Read Hostile Territory (A Spider Shepherd short story) for Free Online Page B

bundles of clothes, and piles of bush knives, pans and possessions that must have come from the villages the rebels had looted and destroyed.
    They found a place to lie up and waited until the small hours, sweltering in the suffocating heat, before slipping past the half-awake sentries into the arms dump.
    While Jimbo and Geordie covered them, Shepherd used his newly-fashioned tool to unlock the nose cones on a succession of shells. He fitted the brass tool over each one, gave it a sharp tap with the wooden mallet and then turned it, the brass edges biting into the steel enough to give the tool purchase. Once he had unscrewed the nose cone, Jock used the brass lever to prise out the high explosive compound inside.
    Jock spread the high explosive around the stacks of ammunition as Shepherd prepared the timer and detonators. They stopped when they heard a sudden shout. A rebel soldier, wandering out of his hut to relieve himself, must have caught a glint of metal or seen movement and raised the alarm. ‘Make for the RV,’ Shepherd shouted. ‘I’ll handle the detonation.’
    Geordie, Jock and Jimbo melted away into the undergrowth as Shepherd hurriedly finished assembling the detonators and timer.  He heard shouts close by and set the timer for just ten seconds before turning and running into the jungle. A burst of fire ripped through the vegetation above his head. He counted the seconds off in his head as he ran and at the count of ten the rebel arms dump erupted in an inferno of explosions and flying rounds.  He kept his head down as he pushed his way through the undergrowth. After a minute he slowed and looked over his shoulder. The explosions were dying down though the lurid glow of flames still lit up the area. He slid into the swamp and moved away as fast as he dared. Eventually he crawled out of the water onto dry land, hurried on for another fifty yards and then dropped into cover as he heard the sounds of pursuit. Back-lit by the glow from the burning arms dump, he could see the scrubby trees in the swamp shaking as a group of about a dozen rebel soldiers pushed past them.
    Shepherd could clearly see their faces, framed by rough, matted dreadlocks into which they had woven fragments of broken mirror glass and brightly coloured threads and ribbons. Each of them had an amulet on a string or leather thong around their neck, the juju emblem that they believed gave them immortality. They looked hot-wired and amphetamine-fuelled, jerking and twitching, eyes never still. They showed no fear or hesitation and made no attempt to conceal themselves as they emerged from the swamp and began to move towards his hiding place in line abreast. None of them looked older than ten or twelve but all carried AK-47s at the ready.
    Shepherd’s finger tightened on his trigger but he couldn’t bring himself to fire. They were murderous killers high on drugs and they would kill him without hesitation, but they were still children. He lay down and pushed himself down against the ground, burying himself in the vegetation. He held his breath and tried to stay calm but his heart was pounding fit to bust. He heard them crashing through the undergrowth and then they were gone.
    He got to his feet and moved to the left, his mind racing. He had intended to make for the RV but that now wasn’t an option, not with the rebels ahead of him.  His only sensible option was to try to make his own way back to Freetown, but that was a lot easier said than done.
    He heard more searches behind him and upped his pace. The faster he moved the more trace he left of his passing, and the rebel group stayed on his trail. An hour before dawn he looped his track, lay up in the cover of a thorn bush, and waited. There were six of them, five boy soldiers and an adult, a stick-thin figure with dreadlocks tied back into a ponytail. He was obviously their commander but he took care not to lead from the front, urging them on from behind while using the partial cover