CHAPTER ELEVEN.   IS THERE ANYBODY OUT THERE?

SHE STARED UP AT THE FLARES THAT LIT UP THE NIGHT SKY. Her heart hammered against her rib cage as she glanced back and forth to each side of them. Broken buildings surround them at every angle. The light of the flare creates shadows, playing tricks on their eyes - especially to a barely conscious Schofield. He gives a rough blink, trying to force his eyes to focus. He can't lead them if he can't see. Memories of the bunker flood his mind. His arms tightly wrapped around his friends as they practically carried him out of the collapsing bunker. He trusted them, and now one of them was dead. But she was still here, still fighting. And she trusted him, he knew it.

"What's the plan?" She whispers. Her grip on Blake's rifle is tight, but her finger remains far from the trigger.

"We have to go through." He whispers back. Waving his hand, he begins stumbling out of the lock house. With a huff of air, she quickly follows beside him. She watches him from her peripheral, making sure he doesn't fall to the ground. The shadows around them shift and move as the flare falls to the ground. He winces as the light reflects from the puddles, almost blinding him.

A crack erupts from behind them. Both nearly jump out of their boots. "We need a new plan." Mags exclaims as they begin to pick up their pace. They're sitting ducks in an open field. Buildings may surround them, but they're walking directly through, what used to be, a street. His hand grabs hers, pulling her as they begin to run. Another gunshot fires behind them, clipping the building to their left.

The flare finally dies out, plunging them into complete darkness. Their breathing is the only sound filling the air. Their boots pound against the wet ground. Schofield's boot splashes into a puddle, attracting another gunshot. Shortly after, another flare is fired into the air, illuminating their way. "We need cover!" She exclaims through gasps of air.

The moment the sentence leaves her lips, he pulls her against a wall to their right. "Get down as far as you can." He whispers, pushing them closer against the wall into the darkness. Shots clip the ground where they had just been running. Her hands grip the back of his jacket tightly. Her knuckles quickly become sore from the sheer might of her grip. They remain motionless. He can feel her chest heaving against his back. They needed this short break or else one of them was going to pass out - probably him.

His vision blurs and distorts. Reaching up, he rubs his eyes. This makes his vision only blurrier. "Are you okay?" She quietly whispers; it's low enough that he almost didn't hear it. He nods in response. Looking out in the direction they had been running, he tries to memorize the path. "I need you to tell me if you're okay, Sco."

"As soon as the flare goes out, we run." He whispers back to her. "Don't stop running, no matter what. If I get shot, you don't stop-"

"What-"

"Don't question me!" His whisper is rough. "Just listen, okay? You don't listen and that's your problem. Just fucking listen to me for once." Mags fell silent, her gaze dropping to the rubble she rested on. His gaze softened as guilt began to settle in his bones. "Just... I need you to get there, even if I don't. We can't let Blake die for nothing." She simply nodded. Her grip on her pack tightened.

The flare finally fell to the earth, plunging the area in darkness. "Now." He whispered as they pushed themselves off of the ground. They immediately took off down the street, stopping at nothing. Another flare was shot into the air, but that didn't stop them. His hand reaches out, grabbing her arm and pulling her into an alley to their left. Darkness fills the alley, slowing them down to catch their breath once again. His hand doesn't leave hers - it only tightens.

There's a flickering light at the end of the alley. They follow it down to the edge of the alley where it opens into another broken street. Mags leans her back against the wall to her left. Her hand tightens around Schofield's, grabbing his attention. "I need to know a plan. I can't just keep running through this godforsaken place, praying neither of us get shot. I need a plan, Sco."

Running his free hand through his hair, he stops to feel the bandage against his forehead. "What happened? Did I get shot?" His fingers trace the bandage to the back of his head. As his fingers graze the base of his skull, he winces at the sharp pain.

