because of me you got the gunââ
âWeâll show you the gun!â someone shouted, and then everyone stepped back as one of the men pulled a gun out of his pocket and held it up in the air, where it glinted in the last rays of sunlight.
The man pointed the gun straight at the boy, making everyone else laugh. He stepped forward, pretending to be about to shoot, then lowered the gun at the last minute. He did this two or three times, and the men around himlaughed all the harder as the boy squirmed on the ground in terror.
âEnough games,â the man said, raising the gun yet again. âAnd enough of the Population Police, I say.â
This time he cocked the gun and aimed carefully.
This is real, Luke thought. This is really going to happen.
âNo, donât!â he screamed.
The man with the gun looked up, startled. His eyes searched the darkened woods. And then he aimed the gun at the tree where Luke was hiding and began shooting.
CHAPTER TEN
L uke ran.
Later he wouldnât remember much about the ground he covered, the logs he leaped over, the underbrush he trampled. His mind had no time to record such useless details. He ran with terror urging him on, a voice constantly in his head: Theyâre right behind you. Theyâve got to be. Theyâre about to catch up. Theyâre going to shoot again and this time they wonât miss. There! Did you hear that? What was that? Theyâre about to grab youâ
He didnât turn around and look back. Even a secondâs lack of focus could have slammed him into a tree, snagged his feet on a root. He was so convinced he was about to be captured that he didnât worry about where he was running to âhe just knew he had to get away.
So the sight of the mountain surprised him: The huge rock wall loomed directly in front of him. Automatically he veered to the right, then hesitated. Was thatâ? He saw telltale cracks in the rock, leading down to an opening atthe mountainâs base. He finally dared to slow down and glance over his shoulderâno one was directly behind him. He dived down and slid on his stomach across the rock floor.
Yes. It was a cave.
Luke had no way of knowing if it was the same cave heâd found before. He scuttled back into the darkness and huddled against a rock wall, his entire body shaking, his desperate gasps for breath echoing as loudly as a steam train. He finally captured enough air in his lungs that he could hold his breath for a few seconds and listen. Were those footsteps outside? Was someone even now about to duck down and crawl in after him? Iâd be trapped. Thereâs no escape . . . Luke stared at the thin sliver of gray light coming in through the caveâs opening. No figure moved in to block the light. Maybe Luke hadnât heard footsteps. Maybe heâd been tricked by the sound of his own pulse beating in his ears.
His body had more tricks in store for him. His mind kept replaying the scene that heâd witnessed, slowing down for the final frame: the man turning, pointing the gun at Luke. Shooting. Luke tried not to let himself focus on the man and the gun. He kept trying to make himself remember what heâd seen out of the corner of his eye, right before fleeing. There, on the ground. Had the boy been crawling away? Had he slipped out between the menâs legs while they werenât looking? Had he been able to escape?
Oh, please . . .
Luke couldnât even have said why the boyâs life mattered so much to him. The boy had been no friend to Luke. Heâd shared information only because he was scared. Heâd refused to share shelter or food. Why had Luke risked his own life trying to save the other boy?
Isnât it enough that the boy was alive? Isnât that reason enough for me to want him to stay alive?
Luke remembered the boyâs own comment on life and death: âLots of people die who donât deserve