To Be A Champion

Chapter 38: Dangerous Type

"The skincoats will try to stop us." Morag's voice shakes. "They're everywhere."

Tom's brows pucker in thought. "I don't suppose you made any copies of the Edda? Just in case we don't make it to the beach?"

Disappointingly, she shakes her head. "I know you don't believe me, but it wouldnae have been a good idea to think about the Edda even a little bit. Lachlan was right. The skincoats know what people are thinking on this island. Once you've had the dreams of the redness, of the skincoats, you're part of it, too. He always drank glacial meltwater. Said that kept the dreams at bay."

He hums. "Sounds typical of him. How long have you had the Edda?"

"Lachlan pushed it through my door with a note right before the zombies invaded the island."

"When he realized he was dying," Sam breathes out, and she nods.

"Aye. The note said to keep the Edda away from the skincoats." She gasps at the sound of a gunshot, cracking through the air so loudly it's almost painful.

I whip my gaze around, my grip on my pistol tightening. My knuckles are white as I search. I see nothing.

A bullet flies past me, just barely missing my side. The bullet would have gone through my heart if I'd been only a step to the right.

"Sam, do you have a visual?" Tom asks tensely.

"Ugh, no, can't see them. Keep your heads down and run as fast as you can."

Despite his words, I keep my gaze upwards, constantly looking for a flash of gray, even if it's just for a second. Because that's at least something. I may be able to fire.

My thinking is irrational, I realize as another bullet whizzes by. This time it nearly wings Morag. She gives a terrified little squeak, chestnut-colored eyes going wide with terror.

They know this island better than I do. Better than I ever will. I'll never be able to find and shoot them from where they are. If they get close enough that I can shoot, they'll be close enough to hit us lethally.

Although, this skincoat seems to have a less than impressive aim. I wouldn't think they'd want to miss us, but no bullets have hit, not even to give us flesh wounds.

After ascertaining this, I place my pistol back into its holster on my hip, my thoughts grating as we run along the cliff path. The rocks are sharp, jagged, and uneven, and the path itself is just wide enough for us to run at a steady pace. Looking down at my feet, I can see the beach below and the ocean that crashes against the cliffside.

My heartbeat quickens in my chest.

It beats even faster when the path, wet from mist that sprays up from the ocean waves crashing into the cliffs, becomes slippery the farther we go down. Each step is pure agony, my mind screaming to stop looking down, but I cannot tear my gaze away.

My lungs burn, and there's salt on my tongue, in my eyes. I'm not yet fearful enough to the point of tears, but I know my already pale skin has lost all its color.

Looking down, I spot bits below where sand and rock collect, creating mini shorelines. I think falling onto those little spots would be just as bad as falling into the ocean below. I can only imagine the damage it would cause.

"I see the shooter!" Sam shouts, and my eyes widen. "On your tail, chasing you down the cliff path!"

I start to turn, grabbing my pistol again and gripping it tightly with both hands, trying to see if I can find them.

"Eyes ahead!" Tom barks, and I flinch at his harshness. To my dismay, I see that he's right in his order. I'm at the front, and with Tom and Morag both being taller than me—Morag by a little, Tom by a lot—I have no way of being able to aim at the skincoat and having a chance at landing a hit.