Field Notes: Week 5 – Marauders

Patrolling solo is always a bad idea, but sometimes there’s no choice if we want to get enough coverage. I was near the Jardin des Plantes, keeping a low profile, when I heard them—voices, low and gruff.

Raconteurs.

I ducked into the undergrowth, gripping my rifle tight as I peeked through the leaves. There were four of them, armed with crude weapons: pipes, machetes, an old hunting rifle. They were laughing, passing around a bottle of something.

They must’ve known I was there because as soon as I moved to slip away, one of them yelled, “Come out, mon ami! We just wanna talk.”

I bolted.

I made it maybe 15 yards before I stumbled into a dead end—a wall of gnarled roots rising too high to climb. I turned, rifle up, just as the first marauder burst through the brush. He grinned, teeth yellow and jagged, and raised his machete.

“Nowhere to run,” he said, his buddies closing in behind him.

He wasn’t wrong. My back was to the wall, my ammo low, and four against one wasn’t a fight I’d win. Not with bullets, anyway. But then I looked up.

Hanging in the branches above us were clusters of seeds I’d never seen before, gleaming faintly in the dim light. I recalled what had happened to Gabriel.

Out of time and out of ideas, I raised my rifle and fired, aiming high. The shot rang out, and the seeds fell, their pods snapping open mid-air.

The raconteurs never knew what hit them.

The seeds darted toward them, buzzing like angry hornets. One exploded on impact, tearing the leader apart. Another chased the man with the rifle, detonating just as he turned to run.

The last two tried to scatter, but the seeds were relentless. One exploded at the edge of the clearing, and the final marauder—the bastard—ran straight for me, hoping to use me as a shield. The last seed caught him just a few feet away, the blast knocking me flat on my back.

When the smoke cleared, I was the only one left standing.

These seeds saved my life, but they don’t discriminate. My coat is shredded, and I’ve got a gash on my leg. It could’ve been worse. Should’ve been worse.

As I limped back to the Arc, I couldn’t shake the image of the seeds chasing those men, like the forest itself wanted them gone.

Maybe it did.