by James Axler
That was one less, but they were still outnumbered about six to one.
J.B. rattled off a series of shots that chilled three of the stickies and grazed the flesh of several more. But instead of driving them away, as it would have done with stickies they had encountered elsewhere, it only served to make the creatures more crazed. They attacked with a greater fervor, and J.B. found himself flung to the ground by two of the wounded stickies, who had launched themselves through the air. The Uzi was knocked from the Armorer's hands by the impact, the strap still twisted around his wrist. Unfortunately for J.B. that only hampered him even further, as one of the stickies landed on top of the blaster, his body weight pulling the strap taut and causing the blood flow to stop, deadening the Armorer's hand and leaving him with only one arm to defend himself.
Ryan, meanwhile, had turned the Steyr in his hands, now wielding it as a club to try to clear space for himself by taking out as many stickies as possible with one swing. He counted on the fact that the stickies were so crazed in their attack to help him that they rushed blindly into the heavy stock of the rifle, their own momentum increasing the force with which it hit them at head level. There was the sickening sound of cracking bone and the squelch of soft flesh as two of the stickies died, their skulls crushed, brains pulped. At the extreme end of his swing, Ryan looked back to the forest. If they could get some space and move back, would they be able to take cover and establish a position of strength back there? The darkness hid the root system, and there was every chance that they would be tripped by the raised knots, and so make themselves even more vulnerable than they were now. He couldn't credit stickies with having planned that aspect of the ambush, but if nothing else it proved that lady luck had a mutie face that day.
While Ryan and J.B. were trying to deal with the stickies that had headed for them, the others were dealing with their attackers with varying degrees of difficulty.
Inevitably Jak was faring the best. Despite his initial shock at the silence with which the stickies had waited, allied to his sense of foreboding, his instincts and life of fighting kicked in with a vengeance. His white hair whipping around his head like pale flames, he turned and spun among the group of stickies who had approached him. They were being held at bay by the swift kicking of his heavy combat boots, and the razor-sharp whirl of the leaf-bladed knife that he held in each hand, wrists supple and twisting to angle the blades with each thrust at any exposed white and sickly flesh that came within range.
Many of the stickies attacking him were nursing wounds and trying with pitiful little wails to staunch the blood that flowed through their papery skin. But despite the fact that he was seemingly on top of the situation, he was only too well aware that he was doing no more than containing the situation. They couldn't get to him yet, but inevitably he would tire sooner or later, and with the large number of stickies surrounding him, he couldn't as yet see a way to change defense to attack.
While Jak puzzled on that with a portion of his mind that wasn't occupied with defense, Krysty was on the other side of Ryan, her hair clinging close to her head and her mouth set in a grim line as she dealt with the forces attacking her.
She held her .38 Smith & Wesson in one hand, but was using the barrel as a club, her arm moving in an almost beautiful economy of effort to whip the barrel against the flesh of any stickie that was within range, the sight on the end of the snubbed barrel cutting through tender flesh and drawing blood and cries of pain from its victims. Those stickies who got past the barrel found that Krysty had a superb sense of balance, as she used one foot to anchor herself, and the other to shoot out a series of gracefully executed yet rock-hard kicks, the silver tips on the toes of her blue Western boots striking home hard. One stickie who got past her guard and right up to her felt the hard bone of her elbow as she drove it back and into its face when it tried to grab her from behind. The stickie's cheekbone shattered under the impact, the compression forcing one eyeball from its socket to dangle wetly on its cheek as it fell backward, screaming with a piercing, high-pitched shrill.
A small victory for the Titian-haired warrior, but she was as aware as Jak of the fact that she was only keeping them back, not making headway. And soon she would start to tire.
Farther back in the line, Dean was encountering problems. His Browning Hi-Power had taken out a couple of stickies with accurate shots that had removed chunks of scalp and cleaned most of the brainpan. But once again, he had discovered that the sheer weight of numbers was telling against him, and the Browning slipped from his grasp when a stickie had cannoned into him from behind, driving him forward and causing his arm to drop. Another stickie grabbed the fallen arm and bit into it, drawing blood with the needle-sharp teeth and making Dean scream with the sudden pain. His arm temporarily deadened by the pain, he dropped the blaster, which was lost beneath an onrush of bodies.
Dean found himself weighed down by four stickies: one behind and three attempting to drag him down from the front. With his free arm, he jabbed and caught one of his attackers beneath its ribs, doubling it with pain and causing it to fall back. Twisting, he flung the stickie on his back over his shoulder, trying to pinball it into at least one of the pair that still clung on to the front of him. But although the stickie on his back rolled over his shoulder and hit the ground with a bone-jarring shudder on its shoulder joint, dislocating the right shoulder, it failed to connect with either of its intended targets. Which left the young Cawdor in grave trouble. The momentum of his twist had unbalanced him, leading him right into the grasp of the stickies that clung to his front, enabling them to pull him to the ground, where he landed face first. He felt the suckers on their fingers pulling at him through his clothes, and he lashed out with his leg, hoping to catch one of them a glancing blow with his heavy boot. But he could only hope for assistance before the agony of having his flesh ripped and eaten by the stickies.
