voice.
Right behind him.
Jake stopped.
And turned.
And froze.
Weymouth stood a few yards away. Glaring at Jake down the barrel of a musket. “We were so close to escape … so close.”
Over. Done. The end.
Jake put his hands in the air. “You win,” he said. “That’s how this ends. You escape and no one ever finds out about you. I know.”
Weymouth faltered a moment. Lowered the gun.
And in that moment, it all became clear to Jake. Weymouth the commander, Weymouth the powerful, was nothing. A blot in a history book, no more, no less.
“The funny thing is,” Jake went on, “in the end, the battle means nothing. The war ends, and guess what? Your side loses anyway, Colonel. So everything you’ve done — the stolen plan, the escape, the deaths you just caused — what was the point?”
“No, my boy.” Weymouth’s face flushed. His eyes narrowed. “No one would have died just now if you had shut your mouth. Tactical error, soldier. A fatal one.”
He raised the gun. Took aim.
“Wait,” Jake said, backing away. “WAIT!”
Weymouth cocked the gun.
And fired.
14
“A AAAGH!
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. Toward the base of the mountain.
Away from the voices. Away from the madness and the killing and the blood and the guilt —
Jake lurched downward.
Something was wrapped around his ankle.
He sprawled on the ground. Spun around. Sat up.
Reached down.
It wasn’t a root.
It was long and black. Plastic.
A cable.
What the — ?
No time to think.
He could see them out of the corner of his eye.
Advancing through the woods toward him.
Weymouth. Soldiers. Mrs. Stoughton.
Go!
Jake stood up and ran.
The ankle throbbed. But it wasn’t broken.
Ignore it.
Just. Go.
A voice was shouting something behind him.
Loud. Unnaturally loud. Magnified.
The echo of the mountain.
Jake began to climb. He planted his left foot and pulled himself upward on a branch. Then his right —
“OWWW!”
The ankle buckled. Jake fell.
He couldn’t move.
Pain shot through him. Sharp. Blinding.
They were coming nearer now.
Weymouth was running up the mountainside. Panting.
This is it.
Death.
A century and a quarter before your own birth.
And you can’t do a thing about it.
What was the point, Jake?
Was this what you wanted?
The fighting, the blood, the death — was this the feeling?
Was it?
He gritted his teeth. Turned away.
“Hello?” Weymouth said. “Didn’t you hear what he said?”
Jake peeked. Weymouth was giving him a peculiar look. His gun was at his side. He turned briefly and waved the other men off.
“What — who — ?” Jake stammered.
“Didn’t you hear Mr. Kozaar? Through the loudspeaker?” Weymouth asked. “He yelled ‘Cut!’”
Found him .
15
C UT?
Behind Colonel Weymouth, soldiers were now crowding the woods. Some were staring quizzically at Jake.
Others were cleaning their muskets.
Stretching. Laughing.
Cut?
In the distance, two familiar figures emerged from
Right behind him.
Jake stopped.
And turned.
And froze.
Weymouth stood a few yards away. Glaring at Jake down the barrel of a musket. “We were so close to escape … so close.”
Over. Done. The end.
Jake put his hands in the air. “You win,” he said. “That’s how this ends. You escape and no one ever finds out about you. I know.”
Weymouth faltered a moment. Lowered the gun.
And in that moment, it all became clear to Jake. Weymouth the commander, Weymouth the powerful, was nothing. A blot in a history book, no more, no less.
“The funny thing is,” Jake went on, “in the end, the battle means nothing. The war ends, and guess what? Your side loses anyway, Colonel. So everything you’ve done — the stolen plan, the escape, the deaths you just caused — what was the point?”
“No, my boy.” Weymouth’s face flushed. His eyes narrowed. “No one would have died just now if you had shut your mouth. Tactical error, soldier. A fatal one.”
He raised the gun. Took aim.
“Wait,” Jake said, backing away. “WAIT!”
Weymouth cocked the gun.
And fired.
14
“A AAAGH!
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. Toward the base of the mountain.
Away from the voices. Away from the madness and the killing and the blood and the guilt —
Jake lurched downward.
Something was wrapped around his ankle.
He sprawled on the ground. Spun around. Sat up.
Reached down.
It wasn’t a root.
It was long and black. Plastic.
A cable.
What the — ?
No time to think.
He could see them out of the corner of his eye.
Advancing through the woods toward him.
Weymouth. Soldiers. Mrs. Stoughton.
Go!
Jake stood up and ran.
The ankle throbbed. But it wasn’t broken.
Ignore it.
Just. Go.
A voice was shouting something behind him.
Loud. Unnaturally loud. Magnified.
The echo of the mountain.
Jake began to climb. He planted his left foot and pulled himself upward on a branch. Then his right —
“OWWW!”
The ankle buckled. Jake fell.
He couldn’t move.
Pain shot through him. Sharp. Blinding.
They were coming nearer now.
Weymouth was running up the mountainside. Panting.
This is it.
Death.
A century and a quarter before your own birth.
And you can’t do a thing about it.
What was the point, Jake?
Was this what you wanted?
The fighting, the blood, the death — was this the feeling?
Was it?
He gritted his teeth. Turned away.
“Hello?” Weymouth said. “Didn’t you hear what he said?”
Jake peeked. Weymouth was giving him a peculiar look. His gun was at his side. He turned briefly and waved the other men off.
“What — who — ?” Jake stammered.
“Didn’t you hear Mr. Kozaar? Through the loudspeaker?” Weymouth asked. “He yelled ‘Cut!’”
Found him .
15
C UT?
Behind Colonel Weymouth, soldiers were now crowding the woods. Some were staring quizzically at Jake.
Others were cleaning their muskets.
Stretching. Laughing.
Cut?
In the distance, two familiar figures emerged from
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