Death Hunt. James Axler
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clear its eyes. The last thing it would have seen was the barrel and dark maw of the 551 as Mildred squeezed the trigger to release a slug. The exit wound took half of the creature’s thin, eggshell skull with it.
Mildred spit onto the ground, trying to clear her head and the bitter taste of bile from her mouth. That had been too close for comfort.
She dragged herself upright from the bole of the tree, shook her head to clear it and entered the fray once more. She was needed….
Doc was having problems. The LeMat was difficult to reload in a hurry and a cry from the Armorer had alerted him to the fact that a couple of stickies were headed in his direction. Realizing that he wouldn’t have the time to reload the cumbersome percussion blaster, he rapidly holstered it and withdrew the sword from within the silver lion’s-head swordstick that contained the blade tempered and made from the finest Toledo steel. The seemingly old and frail man was deft and quick with the blade, as many had found to their detriment, and he had to use all his skills when one of the stickies burst through the undergrowth and was on him before he had a chance to drag the blade fully from its sheath.
“By the Three Kennedys, I’m not falling that easily,” he breathed, putting his weight on his back foot to stabilize himself as he flicked his wrist, the tendons straining as he rolled the blade emerging from the stick, changing its upward trajectory into an arc so that, as the tip cleared the sheath it flew toward the stickie, arcing across its throat and slicing into the thin, pliable flesh. It parted like rotting meat, the carotid artery severed. The creature stopped in its tracks, mutely clutching its torn neck before tumbling to the ground.
Meanwhile, Ryan had shouldered his Steyr and had drawn the SIG-Sauer. The rifle was fine for distance shooting, but close-quarters fighting required a handblaster. He started to fire at the sounds coming from the undergrowth, but it was so dense that he couldn’t tell if his shots were having any effect in the bedlam.
“Where are they?” Krysty yelled to J.B.
“I don’t know. They’re getting lost in the woods,” he replied, switching from the M-4000 to his Uzi, which he set to single shot as he slipped down to ground level. “Just keep triple-red. Try to pick ’em out.”
Picking them out was something that Doc could do only too well. With an instinct that told them he was less dangerous because of his lack of a blaster, the stickies were concentrating on him, somehow communicating with one another in a way that only they could understand. He was holding his own, the sword a flashing blade that sprayed the air with crimson as he claimed victims. But he was outnumbered and having to spin in circles just to keep the weight of the numbers at bay.
Jak, picking off those he could from up in his tree, could see that Doc was being overwhelmed. He smiled. A cold, vulpine grin of expectant bloodlust. Time to help Doc out.
Slipping down the tree after a last look around to take in the positions of both his companions and of those stickies visible in the density, Jak slid the .357 Magnum into its holster. The Colt Python was a formidable blaster, but inappropriate for the kind of fighting he would have to engage. In close quarters, there was always a chance that the Magnum shells would pierce a stickie and go clean through, possibly damaging a compatriot too close to the action. He didn’t want to chill Doc while he was trying to save him.
As Jak ghosted through the trees, he could almost taste the stickies as they converged on the old man. Their smell cloyed his sensitive nostrils, sharpening his hunger to thin them out a little.
Doc was fighting hard, fighting well, but he was hugely outnumbered. The stickies came at him from every direction and it was all he could do to thrust, parry and slice a few at a time. His actions drove back those whose blood spilled onto the ground, but they were just replaced by others, equally as intent on ripping Doc to shreds. He was backed up against a tree, holding them at bay on three sides, and praying that none would approach from the rear to pin him to the bough.
“Doc!” Jak yelled by way of warning.
“Thank heavens. I could not wish for any more,” Doc gasped breathlessly.
The stickies were so intent on their task that they paid no heed to the shout from behind them. They couldn’t ignore the whirlwind that swept into their midst, however, rending them asunder with an attack of staggering and intense ferocity.
Jak had palmed a razor-sharp, leaf-bladed knife from the many hiding places in his patched and tattered camou jacket. He had one in each hand, held loosely to facilitate movement, but firm enough so that they wouldn’t drop. His eyes glittered as he focused on the pack in front of him. Some had been cut by Doc; they smelled of blood and fear. It was a sweet smell to him, goading him into action.
The albino teen became a grim-faced chilling machine. Moving quickly, he sliced and chopped, going for vulnerable body areas that would slow and disable first. Many of the stickies he slashed would die from internal injury or loss of blood, the pain preventing them from fighting; to chill every last one of them, one by one, would be too slow a task. Speed was of the essence, here, so unless he was able to strike a chilling blow first time, it was better if he disabled the stickie, returned to it later to finish it off, after Doc was safe.
The blurring form of Jak cutting a swathe through the pack caused enough disturbance for those at the forefront to be distracted, torn between continuing their attack on the old man or turning to face the new enemy.
It was all Doc needed. The distraction Jak caused enabled him to get off his back foot and begin an offensive. He stepped forward, the flashing Toledo steel blade proscribing fatal arcs through the air, striking home chilling blows on the stickies in the front ranks before being swiftly withdrawn and put to the test once more, striking true and removing the enemy from the fray.
Between them, the two companions were able to cut through the muties with ease, turning to deliver chilling blows to those who were still alive and twitching.
It felt as though the tide was beginning to turn. But not, perhaps, for Mildred and Krysty. At shouted cries from both Ryan and J.B., they had all tried to find a central point at which they could converge, a point from which they could fight back-to-back, knowing that they stood no chance of hitting each other if they were the source of noise, directing fire. It would have been a simple enough plan if not for the fact that darkness was descending too rapidly in the already gloomy cover of the forest and the noise was such that it was hard to pick out direction as they exchanged calls, desperately trying to locate one another.
Stickies loomed in and out of the darkness, confused by the shooting, angered by the chilling of their fellow pack members, bloodlust fuelled by the smell of their own dead—and driven almost to distraction by the sound of beating hooves and distant cries that could faintly be heard over the pandemonium.
Whatever had whipped the pack into such a frenzy in the first place was now catching up with them. It would be a case of “shoot first, ask questions after.” The four companions, isolated in their search for one another, fighting off stray stickies who stumbled upon them in the darkness, knew that they would also be easy prey for whatever pursued the stickies.
Ryan and J.B. had holstered their blasters, unwilling to indulge in a firefight when there was a good chance of hitting each other in the confusion. Ryan had taken the panga from its thigh sheath; the heavy blade was causing stickie blood to flow copiously. Likewise, J.B. was using his Tekna knife, taking out the mutie attackers as they stumbled across him, or vice versa as he tried to find the others.
For Mildred and Krysty there was no such luxury. The women didn’t have knives. Unwilling, like the men, to indulge in hazardous blasterfire, both used their blasters as clubs. It was fortunate that the muties were prone to blindly rush into attack and that the women were trained and practiced in unarmed combat. It was relatively easy for them to use their skills to stop the muties laying hands on them, even though the clammy, sticky-padded fingers clung to their clothing and flesh when the muties were able to lay hands on them—hard to dislodge and repulsive to the touch. Once the creatures had been disarmed and brought to ground, the butts of the handblasters delivered fatal, skull-crunching blows, the thin skulls of the muties caving easily.
But