Assistance that Mildred would have given if she, too, was not under dire threat.
When the stickies burst from the bushes and down from the trees, Mildred had tried to draw her Czech-made ZKR target pistol, but found that a sharp-eyed stickie—with considerably more cunning and intelligence than could be expected from such a mutie— had picked up a stone and skimmed it with remarkable accuracy. It caught her between the thumb and index finger, dealing her a blow that was at first acutely painful, but within a fraction of a second numbed her hand, causing the pistol to drop from her fingers. Before she had a chance to recover, the group of stickies was upon her.
Mildred struck out with her hand, pushing with power from the shoulder, her fingers outstretched and rigid. She caught the leading stickie in the throat, causing its eyes to bulge and a bubbling, strangled cry to escape from its throat. The only drawback to this first blow was that her iron-hard fingers penetrated the thin skin and soft flesh of the stickie, catching in the tangle of veins, arteries and tendons that crowded the throat. A sickening sucking sound emanated from the already chilled mutie as Mildred tried to pull her hand free.
It disabled her at a crucial moment, especially as the increasing deadweight of the mutie dragged her forward and off balance, no matter how hard she dug in. It was all the encouragement the others needed, as they swarmed over her and pulled her even more off balance.
Mildred stumbled forward, her free arm flailing to strike out and away at as many as she could, her plaits whipping around her head and blurring her vision as the fetid breath and sharp teeth nipped at exposed flesh.
How she would get out of this, she had no idea, but she refused to panic, knowing that as long as she retained some kind of calm and kept striking out she could get lucky, remove enough of them with one good haymaker to give her the time to scramble back to her feet. Maybe.
Doc, on the other hand, was faring better than perhaps would have been thought. He was wily, and the very fact that he always teetered on the brink of sanity meant that he was sometimes better equipped to keep hold of his reflexes in moments of great stress. This was one
of those times.
Although Doc carried the LeMat percussion pistol, the shot charge of which would have ripped the life from a fairly large group of stickies with little problem, his racing mind realized that he wouldn't have enough time to draw the large blaster and then discharge it accurately before the group was upon him. He decided within the blink of an eye that his only option was to trust the blade.
Eschewing his blaster, Doc drew the swordstick from the silver lion's-head cane that had been assisting him in his passage. The blade of tempered Toledo steel, finely honed and gleaming in the late afternoon rays of the sun, cut through the air in a preparatory series of shapes that betrayed Doc's fencing skills, and seemed to have a temporarily mesmerizing effect on the group of stickies who had singled out the old man.
It was for less than a second, but it gave Doc enough of an opportunity to take guard and size up the potential targets. Five of them were directly in front of him, with one off to his left and attempting to flank him. It crossed his mind that a stickie with intelligence was a rare thing…a thought that he dismissed with a sudden pivot of the heel and a thrust and parry that inscribed a slashed arc across the white flesh of the stickie's throat. Hot blood gushed out onto the grass, staining it a dull crimson.
It was no longer that most dangerous of things, a clever stickie…now merely chilled.
Doc turned his attention to the main group. They attacked as a mass, and Doc swept an arc of the blade across them, trying to inflict the maximum damage with the minimum of effort, realizing that the one thing he, of all the companions, couldn't afford to do was waste effort and energy in such a battle.
Although he inflicted flesh wounds that made the stickies yell and squeal in agony, he was unable to deliver a chilling blow. The fact that they attacked in such a mass meant that they—perhaps inadvertently—protected one another, preventing him from piercing vital organs. He was able to keep them at bay, but for how long? He grinned in a humorless, vulpine sneer, his white teeth exposed in grim determination. Doc hadn't come this far to be defeated easily by a bunch of stickies. If the whitecoats of Operation Chronos couldn't see the end of him, if Cort Strasser couldn't see the end of him, if every human enemy they had encountered couldn't see the end of him, then he would be forever damned if he would let a bunch of stickies finally snuff out the life of Dr. Theophilus Tanner.
It was a thought that would keep him going: the question was for how long.
And where would help come from?
THE ANSWER to Doc's silent question—the question that all of the companions, in their own way, had asked themselves—came from an unexpected source.
The noise of their battle had obscured all else, and they were unable to hear the progress of a large group of people through the forest. Now they emerged, both from the path that Jak had picked out for his group, and also from the bushes and treetops that the stickies had so recently used. Using the noise of the fight in the enclosure to mask their own progress, they formed a pincer movement that also saw them close off the open end of the enclosure, cutting off any escape the stickies might try to make into the open veld beyond.
They attacked the stickies with a series of hollered cries and screams that seemed to also be a series of signals to one another for a battle formation, as they followed one another in a chanted pattern.
None of the companions could get a clear glimpse of the group who had joined the fray. Were they friend or foe? What did they look like? It was hard to tell, as Ryan's party was being forced to their knees—in some cases literally—by the onslaught of stickies.
Nonetheless, they all took heart from the rapidly realized fact that the newcomers were targeting the stickies, and seemed to be coming to their assistance. "Goodness me, I should have realized that the concept of the fairer sex no longer existed, but this is beyond me," Doc muttered to himself as the newcomers aided him in driving back the stickies.