"No. Well... Yes, technically. It hit your helmet." She shrugs her shoulders, exhausted beyond belief. "I think you cracked something when you fell down those stairs. You looked so..." She trailed off, staring down at their intertwined hands.

"It doesn't matter." Schofield reassured her. "I know you want a plan, but... I don't have one. All that keeps going through my head is to run. So, that's what we're going to do."

With a deep sigh, Mags nods. She's too tired to argue with him. And she's much too tired to come up with a better plan. It's as good as they've got and she'll live with it... Maybe.

Turning his head out of the alley, he takes in the surroundings. To their left is nothing but a stretch of broken buildings with smashed windows. To their left is something large and on fire. Neither sight is welcoming. Had he led her into a trap? Was he just leading her to her death? He doesn't have time to dwell on it. He begins pulling her out of the alley to the left.

They begin carefully making their way through the street. Her eyes widen at the fire ahead of them. "This is really the way you chose, huh?" Mags can't help but chuckle as they make their way past the broken columns from the buildings.

As they grow closer, she notices it's a church. She stops in her tracks, surprising Schofield. "They set a fucking church on fire. Who... Who does that?" Her voice comes out as a whisper.

"Monsters." He responds stoically. "We have to keep moving, Mags. We can't stop." Pulling her along, they enter the centre of the square. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a silhouette. A man enters the centre, a rifle in his grip. His grip on Mags' hand tightens infinitely. She turns and freezes, her breath catching in her throat. The man raises his rifle for a moment before letting it drop. Quickly, he begins making his way towards them. Schofield and Mags remain frozen as the man makes his way closer to them. Is he British or German?

The question is answered as the man raises his rifle once again and fires at them. The shot ricochets off of the wall next to them. "Go!" Mags shouts, pushing Schofield into the small set of columns to their left. They run as fast as their feet can take them. The soldier fires again, hitting one of the columns. The German soldier shouts after them, pulling any enemy attention towards them.

"There!" Mags exclaims, pointing at the small window that been boarded up to their left. It's against the ground, but a small light flickers inside. They skid to a stop. He pushes her to the ground, pushing her into the small cellar window before quickly flinging himself after.

The two fall to the ground with a thud. Mags groans quietly, rubbing the back of her neck with her right hand. "Fuck." She hisses as her bicep begins to burn. A thick and warm fluid begins dripping down her arm. Without feeling, she knows her cut as reopened. Letting out a soft sigh, she slumps against the rough ground.

"Are you okay?" Schofield quietly asks, leaning over her. "What happened?" His eyes adjust to the darkness to notice the blood slowly dripping onto the ground beneath her. "Are you hurt?"

"It's just a cut." She waves him off. "That German fucker from the farm did it."

"Why didn't you bandage it?"

"Figured we'd need that last roll for something more important." She nodded towards his head. "Looks like we should trust my gut more often."

"It's going to get infected."

"Nothing I can't handle." Mags flashes a cocky smile as she slowly pushes herself into a sitting position. Schofield scoffs and rolls his eyes. Only she would be able to make a joke in their situation. His gaze snaps up to a young girl hiding behind a curtain that's been hung from the ceiling. Mags' gaze follows. She quickly slides up on her hands, grabbing the rifle to her right.

The girl ducks behind the curtain, scared of them.

"Don't." Schofield whispers to Mags.

Mags gently sets the rifle back onto the ground. The girl peeks out once again to see Schofield's hands held in a surrender. She speaks something in French. It sounds desperate and pleading. "Anglais." Schofield responds. "Not German. We're friends." The girl visibly relaxes. Schofield takes in his surroundings. "This place, it's Écoust?" He clears his throat. "C'est Écoust?"

The girl nods.

"You speak French?" Mags asks, a chuckle following her question. "Every day's a school day."

Schofield stumbles slightly. He almost falls into Mags. A dull pain fills his head. The girl asks something in French. "Others? No, just us." The girl's eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Just. Us." He gestures between himself and Mags. She slowly nods, understanding.

