Those two began jogging toward the building where Chinma stood beside Mark.
"Let's go," said Mark. "Better not let them catch us down here."
The room they were at was on the first floor above ground level, and the stairs that they and the enemy soldiers would have to share were closer to the soldiers than to Chinma and Mark. They ran full-out and reached the stairs at about the same time as they heard the enemy soldiers start clattering up.
Chinma, being barefoot, was much quieter running up the stairs than Mark, whose shoes made a noise. Fortunately, the enemies' own footfalls were so noisy that they didn't hear, and instead of following them on up to the top floor, they started down the corridor. They would find no one in the room where Chinma had helped tend to Cole's jeesh, and no one in Cole's quarters, but there were a few weak soldiers and their stubborn caregivers in other rooms on that floor. They were about to die.
But Chinma understood that he and Mark were no match for those soldiers, neither boys against men nor pistols against automatics. The people downstairs would die, but they would get these guns to Arty and Benny.
The gunfire downstairs started before they got back to the room, short savage bursts, and when they flung open the door a couple of women shrieked. Mark sharply hissed at them to be quiet.
Chinma held out Arty's pistol, but saw that Arty could not take it.
Arty was shaking his head slightly.
"You have to load it," said Mark.
"How?" asked Chinma.
"Watch me."
Mark took a loaded clip out of the box and slid it up into the hilt of the pistol. But there was already a clip in Arty's weapon. Was it already loaded? Chinma looked up helplessly, but then a lean middle-aged man, one of the caregivers, stepped to him, took the pistol, and quickly ejected the empty clip that was in it. Then he handed back the pistol.
Chinma was vaguely aware that the man was now explaining to someone—his wife?—that he didn't load the gun, he merely unloaded it.
Meanwhile, Chinma got the clip facing the right way, slid it in, and then watched Mark do something that made a cha-chink noise—it looked like he pulled the pistol apart very quickly, then put it back together. All he could do was stand there, looking at his own pistol.
Someone took the pistol out of his hand, pulled back hard on the top of it, and got the same noise.
"The safety," said Mark.
Chinma looked up at the man. He was the radio man, the one who recorded what people said. The man pushed a lever, then handed the pistol to Chinma, stepped back to his position against the wall, and nodded once.
Both boys put their pistols into the slack hands of the soldiers lying on the cots.
The firing downstairs had stopped, and they could all hear the footfalls of the enemy soldiers rushing up to their floor.
We're three rooms from the stairs, thought Chinma. "They kill the others before us," he said aloud.
Mark looked at him, nodded grimly. "You're right, you're right." He took the pistol back from Benny's hand. "We have to bring them straight to us." Mark ran to the door, flung it open, and fired the pistol out the door, up into the ceiling.
Then he ran back to Benny and put the pistol into his hand once more.
"There are only two of them," Mark said to Benny and Arty.
"Hold up … my hand," whispered Benny. Mark knelt beside him and propped Benny's hand so he could point the pistol at the door.
The enemy soldiers were quiet now; having heard a gunshot coming from this floor, they were wary now. But in the silence of the room, with the door open, everyone could hear the soft footsteps coming closer.
Chinma tried to prop up Arty's hand, but the man was trembling and the point of the gun wasn't just shaking, it wavered many centimeters at a time. Chinma propped up Arty's head so he could see to aim, which left Chinma's arms widely spread. Both Arty's head and the pistol were heavier by the moment, and neither one was steady.
One of the enemy soldiers dodged past the door, firing a burst of automatic fire into the room, but high, so no one was hit.
"Get down!" Mark hissed at the caregivers, but he hardly needed to say it—the ones who had been standing hit the floor the moment that burst came into the room.
Then Mark stood up, took the pistol out of Benny's hand, put his feet in a wide stance, and held out the pistol, pointing toward the door. "God help me," he said softly.
The pistol trembled, but it was a lot steadier than Arty's hand.