The Remaining: Refugees (68 page)

No, I’m fucking alive.

I’m ALIVE!

He felt exultant, but the feeling was quickly clouded over by pain and more confusing thoughts
,
like the impact of the glancing bullet-strike on his skull had rearranged some wires inside his head and now thing
s
were not processing correctly.

Weapon,
he repeated in his mind.

The only weapon he had was his Ka-Bar.

He ripped it from its sheath and held it firmly in his right hand.

The dog at his side continued to bark ferociously at the darkening woods. The sun was setting, dusk was
taking over. It was cold. Soon
it would be dark, and it would be even colder. He had no food, no water, no shelter, and he was unsure how long his body would hold out. He was unsure how much damage the round had done to his head. He knew other soldiers that had caught rounds to the head and survived. Some of them were normal. Others had trouble speaking. Some were paraplegics.

As though testing that last theory, he rolled onto his hands and knees and with some effort pulled one of his feet underneath him.
Everything hurt. Excruciatingly
.

At least I can move.

I can move, and I have a knife.

He took a deep breath to steady himself.

If you can move, and you have a knife, you can run, and you can fight.

Deuce was backing away from the wood
line, nearly in a panic.

They were close now.

It was time to run.

END OF BOOK THREE

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Book Four is in progress…