“Are you all right?” Raffa’s voice, from near the fallen hunter.
“Y-yes.” Her body gave a final convulsive heave, then allowed her to lift her head. “I . . . didn’t know you knew how to shoot.”
“My Aunt Katy. She made us learn. Gave prizes.” From the sound of it, Raffa was fighting her own nausea. Bubbles felt shaky and ashamed of herself. She was supposed to be the leader here, and she’d fallen apart. She forced herself to stand, to stumble the few strides in the dark to where Raffa bent over the dying man.
“I thought they died quicker,” she said, trying for the calm tone of earlier. “They do on the action cubes.” The man’s breathing sounded horrible, bubbly and uneven. She was glad she couldn’t see his face.
“Here.” Raffa pushed a set of goggles into her hands. “Now we can both see. And we’ll take his weapons and comunit.” She spoke hurriedly and roughly, her voice slightly shaky. “I saw him, after you started down. I didn’t dare call. . . .”
“Right,” Bubbles said.
“I kept wanting you to go more to the right. Give me space. I was so scared—” For a moment they clung to each other, shaking, wanting to cry but knowing they had no time. “Got to go,” Raffa said finally, pushing away. “They’ll be coming.”
Bubbles stood, staggering a little from the weight added to her original pack. They each had two rifles now, and a needler, and a comunit, and more knives than they could possibly use. If they could get some of this back to Petris . . . but they couldn’t. Quickly, careless for the moment of the noise, they got themselves into the forest below.
Once or twice, in childhood, they had tried skulking around in the woods at night. With torches, of course. They’d given it up, except for raids along the beach, after someone—she couldn’t remember who—had broken an ankle while trying to climb the ridge in a cross-island overnight race. They’d had to call for help, and the adults had been scathing about children who didn’t have enough sense to stay off slippery rocks in the dark. Buttons, the acknowledged boss of the campsites, had forbidden night wandering, and they’d mostly obeyed. Bubbles hadn’t minded, because she preferred to sleep at night rather than nap in the daytime.
Now, with the night goggles on, she was glad of the covering darkness. She could see well enough to avoid hanging creepers, thornbushes, and other hazards; she knew from her time on the open slope that no one without night goggles could see her. Of course the others had them . . . but so did she.
Soon she slowed, and began listening again. She stopped completely for a moment. Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her it was empty. She heard Raffa scrabbling in her knapsack, then a faint metallic rasp and a gurgle. Water. She realized how thirsty she herself was, and took off her own knapsack, trying for silence. Where was the noisy wind when you needed it? The water eased her throat and washed away the foul taste of her nausea. Now she was hungry. She tapped Raffa’s arm, and when she leaned closer murmured to her. “Eat now—while walking.” She could see Raffa’s nod as clearly as if it were daylight.
They had the survival rations from the flitter, tubes of thick goo that tasted of fat, sugar, and salt. Bubbles swallowed half of hers at once, and tucked the rest into her pocket. She started off again more slowly, trying to remember how the land went on this side of the island. How far south were they, and how near was the swamp? Should they start back north, and hope to work into the more rugged terrain along the north shore?
Nothing moved in the woods around them. She remembered, from those childhood visits, flocks of birds and many small animals—lizards, some nonvenomous snakes, land crabs. Once she’d been frightened by a tortoise big enough to sit on; she’d thought it was a shiny brown rock. There was less undergrowth than she remembered, and she found it easy to walk between the trees. The slope flattened beneath her feet; the forest rose higher overhead, and even with night goggles she couldn’t see that much. Whenever she stopped to listen, her legs trembled; she knew they needed to rest.
Raffa tapped her shoulder. Bubbles leaned close to her, and Raffa said, “I think I hear water.”
Bubbles tried to filter out the sigh of the breeze in the leaves . . . yes. A rhythmic rush and silence . . . waves breaking, but gently, in this little wind. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “And they might have someone on the beach—it’s narrow here.” Now which way, south or north? Her mind was clogged by exhaustion and fear. She had started out hoping to find her old hiding place, and then thought of Kell’s cave, wherever that was . . . but now . . . she wished she knew just where they were, and how far it was to someplace else.
“I’d vote north,” Raffa said, as if she’d asked. “Away from their camp.” For a moment Bubbles wanted to protest; they had weapons themselves, now, and night gear. They were as dangerous as the hunters. But they weren’t, really: they were untrained girls, and very tired. Staying as far from the hunters’ camp as possible made sense.
“Good idea,” Bubbles said, and turned right, away from the beach. They walked slowly, as quietly as they could manage, stopping every few minutes to look around them. The walk took on a dreamlike character—the eerie landscape in the night goggles, that looked like something meant to be scary but done on a low budget, the silence, their exhaustion that forced concentration on the simplest movements. When a great tree loomed up that Bubbles remembered from her childhood trips, she moved into the dense shadow of its massive bole and stopped.
“We’ve got to rest,” she said, “while one of us can stay awake to watch. You sleep first.”
“Right.” Raffa’s vague shape folded up to sit against the tree. Bubbles leaned, but did not sit. If she sat, she would sleep. She could not be scared enough to stay awake, not now. She fished the rest of the ration stick out of her pocket and ate it, and drank more water. Her legs ached; the pack straps seemed to burn along her shoulders, but she was afraid to take the pack off. What if they had to run for it?
She realized then that she hadn’t even checked to see if the rifle she carried was loaded. She fumbled at it. It wasn’t exactly like the one she’d been taught to use, and she couldn’t find the little doohickey—it had a name, but she’d never learned it—to release the clip. She found something sticking out of the stock, and pushed it, and a line of red sprang across the space under the tree to another tree trunk. The rifle hummed; desperately she pushed the knob this way and that until it moved and the light disappeared and the hum ceased. She stared around, sure that someone must have seen that red light, but nothing moved and no sound disturbed her. After awhile, her heart quit trying to climb out her mouth, and she tried to think what that had been. Firearms were not her hobby; she had learned to shoot only because of the elphoose hunts. Her father had insisted she must learn.
Red light. A hum. Red light made her think of the vidcams in the drama department . . . range finders . . . so it might be a range finder. And the hum . . . like the hum of the automatic focus adjustments. She felt carefully along the entire stock. A tiny flap covered a socket—pins inside—a connection for some computer attachment? She found three more buttons or knobs, and left them alone. The scope . . . she lifted the rifle to her shoulder and tried to peer through it, but the goggles interfered. After a quick look around, she slipped them off and looked through the scope. It gave a brighter image than the goggles, in crisp grays rather than smudged greenish yellow. Her finger found knobs on the scope, too. . . . She left them alone, and put her goggles back on.