across, I'll give a yell. And if it's not safe, I'll..."
The rattling, peremptory calls had started up again,
making Cole think of cicadas for some reason, the
almost mechanical ree-ree-ree sound of cicadas on a
hot summer night. He swallowed hard, trying to
pretend to himself that he was ready.
"Outta time," John said. "Get ready to go..."
He held up the sweatshirt, then - astoundingly
grinned at Leon. "My man, you must invest in a stronger deodorant; you stink like a dead dog."
Without waiting for a response, John put the shirt
over his head, holding it open at the bottom so he
could see the floor. He jogged out into the open, his
face down, Cole and Leon both tensing...
... and there was a rapid patpatpatpat, and the black material over John's face was suddenly dripping with
great strings of the poison red snot, and he jerked his
hand at them...
... and Leon said, "Now!" and Cole ran, head
down, seeing only Leon's boots sprinting in front of
him, a blur of gray rock, his own thin legs as he
sprinted. He heard a gurgling cry to his left and
ducked down even farther, terrified -
- and there was the thump of wood in front of him,
and then he was on the bridge, flat wooden slats
rippling underfoot, tied with scrawny twine. He saw
the vee-shaped gorge underneath, saw that it was
deep, that it had been dug into the earth beneath the
Planet, forty, fifty feet...
... and then he was back on gray land, before
vertigo could even occur to him. He ran, thinking of
how wonderful it was that all he needed to think
about was Leon's boots, his heart hammering against
his breastbone.
Seconds or minutes later, he didn't know, the boots slowed, and Cole dared to look up. The wall, the wall
and there was the hatch! They'd made it!
"John, go!" Leon screamed, taking a few running steps back the way they'd come, his semi up and
ready. "Go!"
Cole turned, saw John rip off the black hood, saw
the handful of Spitters grouped loosely in front of
him, six, seven of them, calling once more. John tore
through their ranks, and at least two of them spat, but
John was fast, fast enough that only a tiny bit hit his
shoulder, at least as far as Cole could tell. The
monstrous creatures started after him in their jump-
ing, hopping movements, not as fast but close.
Run run run!
Cole pointed the nine-millimeter in the direction of
the Spitters, ready to shoot if he thought he could get
a clear shot, as John hit the bridge...
... and disappeared. The bridge collapsed, and John
disappeared.
SIXTEEN
JOHN FELT THE BRIDGE DROP AN INCH OR
two about a half second before the ropes snapped. He
instinctively put his hands out, still running, thinking
he'd make it -
- and then he was falling, his knees slamming into
a moving wall of wooden slats, his hands clenching
the second they touched solid -
- and all he heard was a whoosh sound, and then
the knuckles of his right hand crashed into rock, and
he was dangling over a very deep chasm, a slat of
loose wood in his left hand. He'd managed to grip one
of the pieces still attached to the now hanging bridge;
both ties that had anchored it to the north side of the
rift had snapped.
John dropped the useless slat, hearing it clatter to
the bottom of the chasm along with several other
pieces that had come untied. He reached up to get a
better grip...
... and thwack, a gob of red mucous suddenly
appeared in front of him, less than a foot to the right
of his face, sliding down the chasm wall in a melting
rope.
- shit on toast -
Bambambam, someone was shooting a nine-
millimeter, and the rising rattle of Spitters getting
ready to spit told him that he definitely needed to get
out.
He reached up again, his biceps flexing, straining
against the fabric of his sweatshirt as he grabbed one of the slats above and pulled himself up. Above, more
shots, closer, and a shout from Leon that was cut off
as more bullets thundered.
Kick ass, boys, I'm coming...
Hand over hand was a bitch, particularly with
bleeding knuckles and an automatic rifle hanging
from his neck, but he thought he was doing pretty
well, reaching up for the next handhold -
- and hot wetness hit the back of his right hand,
and it hurt, it was like acid, burning -
- and he let go, flinging the gelid acid away,
wiping at his shirt wildly. He held on to the shudder-
ing bridge with his left, but just barely, the pain like a
fire, maddening. It was all he could do to resist his
natural instinct, to clutch at the screaming wound
and with the way his fingers were starting to tingle,
he thought he might not have that much longer to
worry about it.
"He's right here!"
A cracked, hysterical shout from directly above.
John tilted his head back, saw Cole crouched at the lip
of the chasm, his work shirt pulled up over his nose,
his gaze frantic and scared.
"John, give me your hand!" He screamed, and reached down as far as he could, flakes of concrete
falling from beneath his sliding boots. If he said
anything else, it was lost in another series of explo-
sive rounds as Leon worked to hold the Spitters at
bay.
