Leo
The stunned silence in the barracks fractured as Miller's fist slammed onto a nearby table, the makeshift wood groaning under the impact. "We help him." His voice was low and gravelly, the grief for Luke hardening into a steely resolve. Jomo nodded, his gaze unwavering as he met Leo's. "Gegwe deserved what he got. Luke… Luke would have wanted justice." Elara, her face still wet with tears, echoed their sentiment, her voice trembling but firm. "We owe Luke this. We owe Leo."
A palpable shift occurred in the small room. The air, thick with sorrow moments before, now crackled with a desperate energy, a shared purpose forged in grief and loyalty. There was no debate, no hesitation. Their bond with Luke, forged in years of shared hardship and unwavering trust, extended now to the man who had avenged him.
Hushed whispers filled the barracks as they began to formulate a plan, their movements quick and efficient despite the lingering exhaustion from the previous night. Grief was a raw wound, but the immediate danger facing Leo spurred them into action. They huddled together, their faces grim, their voices low, the urgent wail of the sirens outside a constant reminder of the ticking clock.
"The border," Miller murmured, his brow furrowed in concentration. "The west side. Patrols are usually lighter there, especially after the attack. They'll likely focus on the main roads."
Jomo nodded, his fingers tracing patterns on a dusty map salvaged from the command center. "There are some old drainage tunnels that run near the perimeter wall on the west. Risky, but less likely to be watched."
Elara, her eyes sharp and focused despite her earlier tears, added, "We can create a diversion near the south gate. A staged argument, maybe even a small fire. Something to draw their attention."
Leo watched them, a knot of guilt tightening in his chest. These were good people, risking everything for him. He opened his mouth to protest, to suggest he go it alone, but Miller cut him off, his gaze firm. "Luke wouldn't have left one of his own behind, Leo. Neither will we." The simple conviction in his voice silenced Leo's objections. He was no longer just avenging Luke; he was now the responsibility of those who had loved him. The price of their loyalty was a risk they were willing to pay.
The barracks transformed into a hive of quiet, urgent activity. Miller, his grief momentarily channeled into decisive action, barked hushed orders. Jomo, his knowledge of Willowborough's underbelly proving invaluable, began gathering essential supplies. Elara, her earlier despair replaced by a focused intensity, coordinated the diversionary tactics.
From hidden caches and personal stashes, they produced what little they had to aid Leo's escape. A worn leather satchel was unearthed, stuffed with dried rations – strips of biltong, a handful of hard tack biscuits. A dented canteen was filled with water from a well hidden within the barracks compound. Jomo produced a length of sturdy rope and a small, rusty grappling hook, relics from his scavenging days.
Weapons were a more delicate matter. Their own were mostly standard-issue rifles, too conspicuous for a clandestine escape. Miller quietly pressed Shade's tactical knives back into Leo's hand, their cold steel a grim reminder of the night's violence. "These are silent," he murmured, his gaze meeting Leo's. "Use them only if you have to."
Elara, meanwhile, was sketching a rough map of the western perimeter on a scrap of salvaged parchment, marking the approximate locations of guard posts and the rumored entrance to the drainage tunnels Jomo had mentioned. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she recalled details from their defensive deployments during the anarchist attack.
Whispers filled the room as they discussed the timing and execution of the diversion. It needed to be significant enough to draw attention but not so large as to trigger a full lockdown of the settlement. They decided on a staged argument near the south gate, escalating into a small, controlled fire using some scavenged oil and debris. Jomo and one of the younger members, Silas, volunteered for the task, their faces grim with determination.
As they worked, a fragile sense of camaraderie filled the room, a shared purpose in the face of loss and danger. They were risking their own safety, their own futures, for Leo, for Luke's memory, for a sense of justice that the official channels would surely deny them. The weight of their loyalty hung heavy in the air, a silent testament to the bond they had shared with their fallen leader. The rising sun cast long shadows through the cracks in the walls, a stark reminder that time was running out. The hunt for Sean Gegwe's killer was surely intensifying with each passing moment.
Jomo
The usual hum of Willowborough's early market – the insistent calls of vendors hawking their wares, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the laughter of children – provided a fragile screen for the tense departure of Jomo and Silas. Beneath their worn cloaks, a shared anxiety tightened their shoulders as they headed towards the south gate.
Reaching the bustling area, Jomo scanned for the right location – a spot visible enough to draw attention but removed from the direct scrutiny of the guards. He settled on a space near a cluster of vibrant cloth stalls, where petty squabbles over prices were common.
Taking a theatrical breath, Jomo's voice, laced with a convincing jealousy, boomed across the market. "Get away from her, Silas! I saw you talking to her again!" His accusations, though vague, were delivered with a possessive fury that snagged the ears of nearby shoppers. He pointed a dramatic finger at Silas, his eyes narrowed in feigned anger.
Silas, feigning wounded innocence, stammered a reply. "I wasn't doing anything, Jomo! We were just… talking about the price of beads!" He shifted his weight nervously, casting furtive glances towards a particular stall where a young woman with bright, woven braids was arranging her goods.
The argument escalated quickly, Jomo's voice rising with each fabricated accusation of Silas's wandering eyes and supposed attempts to court his (fictitious) woman. A small crowd began to gather, drawn by the timeless drama of a lovers' spat. Women tutted and exchanged knowing glances, while men leaned against stalls, offering unsolicited advice and enjoying the spectacle.
