Something white and furry and about the size of a small dog shot past Andy and out the back of the truck. Andy went, too, when Markowitz crawled forward and gave him a shove. He landed badly and fell, his ankle sending shrieks of pain through his leg. Rolling over, clutching his leg, he felt something wet and warm under him. Blood. He’d come up against the soldier who’d gone down from Cinqueda’s knife throw. The man’s visor was half open and Andy could hear him gasping. The stench of vomit was overpowering. Andy retched himself.