Mags pushes herself off of the ground, eliciting a flinch from the girl. With a soft smile, Mags approaches the table to the girl's left. Her hand wraps around the neck of a whiskey bottle. "You mind if I keep this cork?" The girl clearly doesn't understand the question. "Thank you very much, dear." She chuckles before taking a swig from the bottle.

"You shouldn't just take that." Schofield slowly pushes himself off of the ground, stumbling a bit.

"It's not like she's old enough to drink this anyway." Mags takes another large swig. She crams the cork into her pants pocket where it will sit with the other cork from the truck. "Don't look at me like that." She jabs her index finger towards Schofield.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm a fucking German." Her tone is filled with venom. Her eyes glare up at him with pure anger.

Rolling his eyes, he holds his hands up. "I'm not going to argue with you, especially not now."

"Oh, really? You'll argue with me every other fucking time." She takes another swig. In just moments, she's downed almost half of the bottle. "You argued with me when I wouldn't drink your stupid milk, or when Blake was dying. You argue with me at the worst fucking times, so this should be perfect for you!"

"Keep your fucking voice down."

"Or what?" She takes a step closer. Her hands reach out to shove him back.

"They're going to come in here and shoot all of us, that's what." He snaps back, swatting her hand away. With a roll of her eyes, she backs up against the wall. The nurse slides down the wall, taking a seat on the floor. She takes another swig of whiskey. Schofield approaches her, taking a seat next to her. His eyes turn to the French girl who watches them with glazed eyes. He can tell she has no idea what's going on - she doesn't know if she should pick a side.

"I'm sorry." Mags whispers, wiping away a tear that slipped down her cheek.

"You shouldn't be."

"Not for shoving you," She chuckled, taking another swig before handing it towards the soldier, "for Blake. I should've been watching that fucking pilot. I should've seen the knife. I should've done a billion other things differently... but I didn't. I did what I did and I got him killed."

"No." Schofield shakes his head as he takes a swig from the bottle of whiskey. "It wasn't either of our faults. It happened, and we'll live with it."

The nurse leans over and begins digging through her pack. He watches with curious eyes. What else did she have stored in that bag? The pack had seemed to be never ending from what he had seen her pull out of it and place back into it. Pulling out a scrap of folded paper, she rested her back against the wall once again. She unfolded the paper, revealing the German family photo from the bunker. Her eyes stare at the photo with a profound sadness. He can't place the reason behind it but he can watch her.

"If we make it out of here, that is." Mags lets her head rest against his shoulder. Her eyes felt heavy from exhaustion. It had been so long since she had slept. "I don't want to be like this. I don't want to be a picture on some poor bastard's bed, left behind because he got shot and couldn't grab it. I hate this stupid fucking war."

Schofield nods. He's unsure of how to respond. Part of him wants to comfort her, reassure her that will never happen; but he has no way to promise that. He had no clue what the road ahead of her held. What if she got married to some chap in the military, leaving her at home to care for their children? Or maybe she'd find a young man who'd sweep her off her feet. His gaze moves down to her now holding her family photo. His eyes widen as she rips herself out of the family portrait. Her hand holds her photo out to him. "But that was your family photo."

"Never felt like I belonged anyway." Her words are sad, but her tone is simply tired. She continues to hold the photo out to him. "Here, take it. If I'm going to be a photo taped to a bed, might as well be someone I actually like."

His fingers gently take her photo. In the photo, she's in a light colored gown. Her hair is pulled up into a bun, though a few hairs are falling out into her face. Her eyes are as bright and expressive as ever. Her smile is refrained, but still there. He can't help but notice how beautiful she looked. Even now, with the candle light framing her features and sweat and blood drying on her, she was beautiful. Shaking his head, he pulls himself out of his own daydream.