Amidst the escalating drama, Silas subtly positioned himself near a pile of discarded, dry rushes that a nearby basket weaver had swept aside. With a well-timed, clumsy stumble, orchestrated with a nervous glance towards the (imaginary) object of their affections, Silas knocked over a small oil lamp that Jomo had discreetly placed amongst the rushes.
The lamp shattered, spilling its flammable contents over the dry material. A collective gasp went up from the onlookers as the pungent smell of oil filled the air. Before anyone could react, Jomo produced a hidden ember, carefully nursed in a small, lidded clay pot. With a swift movement, he exposed the glowing coal to the oil-soaked rushes. A sudden flare of orange ignited the dry material, sending a plume of thick, black smoke billowing upwards, drawing the immediate and undivided attention of the guards at the south gate, their heads swiveling towards the unexpected blaze. The diversion, fueled by jealousy and a spilled lamp, had begun, its chaotic energy masking the silent, urgent departure on the opposite side of Willowborough.
The western perimeter of Willowborough was a less fortified stretch, a natural boundary where the settlement met the encroaching wilderness. A rickety wooden fence, more symbolic than truly defensive, marked the edge of their control. Beyond it lay a tangled expanse of scrubland and rocky outcrops.
Elara led Leo and Miller towards a section where the fence had partially collapsed, overgrown with thorny vines. According to Jomo's hastily drawn map and Elara's recollection of patrol patterns, this was a blind spot, less frequently monitored. However, the increased activity following Gegwe's murder and the ongoing siren calls added an unpredictable element to their gamble.
As they approached the weakened fence, the sounds of Willowborough faded slightly, replaced by the rustling of leaves in the light breeze and the distant chirping of birds. The air felt different here, carrying the raw, untamed scent of the wilderness. A palpable tension hung in the air, thick with the anticipation of exposure and the potential for a desperate confrontation.
Elara scouted ahead, her movements fluid and silent, disappearing briefly into the dense undergrowth before signaling them forward. They moved quickly but cautiously, stepping over fallen timbers and ducking beneath thorny branches.
Suddenly, a shout echoed in the distance, carried on the morning air. It was too far to discern the words, but the urgency in the tone sent a jolt of adrenaline through them. Someone had spotted something.
"Hurry," Elara hissed, urging Leo forward. She pointed towards a narrow gap in the fence, almost completely concealed by a thick curtain of vines. "This is it. The drainage tunnel entrance is just beyond."
As Leo squeezed through the narrow opening, the rough wood scraping against his borrowed clothes, Miller positioned himself at the gap, his rifle raised, scanning their back trail. He was their rearguard, the shield against any immediate pursuit.
The air beyond the fence was cooler, the ground uneven and rocky. Elara pointed towards a dark, circular opening concealed amongst the roots of a large acacia tree – the entrance to the drainage tunnel. The stench of damp earth and stagnant water wafted from within.
Just as Leo reached the opening, another shout, closer this time, pierced the air, followed by the distinct sound of running footsteps. Their time had run out. "Go!" Miller urged, his voice tight with urgency. "We'll cover you."
Without hesitation, Leo plunged into the darkness of the tunnel, the sounds of his allies bracing for a potential confrontation fading behind him. The wilderness, his intended path, now loomed before him, a dark and uncertain sanctuary.
The air inside the drainage tunnel was thick with the cloying stench of stagnant water and damp earth, the darkness broken only by the faint sliver of light receding behind Leo. He moved quickly, his hands scraping against the rough, slimy walls, the sounds of pursuit from Willowborough growing fainter with each step.
After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel opened into a dense thicket of thorny scrubland. He emerged, blinking against the relatively brighter light of midday filtering through the leaves. The sounds of Willowborough were now a distant hum, replaced by the chirping of insects and the rustling of unseen creatures in the undergrowth.
He risked a glance back towards the tunnel entrance, but it was quickly swallowed by the dense foliage. He knew Elara and Miller had bought him precious time, their bravery a shield against the immediate threat. A wave of guilt washed over him, a sharp pang of sorrow for the friends who had risked everything. He had offered them nothing but danger, yet they had given him a chance at freedom. He would not forget their sacrifice.
Turning his back on the fading sounds of the settlement, Leo faced the vast, untamed expanse of the Zimbabwean wilderness. The landscape stretched before him, a tapestry of rocky outcrops, thorny acacia trees, and tall, dry grasses swaying in the gentle breeze. The air here was different – raw, untainted by the smells of human habitation, carrying the promise of both freedom and peril.
His immediate needs pressed upon him: water, shelter, a safe path. His hypercognition, no longer focused on evasion within the confines of Willowborough, began to analyse the terrain, searching for telltale signs of water sources, potential hiding places, and the most likely routes to avoid detection.
The weight of Shade's knives at his hip felt both familiar and grim. They were tools of survival now, not just vengeance. His journey into the warzones was no longer a distant ambition; it was a forced necessity. He was alone, stripped of resources and allies, but alive. The wilderness, once a distant waypoint, was now his immediate reality, a harsh and unforgiving teacher. With a deep breath, carrying the weight of his past and the uncertain promise of his future, Leo stepped forward, disappearing into the green and brown labyrinth, the sounds of Willowborough fading behind him like a forgotten nightmare.