRRACK!
    A body thumped to the ground beside him. Writhing. Kicking. Shrieking.
    Edmonds.
    “SERGEA-A-A-NT!” Jake cried.
    “Chhh— gk — ” Edmonds was trying to say something. His eyes were desperate, pleading.
    Stop STOP STOP— DIE. PLEASE.
    With a sudden choking sound, Edmonds went still.
    Eyes still open. Still staring at Jake.
    Jake heaved and puked. Without feeling much of anything.
    Run.
    His body was acting on its own now. His brain was separating. Deadening. He was fleeing. Through the woods.
    Past a man who was bent over a tree.
    Past Mrs. Stoughton, who was firing a pistol.
    Past Weymouth’s men fighting Edmonds’s. Weymouth’s fighting Weymouth’s. A civil war within a civil war within a civil war.
    The smell of gunpowder seared his lungs. The splinters from bullet-riddled trees nested in his hair.
    And none of it meant a thing.
    His musket was long gone. Dropped somewhere by the destroyed supply cabin.
    But he had no desire to use it.
    Killing didn’t matter how.
    Nothing mattered.
    Nothing but his life.
    There.
    An opening.
    He veered toward a clearing. A barely detectable path through the undergrowth.
    “NO! NOT THAT WAY!” cried a voice behind him.
    Don’t listen.
    In the distance, maybe fifty yards away, an object.
    A building.
    Yes. Go. Hide.
    “STOP THERE OR YOU’RE DEAD!”
    It was Weymouth’s