...Further developments in Macedonia, with Scott, and a reporter.

8

Cindy had lain in the snow, too terrified to move, all that day. At first there were piteous moans and pleas from the people around her, but these had begun to fail now, vanishing with the slight warmth of the sun as one by one the people nearby bled to death, or froze. In shock, Cindy forced herself not react, or call out. Despite her fear, the bitter chill, and a burning shoulder wound, she held as still as a corpse, praying that she'd make it to nightfall, and the cover of darkness.

More than once, a laughing "miner" had stepped out to smoke with his comrades and take a few pot-shots at the wounded and dying who littered the snowy ground. Biting her lip till it bled, Cindy held perfectly still. She'd had some protection, for Abe's slender body lay partly covering hers. He'd shoved her to the ground when the shooting began, taking the deadly bullet meant for her. Cindy owed him her life and could do nothing but lie there, helpless, as he slowly grew cold and still.

Somehow, throughout that long, frigid, miserable day, Cindy stayed alive. Abe's last act had been to defend her, and though it would have been easier to stay down and let herself drift away, Cindy had no intention of wasting his gift. But what was she to do? How could she save herself? Some notion came that she might head away from the mine as soon as night fell, follow the river and make for the nearest town. But when darkness finally arrived she had to abandon any hope of walking to safety. It was far too cold. Already chilled clear through, she'd have died of exposure before she reached the hills. That wasn't the only reason, though. Faint at first, and then bit by bit a little clearer, she heard someone moving. Somewhere out in the snow, between Cindy and the mine complex, someone was still alive. He was confused, though, Cindy decided; so turned-around or delirious that he was actually headed toward the mine office, where he would certainly be killed.

Cindy considered for an instant, then decided that her best chance of survival was to take temporary shelter back in the news van and wait for rescue. Surely somebody... the Marines, the Air Force..., whatever was left of International Rescue... someone would be sent to help? In the meantime the WNN news van was within reach and out of the knife-like wind. She'd be able to hide out there, if the idiot scraping toward the gunmen's hideout didn't prod them into shooting her first. She had to get to him, convince him somehow to shut up and turn around.

Stifling a moan, Cindy forced herself onto her hands and knees, letting Abe'scold body slide off into the snow. Everything, everywhere hurt, and the acrid stench of the river made her gasp. Bidding her cameraman farewell with a last, silent touch, Cindy got to her feet. She started forward at a crouched, lurching run, nearly falling a dozen times.

There were four squares of light in the building before her, their yellow gleam reflecting dimly off the wind-sculpted snow. These and a slim crescent moon were all the illumination there was. Cindy kept her eyes on the building, ready to throw herself flat if a face appeared in one of those threatening windows.

Everything sounded preternaturally loud to her; the crunch of her feet in the snow, an occasional sharp wind-gust, her own labored breathing, and, most alarmingly, a sudden burst of wild laughter from the mine office.

'Maybe they're getting drunk,' Cindy thought to herself, panting great clouds of white vapor, 'Maybe they're so busy patting themselves on the back that they won't even notice m...'

She nearly tripped over something in the snow. No, scratch that... someone. It was the mysterious survivor. He was creeping slowly forward, one arm pressed tight across his chest, the other dragging him along. Badly wounded, he moved in short bursts, leaving dark stains in the snow at every pause.

Throwing herself down beside him, Cindy realized who he was when she heard what he was saying.

"S' okay, Virge... m' coming. S' okay... hang on..." Then, after a short pause for breath, "Keep going. Gotta keep... going."

It was the International Rescue pilot, Hollywood. He'd survived the attack.

"Hey!" Cindy whispered , seizing the pilot's shoulder. "Hollywood, you're going the wrong way! They'll see you! Come on, come with me!" Keeping a wary eye on the building, she added, "I know where we can hide!"

But he pulled away when Cindy tried to drag his good arm across her shoulders. Rolling onto his back, the pilot refused to be moved.

"No..," he shook his head, gasping a little. "My... brother... they've got my brother in there. I've got... got to help him..."

Cindy was growing desperate.

"Listen to me, Hollywood!" She hissed, packing snow against his oozing bullet wounds, "you're not helping anybody like this! What are you going to do? Crawl up to the door and ask politely to be let in? They'll kill you, and me, and your brother! Now, come on! Come with me to shelter, at least for the night, and we'll think of something in the morning! Okay? Please? I don't want to die out here!" At that point, Cindy would have promised him anything. She was cold and afraid, numb with terror that they'd be heard. "Please, please, please?!"

A sort of muddled comprehension came into his eyes. "Morning...?" he asked her.

"Morning. I swear! We'll find a way to call for help. The Marines, the Navy, the Boy Scouts... everything! Just, please, let's go!"

And this time, he went; letting Cindy pull him upright and even managing to support most of his own weight as they staggered toward WNN's sleek news van. It had begun to snow by the time they reached the locked vehicle, hiding their blood-splotched prints. She had to fumble a bit for the keys, her numbed fingers making it difficult to search, but at length Cindy found them in an outside hip pocket, and not a moment too soon. The pilot was shuddering with fatigue, barely able to keep his feet. Together they wrestled the door open. Ice had formed around the hinges and locking mechanism, and had to be painstakingly chipped away.

"Hurry!" Cindy ordered, "Inside!" Helping him through the half-open door, Cindy Taylor followed her wounded companion into the shelter of the van, then gently, quietly, slid shut the door.