His hands dig into his jacket pocket for the blue tobacco tin. Pulling it out, he pops it open. Despite her attempt to not pry, Mags glances over, looking over the photos in the tin container. Her heart almost drops at the sight of a photo of a young woman. "She's pretty." A red hot flush of embarrassment covers her face. Here she was, giving this man she'd only known for a day a photo of her while he probably had a wife and children of his own. She felt like a stupid schoolgirl with a stupid crush on a boy in her class.

"She looks just like Mum." Schofield chuckles, pulling out the photo of the young woman. Behind that photo was one of two infant girls. A truly happy smile grew on his lips. It was one of the first she had ever seen him smile. Mags felt like a selfish child, wanting to cry because her friend was happy. "I remember when Mum first met Sue's first boyfriend. God, she about keeled over from a heart attack. Now she's married to the poor chap. But he never hears the end of it. Especially now he's got two girls."

"Sue?" Mags furrowed her blonde eyebrows at the name.

"My sister." He holds up the photograph for the nurse to get a look. "She just recently had two girls." Holding up the photo of the children, he places the photo of Mags in the blue tin. "The one on the right is Mary and the one on the left is Georgia. From what she's said, they're already a handful." Schofield chuckles, a longing smile on his lips. What he would give to be able to see them. "When I got to go back home, they were only a few months old. Now, I think they're almost two."

The nurse handed the photos back to her friend. "Well, with you as an uncle, they might not be very bright." It takes Schofield a moment before he begins to laugh. "But, I can see your sister is ten times brighter than you, so cheers." She takes a swig of the whiskey, finishing the bottle. Digging through her pockets, she fishes out her own tobacco tin. There's only two cigarettes left. "You want one?" She holds the tin out to the soldier.

"I'll just bum off of yours." He shakes his head, staring at the photos in his tin.

With a scoff, Mags rolls her eyes. "Big of you to assume I'll let you." Pulling out her matches, she strikes one and lights her cigarette. The tobacco fills her lungs, leaving a sickening taste in her mouth. Maybe, after the war, she'd give them up. Her mother had always scolded her heavily when she caught the girl smoking. It's a nasty habit, she had told her. For once, her mother was right. Mags didn't like how it made her smell. She didn't like how it lingered on her for hours. Her hand held the cigarette out to the man next to her. Taking it from her, he took a long drag and handed it back to her.

"We need to be somewhere." He turns to speak to the French girl. "We need to find a wood to the southeast." The girl practically stares through him. With a soft sigh, he closes his eyes to try and recall what little French he had remembered. "Trees... Les arbres?" No, that's not it. "Croiset?"

"Croisilles?" The girl responds. Schofield nods in response. "Les rivière-" She points out towards the southeast.

"The river?" Schofield asks.

"River." The girl speaks in slow English. "It goes there. Trees. Croisilles."

Another dull ache pierces his mind. Letting out a soft groan, he rubs his forehead. Mags lifts her head off of his shoulder. Her hands gently grab his shoulders, turning his back towards her. "Let me take a look at you." She mumbles as she tilts his head towards the candlelight. Her face contorts to a wince at the sight of the blood seeping through the bandage. What else should she have expected? He probably had a concussion. But it didn't matter now. They were in too deep to do anything about it.

"How's it look?" Schofield asks, turning his head slightly to gauge her response.

"Awful, but don't worry about it."

He can't help but chuckle in response. Leaning back, his back presses against her. Her arms instinctively wrap around him. The two revel in the warmth and comfort of each other's presence. It won't last long, but it's enough to keep them going on a little longer.

A soft sound grabs their attention. The girl quickly makes her way over to a makeshift bed and dresser. Pulling open a drawer, she pulls an infant out. Mags' jaw practically drops. The last thing she had expected to see was an infant. Both her and Schofield are quick to push themselves off of the ground and approach the two. "Ma petite." The girl smiles as Mags and Schofield look over the child.

"A girl?" Schofield asks.