Ryan and Jak, also still on their feet, were taken aback by the identity of their rescuers, as indeed was Krysty—but not, like Doc, by their sex.
Ryan and Krysty knew that women could be as competent in combat as men, but were surprised by the fact that every one of the Amazons who were whirling around them in battle was slight in stature. Not a single one they could see clearly appeared to be above five and a half feet in height, and neither did any of them appear to be heavily built. In fact, all of them were slight of build, although their muscles glistened with the perspiration of effort and the slick blood of their enemies, showing a glinting definition. If Ryan Cawdor had come across them in an idle moment, he wouldn't have thought them capable of such sustained ferocity.
But it was Jak who was the most surprised, and for a reason that none of the others could ever have guessed. For, approaching him in a whirling dance of coordinated kicks and arm movements that allowed the panga she wielded to cut through exposed stickie flesh, came a woman who was all too familiar to him. She was only about five feet—smaller than many of her companions—but carried with her an air of controlled ferocity and authority that set her apart from the others. Her hair was a flaming red, yet lighter than Krysty's, and flowing like liquid fire in the slanting rays of the fading sun. It spun around her in perfect time as she moved, with a hip-swaying easy grace, screaming high-pitched cries that contained a husky note that Jak found familiar. She wore a T-shirt tied beneath her small breasts, exposing a bronzed midriff that ran flat and muscled into a pair of cutoff shorts. Thonged sandals, laced up her taut calves, allowed her to arch her toes into points that hit home with as much power and force as the straightened fingers of her free hand, the blood s00plashed panga whirling in the other.
The group of women fighters had eschewed the use of blasters in such circumstances, the close-quarters fighting making it a risky option. Instead they were using a variety of pangas and machetes that were obviously well honed, to judge by the way in which they were chopping through the opposition. The turn of the tide in favor of Ryan and his people increased their determination by turns, and they fought back with renewed vigor. The stickies dragged from the now prone bodies of J.B., Mildred and Dean allowed these three to recover some ground, and use their superior strength and fighting intelligence to go on the offensive.
Doc found himself back-to-back with a blond Amazon, matching every slashing movement of his Toledo steel blade with her own blood-slicked machete. She was up to his shoulder, reaching about five-six, and her blond mane, hacked into a rough bob, flicked against his cheek as she protected his left side, lashing out at a crazed and brave stickie that flung itself at the pair of them. For its blood lusting bravery it was rewarded by having its head cleaved in two by one hefty blow.
"It is an honor to have you at my back, madam," Doc commented as he slashed yet another scar upon a stickie torso.
"Don't say that until you've proved yourself, sweetie," she replied with a crack in her voice that gave the words sinister import.
Doc raised an eyebrow, but was too concerned with protecting himself from the last few stickies to answer immediately or to ponder on what she may have meant by that last remark.
Meanwhile, Jak had been almost fatally distracted by the appearance of the woman in his dream. He had been grappling hand to hand with a stickie who had launched itself straight at the albino. Jak's left hand formed a cup that smacked under the stickie's chin, forcing its head back and up, while the albino's other hand fished for a leaf-bladed knife, those he had previously held having been lost within the guts of now-chilled stickies. Producing one from within the myriad folds of his patched camou jacket, he used it to gut the stickie as calmly and efficiently as he would gut a fish. He released his hand when he felt the stickie's head cease to resist against his arm, instead falling to a deadweight in his palm.
As this stickie dropped to the earth, the whirling dervish that was the dream woman came nearer, and for a second their eyes made contact. Her features were as sharp and defined as he could recall, and her eyes as large, blue and pier
cing as had been impressed on his memory. So piercing and hypnotic that it seemed that time had stood still for a second. There was no sign of recognition in those blue pools, but instead a warning.
A warning Jak heeded a fraction of a second too late. A yelling stickie leaped at him from just to the rear of his right shoulder, catching him enough off guard to prevent his using the mutie's momentum to roll it harmlessly away from his body. The wild creature cannoned into him, knocking him off balance and making him stumble to his left, his feet skipping across the grassy earth in an attempt to keep balance while he twisted his upper body and tried desperately to get a hand beneath the stickie's body to try to jab beneath the ribs and dislodge it from him so that he could get in a killing blow. He could feel the suckered fingers of one hand become entangled in his hair, pulling at it and reaching for his scalp to try to tear at the skin. His face was close to that of the stickie, its dark and characterless eyes glittering with hatred into his red orbs, its teeth bared in a triumphant snarl as its breath enveloped him in a noxious cloud that made him want to puke.
And then there was another smell in the air, a scent that was warmer, sweeter and more earthy. The smell of flaming red hair and glistening skin. A breath colored by nuts and berries.
"Hey, stupidworks…eat this, you fuck," husked a voice, followed by a deafening explosion.
Jak saw the stickie's head dissolve in close-up before his eyes…eyes that blinked as gray brain matter and red, hot blood showered over him. The woman had drawn a handblaster and had discharged it into the stickie's ear. At such close range, the sound of the blaster almost parted Jak from his hearing, and the smell of cordite obscured the stench of flesh and blood violently torn asunder.