propped my crossbow against it, before taking the opportunity to empty my bladder behind a nearby rock. My mind must have been on other things, because I did not hear the attack at first. Perhaps I was distracted by thoughts of a cool ale or a swim in a river. There might have been some noise from our temporary camp, which I had taken as the others shuffling around, relaxing under the limited shade.
When I returned down to the main track, stones bouncing down the path under my feet, I was taken aback to see a band of around ten men where I had left the others. They wore a light wrapping of clothing, like the muslin worn by tribes in the Middle-East before the collapse. I saw at least one exposed arm bearing a crucifix which had been burned into flesh on initiation.
Two of my compatriots were on the ground and of the other two there was no sign.
Before I could cross the ground to my weapon, a man stepped out beside me and drove something hard into my head. From that point, I must have been unconscious for a while, because my next memory was not until a few minutes later.
My journey now is an altogether different one.
I move stealthily along natural tracks made by animals, avoiding the ways cut by humans. My senses are constantly alert. I watch the ground for sign of passings and listen to the sounds of the animals around me in my environment.
Sometimes there is a disturbance, for example in the local bird song, and I fade into the background. If you were walking past, you would not think anyone was there. If I were pointed out to you by another sniper, you might see a human form nestled against the bark of a tree trunk or a pair of eyes buried under a bush.
When whatever my animal watchmen have seen has left the area, I slowly move back to life, continuing my progress. If possible I avoid the open areas, and when I have to cross them, I slink over them like a snake, using the natural hollows in the land as cover and moving slowly so the motion would only be seen close up.
Once in a while I see people, but they do not see me. Two travellers are gathering fallen tree limbs for a fire; they pass within a couple of metres of me without knowing I am there.
Some might say it is better that they do not – when a sniper makes himself known to you, it may be like the fatal strike of a venomous snake which has been closing in on its prey.
Nearing my target, I stop to rest overlooking a small farming community. There are barricades up on the roads and men watching into the distance for trouble. I wonder how they have been affected by the bandits, just a couple of miles away; I think I can sense an underlying tension. I watch them for a while, unseen, as I recuperate.
My first memory, drifting on the edge of consciousness, was of being carried roughly. I remember feeling my wrists and ankles had been bound. Men shouted at each other in coarse tongues as we made our way through the land. Occasionally I was aware of being struck by leaves and the branches of shrubs.
Later I was shocked to full awareness by a man throwing a bucket of dirty water over me. As I sat up gasping, my limbs still restrained, he struck me around the face with his fist and began a barely comprehensible tirade – I think some of it was structured around his religion, but it was hard to make sense as he ranted and sprayed me with his spittle.
Not satisfied, he dragged me into the centre of their camp and the men began shouting at each other again. Two men started to scuffle, pushing at each other, heedlessly kicking at me as I lay in the centre of their battleground. Others broke them apart, and the shouting continued from further away. I thought they might be discussing my fate.
At best I would be a hostage, a bargaining chip; at worst – well I had heard what these fundamentalists did to those who did not subscribe to their beliefs. I had heard stories from a unit returning from a stint at the outpost, of crucified villages, not even a woman or child spared. It made me sick. How could they murder a child? How could a child even know what to believe about the world, without the experience to judge for him or herself?
None of which personal outrage would have been of use in those captive moments.
I saw little chance of escape with my movement so tightly restricted, but I still held out some hope. Perhaps I could cut my bonds on a rock in the night or tumble down a slope to hide in a ravine. They were very slim hopes, but they kept be going, inured me a little to the violence of my captors.
Once one of the men grabbed me by the hair and put a sharp knife to my throat. I thought at that moment that my time had come, that they would slaughter me slowly as they killed their animals in ritual.
At that lowest moment, I did not know that rescue was just around the corner. Neither I, nor my captors sensed him coming. There was no hint of atmospheric tension in the air, nor any moment of imminence.
The men slouch around their captured fortress. They are indolent and hold their position with arrogance.
Having approached to a safe distance, I watch them through the scope of my rifle, from the cover of a small dip in the land, underneath the fronds of a willow tree, which hang down like a frozen waterfall, obscuring my position from sight.
Two of the men are on the porch outside, drinking and watching the road, as though tenants at the inn, peacefully watching the world go by. Three others lie in an adjoining field, where, until recently guests at the inn could take a civilised meal in the cool of an evening breeze. The road is clear of travellers; perhaps the rumours have reached far enough to suspend all but the most desperate traffic.
After ten minutes, I spot the final man, pacing upstairs in one of the bedrooms. None are on watch. They have swiftly forgotten their military calling, but may still be dangerous because of it.
Observing them unawares, I begin to plan my strategy, where I will strike first, calculating the route which will achieve my objectives with least risk. An untrained gun would face difficult odds against six men, but against me, it is they who are outnumbered.
I didn’t know what was happening at first. One minute the man was stood over me, ranting and waving his knife in the air, the next a flower of red and pink blossomed from his face. He stood still for a moment, as though he had suddenly had a thought which stopped him in his tracks, then, wobbling on the spot, he toppled over like a house of cards in a sudden gust of wind.
Whilst I scrabbled out from under the body, the other men looked at each other and about them, not sure what was happening.
A shot rang out and a second man was thrown to the ground. The survivors dropped down low, diving desperately for cover. My captors searched their surroundings fruitlessly, unable to raise their heads for a proper look for fear that they would meet their companions’ fate.
A third shot sounded and the men began to panic, murmuring incoherent prayers and covering their heads with their hands as they nestled amongst the rocks.
Forgotten for a moment, I decided to make a break for it, such as I could. I crawled along the ground, desperately hoping I would reach the bushes off the side of the track before I was seen.
Another shot echoed around the valley, but I did not dare look to see what its effect had been. The nearest cover, the barest hope of escape inched closer.
Behind me the men were shouting at each other, but I was too busy in my desperation to register what they were saying. Rolling down a slight slope, I reached the cover of some bushes with thick, spiky leaves; they scratched at me as I crawled into the gloom, but it was a small thing compared to what I had suffered already.
Panting in the shadows, I wondered how I could possibly make this freedom last. When I had had the barest of durations to regain my energies, I began to crawl once more, heading deeper and deeper into the thicket.
Minutes past and my hope grew, only to be dashed once more. I heard the crack of a breaking branch and stopped still, hoping that the lack of sound would be enough to prevent my detection. A pair of boots appeared before me.
One of the fundamentalists grabbed me by the hair again, striking me about the face and shouting wildly once more. Then he seemed to calm down; without explanation, he stopped talk
ing and raised his crossbow, taking aim at me.
There was nothing I could do to prevent him. I tried to roll against his legs, but he kicked out at me, stilling my feeble counter attack, then holding me down with one boot.
The man took final aim and readied his crossbow as I readied myself for the end.
Then, at that moment, the forest came alive behind him. It seemed that something detached itself from the background, resolving into the shape of a man. Barely had my mind put this picture together, when there was a flash of silver at my captor’s throat and a gloved hand snapped firmly over the man’s mouth.
There was a man there. I knew instinctively that he was a sniper, though I had had little time for conscious thought. He was dressed in a dirty green poncho, proof against the recent rains.
Slowly the sniper lowered the dead man to the ground, laying him down with what looked like respect.
He bent to saw through my bonds with his knife, then meeting my eyes briefly said in a gruff, but quiet voice: “Follow me.”
When my action begins, it flows not from conscious thought, but from a sense that the right moment has arrived. I slide the bolt backwards, and as it clicks sideways into place a bullet jumps into firing position. I watch my target through the sight, waiting for a clear moment. I breathe out, like the last breath of