It only took a split-second for John to react to
Cole's command, and in that instant he understood
that he was going to get out. Henry Cole stood all of
five-eight and probably weighed one-fifty sopping wet.
With his clothes on. What was more, he looked like
some mad turtle hunkered down in the shell of his
shirt.
Too goddamn funny. Funny, and touching in an idiotic way, and although his hand still hurt like a son
of a bitch, he'd actually forgotten to feel it for a
second or two.
John grinned, ignoring Cole's trembling fingers,
forcing himself to concentrate on pulling himself up
with his injured hand. There were more rattling cries
from behind him but no spit-bombs for the moment.
"Tell Leon to use the grenade," he gasped, and Cole turned, shouting over another burst from Leon's
semi.
". . . says grenade! John says use a grenade!"
"Not yet!" Leon screamed back. "Get clear!"
Thwap-wap, two more globs flew across the chasm,
one hitting Cole's boot, the other only inches from John's sweating face.
Put on the power, John. With a final, deeply felt
grunt, John grabbed the wood at the very top and
pulled himself up, pulled and then was pushing down,
bringing his knee up to climb out.
"I'm good, go!"
Cole the mad turtle needed no further incentive. He
took off running as Leon continued to cover for John,
as John crouch-ran toward him, jamming his injured
hand into his pack and pulling out his last grenade
he'd already popped the pin when he saw that Leon
had his grenade in hand.
"Do it!" John yelled, reaching Leon, Leon winding back and then lobbing the powerful explosive at the
Spitters, throwing high. Then both of them were
running, John shooting a look back to see that three,
four of the animals had already leapt into the chasm.
No time to think. John threw low, threw as hard as
he could, his grenade disappearing into the rift as
Leon's landed in front of the others -
- and they were diving and rolling, the blasts
almost simultaneous, KA-WHAM-WHAM, the sound
of powdered rock raining down, an incredibly high-
pitched squealing coming from somewhere.
"You got 'em! You got 'em!"
Cole was standing in front of them, a look of
unabashed glee and not a little awe on his narrow
face. John sat up, Leon next to him, both turning back
to see.
They hadn't killed all of them. Two of the four still
on the other side of the chasm were mostly intact,
alive, but blind and broken, their legs splintered,
black fluid obscuring whatever was left of their faces
as they squealed in fury, the sound like a guinea pig
being stepped on. The other two must have been
directly in front of the blast; they were just bleeding,
shattered bags, bones sticking up from the liquid piles
like - like broken bones. From the manmade gorge
there were more of the screaming squeals, and noth-
ing leapt out to attack. For all intents and purposes, it
was over.
John crawled to his feet, studying the back of his
hand. Contrary to how it felt, the skin hadn't melted
off. There were a few small blisters forming and the
flesh looked scorched, but he wasn't bleeding.
"You okay?" Leon asked, standing and brushing at his clothes, his youthful features looking a lot less
youthful to John.
I'm not calling him a rookie anymore.
John shrugged. "Think I broke a nail, but I'll live." He saw that Cole was still beaming at them, his body shaking with the adrenaline aftermath; he
seemed at a loss for words, and John had a sudden
clear memory of how he'd felt after his first battle, the
first in which he'd acted bravely. How helplessly
elated he'd been. How incredibly alive.
"Henry, you're a funny guy," John said, clap-
ping his hand on the smaller man's shoulder and
smiling.
The electrician grinned uncertainly, and the three
of them started for Four, leaving the furious squeals
of the dying animals behind.
When the dust cleared and the three men were still
alive, Reston slammed his fist against the console in
anger and rising dread, his stomach lurching, his eyes
wide with disbelief.
"No, no, no, you stupid shits, you're dead!"
His voice was a little slurred, but he was too
shocked to give it much notice, too upset. They
wouldn't survive the Hunters, he knew that -
- but they weren't going to survive the Ca6s, either.
Reston couldn't believe that they'd made it this far;
he couldn't believe that of the twenty-four specimens
they'd encountered, all but one Dac had been left
either dead or dying. Most of all, he couldn't believe
that he'd let it continue, that his pride and ambition
had kept him from doing what he should have done in
the first place. It wasn't that he was out of his league,
he was in the inner circle, he was past that kind of
insecurity, but he should have talked to Sidney, at
least, or even Duvall; not for advice, but to cover all
of his bases. After all, he couldn't be held totally
responsible if he'd had counsel from one of the other,
older members. . .
It wasn't too late. He'd put a call in, explain his
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