The girl nods. The infant begins to stir, beginning to cry. The girl is quick to soothe her. "What's her name?" Mags asks. The girl shrugs her shoulders, responding that she doesn't know. "Who's her mother?" The girl shrugs again. Both Mags and Schofield share sad glances. "Give her that food you found back at the bunker." She nods towards his pack.

He's quick to pull the cans of food out of his pack. "Food. Here. You can have these, we won't need them. It's all we've got." The girl shakes her head, speaking in French.

Mags looks to Schofield to see if he understands what she's saying. He clearly doesn't. The nurse repeats the sentence in her mind. Lait... That sounded familiar. Where had she heard it before? "Milk?" She asks with furrowed eyebrows. Her mother had attempted to teach her French once upon a time, deeming it the most ladylike of languages. The lessons had lasted only two days. The girl nods with a pure smile. "Your canteen." She directs her words to Schofield.

He pulls his canteen out from his pack. Once opened, he lets the girl smell the milk. "Here." The girl looks up at him with pure gratitude. She thanks them before taking the canteen into her grasp. A bright smile grows on Schofield's face as he looks over the infant. "Bonjour." He greets the infant.

Mags watches, a smile of her own forming on her rosy lips. Her chin rests against her right palm. The girl looks between the two. She asks something in French before stopping herself. "Children? You two?"

Mags quickly shakes her head. "No, no. Maybe one day, though." A soft sigh escapes her lips as she watches the infant stare up at the girl.

Schofield's gaze turns to the nurse. He can see the look of longing in her eyes. He vaguely remembered her talking about not wanting to be married to a boring man who only loved her for the children she bore. It made him wonder about her home life. It was clear she hadn't gotten along with her mother. If she hadn't joined the war, would she have been married off to the richest man to come along? He couldn't picture that life for her. She belonged in a life of action and adventure and happiness and her true self.

The girl's voice grabbed his attention. "You... Children?"

He shook his head. "No, not me." His eyes glance up at Mags, who continues to stare down at the infant. "Maybe one day, though."

The baby begins to stir again. The girl shushes her, rocking her gently. She says something in French towards Schofield. He begins reciting a poem. "They went to sea in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they went to sea," Mags' gaze darts up to him. Memories of her father flood her mind. Tears form in her eyes, almost forcing a sob out. She lets her eyes fall close, letting herself be wrapped around his voice. "In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, In a Sieve they went to sea." Both the girl and the infant stare up at him, transfixed on his voice. His eyes dart to Mags, whose head is buried in her arms against her knees. Her body shakes with tears. "Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve."

The room fills with silence. All that can be heard is Mags' soft gasps for air in between her cries. Both the girl and Schofield look towards Mags. Both are unsure of what to do. His hand reaches out, gently gripping her shaking shoulder. Her left hand grabs his wrist tightly. Lifting her head, he's shocked to see the amount of tears that stain her face. "Edward Lear..." She whispers, holding back another sob. "Good choice, mate." Nodding, she lets go of his wrist and wipes her tears away. "My father's favorite. He used to read it to me every night before bed. I'd beg him to read another, just to hear his voice. Mum would always have his head for it, but he didn't care. It made me happy and that was all that mattered to him; that his daughter was happy."

Schofield intertwines their hands. She needs the comfort more than anyone. He wants to say something to help, but his mind is blank. The only thing he can think of is her father's face in the photograph. Her brother, the one fighting with Blake's.

At that moment, the bells of the burning church toll loudly. It's morning. They've lost. There's no time. They've wasted too much of it and now they were paying the price. The two share terrified gazes. Their hands tighten around each other, unaware of what to do. Mags is the first to pull her hand away. She quickly gathers her pack and her rifle. Schofield repeats her actions, preparing himself. The girl speaks quickly in French, but neither of them can understand her.

"We have to go." Schofield responds as he slings his pack over his shoulder. "I'm sorry." His eyes turn to Mags, who stands behind him, sober and ready to leave. Her hand quickly finds his. Their fingers intertwine as they rush up the stairs out of the cellar. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.