Late Nineteenth Century
French Congo
Running. There was nothing else but the rhythm of her steps. Nothing else mattered, only her destination, she had to tell the others.
She sensed, rather than saw, the movement ahead and to her right. She knew it was the enemy, her body began reacting before she made a conscious decision. Leaping forward, she tucked her head under her, somersaulting into a neat roll. She felt the air rip where her head had just been as the bullet tore its way through the trees. Knowing that there were two of the men, she slammed her bare feet into the dark (almost red) earth. A second bullet whirred by mere inches away, occupying the space where she would have been. Without hesitating Grace drove directly for the small clearing where she knew the men must be. At full stride, she’d be in and out of the glade in less than five paces. Although the men had powerful rifles they were slow, clumsy and exhausted. Now visible, the astonishment on their faces morphed to anger as she closed on them. Both were working the bolt action levers on their rifles, jamming fresh rounds into the chambers. They stood too close to one another, an advantage her reflexes were already utilizing. Springing forward, Grace slapped the man on the left hard across the face. As he reacted, she kicked at the inside knee of the man on the right, buckling it painfully before pushing hard for the other side of the clearing. Without looking Grace knew what was happening behind her. The slap surprised the first man, causing him to wait an extra moment before bringing his gun up. Kicking the second man forced him to fall inward, partially obscuring the line of sight of the first man. As Grace sprinted through the brush, she heard the bullet snap through the leaves above and to her left. Exactly as she planned.
Nothing would stop her, not even their enemy.
She looked to her left, the dark brown river flowed there, her guide and her friend. Always true, the swiftly moving water never failed her. A slight smile passed her lips as she noticed the branches from a downed tree idly trailing through the water. As a small girl, she and her friends spent hours playing in its shadow. She was close now, just a little further.
To an outsider, the jungle seemed a living, seething mass. An almost impenetrable wall, one that must be hacked away as it sought to pull you down into its fetid belly. But not Grace. The land, her land, supported her. It alternatively pushed and pulled her when she needed it. It quieted her footfalls, allowing her to pass undetected. It opened itself to her, the hidden trails of her childhood came back to her feet like the fresh memory of a wonderful dream. She moved effortlessly through the openings in the bush, nothing stopped her.