THIRTY

THE RAIN CAME again as storm clouds blocked out the moon, casting the already shaded jungle floor in absolute darkness. The downpour pelted the jungle canopy with more water every ten minutes than Los Angeles received in an average year. Rainwater pooled in the largest leaves at the highest points of the canopy, then spilled down, joining other streams of water, until it fell to the jungle floor as small waterfalls. The hiss and splash of water falling from above blocked any noise Queen made as she backtracked toward the VPLA camp.

But the sharp voices of the Death Volunteers pursuing them cut through the din. As did their flashlights.

Easy targets.

In the confusion of the mortar attack and their haste to chase down their escaped prisoners, the soldiers were forgetting nighttime strategies. Stay quiet. Stay dark. Strike hard. Queen, on the other hand, recited the mantra in her head as she climbed up a tree and mounted a branch.

A cascade of water fell from above, splashing over Queen’s head and spraying out around her body. Even if one of the VPLA soldiers thought to point his flashlight up, which they had yet to do, the water would obscure her shape. The cool water stung her blistered skin as rivulets followed the course set by the raised and ruined flesh at the center of her forehead. She could feel the star-and-skull brand throb in time with her quickening pulse—a reminder of what had been done to her. Forgetting wasn’t an option. Never would be. She would see the torture-stain every time she looked in the mirror. She wouldn’t fret upon seeing it. She wouldn’t cry for her ruined good looks. She would use it. She would become it. Not a death volunteer. Death incarnate. She drank in the pain as the cool water caused the burnt flesh to contract.

It fueled her.

The men moved through the jungle, using their flashlights to follow King and Pawn’s escape route. But the wet jungle floor made their footing unsure. Queen counted the flashlights. Four. She felt for the weapons she’d taken from the tent.

The ice pick. The hook. The branding iron.

She dropped the ice pick and hook to the jungle floor. The implement of her torture would be her weapon. The dropped items would serve a different purpose.

Queen waited.

The men approached, almost at a run.

Then a flashlight glinted on metal. The men stopped, bent, and inspected the ice pick.

Queen descended.

She brought the branding iron down on the man standing behind the others that were crouching. He didn’t see her coming, and his consciousness barely registered his death. The wet splat of the man’s body hitting sodden soil couldn’t be heard over the torrent of water falling from above.

She rounded on the other three men like a lion, roaring as she dove into them, swinging the brand like a sword, aiming for their foreheads, leaving a brand of her own, in blood. The men were well trained, but her ferocity made them shout and cringe. For a moment she wondered if they thought she was one of the creatures waging war against their camp. She could hear them in the distance, hooting like savages. But before she had time to ask, all three men were dead, bloody star-and-skull brands beaten into their skulls.

Queen collected their flashlights and firearms, hiding them behind the tree. She would collect them later, but the rest of her vengeance would be carried out using only the brand. Leaving the weapons and dead men behind, Queen set out for the camp.

Staying low, she emerged from the jungle into the dull glow of the burning camp. Her blond hair hung around her shoulders, matted with water and blood. The star-and-skull wound on her forehead shone red in contrast to her wet, white skin. She took in the chaos of the camp, looking for her target.

The VPLA fired into the forest at the other end of the camp. Mortars occasionally exploded in and around the camp, claiming more trees than soldiers, but the shouting and rapid gunfire revealed the enemy’s approach. Her chance to strike, perhaps her only chance, was now.

She broke from the jungle and ran past one of the burning tents. As she rounded the tent into the camp proper, she wound up and clubbed a VPLA soldier in the back of the head. He landed facedown in the mud, unmoving. Queen shook a hair-covered chunk of flesh out of the brand and ran across the camp, clubbing soldiers from behind as she moved. They were so distracted by the booming battle being waged between their compatriots and some unseen, but very loud force, they never thought to look behind them. It wasn’t a noble attack, but when the odds are against you, fight dirty. Better to lose face than your head. And she felt no guilt about slaughtering the lot of them. Not after what they’d done to her.

Queen stopped in the center of the camp. Five soldiers lay dead in her wake. Then she saw him. Trung. He stood near the front lines. A brave soldier. Shouting orders, working things out. No doubt defeating his enemy.

Flamethrowers lit up the forest beyond, followed by inhuman shrieks, confirming the turn of events.

Not if I can help it, Queen thought.

She charged, heading straight for Trung. He stood between two men, who repeated his orders to the others fighting in the jungle. The two soldiers would go first, then the major general. She would do him special.

A mortar exploded behind Queen. The shock wave nearly knocked her over, but she remained upright and moving. But Trung had glanced in her direction and saw her coming. He shouted to the men standing next to him. Queen hurled the branding iron, striking one man in the face. As the other brought his weapon up, Queen dove, rolled, and came up with a fistful of mud. She launched the mud into the man’s face and dove left as he fired.

Pockets of mud exploded as the bullets ripped through the earth at Queen’s feet. Leaping up, she shot the heel of her hand into the nose of the muddied soldier, shattering his face and sending bone fragments into his brain, killing him. Blood sprayed from the man’s ruined face and coated Queen’s. She looked for Trung, but the camp was now empty. Gunfire faded in the distance.

The VPLA had fled.

The soldier knocked down by the branding iron grasped her ankle. Queen shouted and kicked him in the throat. The man flopped over like a dying fish, gurgling for breath. She bent down and picked up the branding iron. It wouldn’t go to waste. She clubbed the man’s head once, putting him out of his misery. An act of mercy. More than they would have done for her.

Through the hiss of rain, Queen heard shouts and wet footfalls. She turned back toward the camp and found twenty terrified regular VPA soldiers staring at her. Queen stepped into the clearing, hair in clumps, face coated in blood, branding iron in hand, and seven dead VPLA Death Volunteers lying behind her on the ground bearing bloody brands matching the one on her forehead.

The men lowered their weapons and stepped back, their faces showing a terror that only comes upon seeing the supernatural. To them, Queen appeared as a vengeful spirit. The dead returned in search of reprisal.

They neither ran nor met her hate-filled glare. They simply stepped aside and allowed her to enter the jungle on the other side of the camp. Right now, her anger was directed toward the Death Volunteers. They seemed to understand that much, and wanted to keep it that way.

As Queen walked through the camp, past the VPA soldiers and the dead men, she noticed that one of the men she had killed clung to a backpack. Sara’s backpack. She bent and took it, and an AK-47, from the man’s hand as she walked past. She glanced inside the pack briefly and saw everything, including the blood sample, still secure inside. Quickening her pace, she disappeared into the jungle like the apparition the soldiers believed her to be.

Thirty feet into the jungle, the VPLA camp behind her blossomed bright orange and let out a demon’s roar. Fire had spread despite the heavy rain and reached an ammo depot or fuel tank. Whatever it was, the resulting explosion was massive. A wall of heat washed through the jungle, creating a loud hiss as the falling rain and saturated leaves, trees, and forest floor flashed into steam. Queen fell as the shock wave rushed over her body. Out of range of the heat, she quickly recovered and looked back at the camp. Through a copse of burning trees she saw a crater where the camp had been.

In the wake of the explosion, the jungle fell silent. Both forces were either dead or in hiding.

In the silence, the breaking branch behind her was like a warning klaxon.

She spun around wielding the AK-47. But before she could pull the trigger a strong hand caught the barrel and pointed the weapon up. Queen’s shot ripped through the canopy above and disappeared into the sky, falling back to earth miles away.

It was the only round she got a chance to fire.