The thing’s head was shaped like a bony spade at the end of a powerful, but oddly shorter than “normal” neck. It moved slowly through the thick grass and light snow, shoveling it aside with its head in wide, sweeping motions and heaping the grass into large piles beside it. For a time, it then stood still, eating the dark, lush, still-greenish stuff it harvested.
“Look at that!” Aguri had said. “He has plenty to eat. I wonder why he’s by himself?”
“Maybe he’s an old bull and doesn’t like company. Maybe something got the rest of his herd and he’s the last one left,” Toru said.
“Or maybe he’s just grumpy, an outcast from his kind,” speculated Aguri.
“Outcast . . . like us?” Toru chuckled darkly. “Come,” he said, standing from the vantage point where they’d watched the monster. “Let’s get back. We won’t find anything today. Perhaps the snow has everything curled up in a warm bed.”
“I doubt it,” Aguri said. “I’m sure they’re used to it.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know much at all.”
“Neither do I. That’s why we’re here, Toru.”
“Well, let’s get back, anyway. I don’t like leaving Umito so long with that pack of jackals.”
“How much longer must we remain here?” Aguri asked. “Umito can’t last, and those Grik could never catch us if we fled.”
Toru nodded. The timing was just about right. They no longer needed the Grik to carry supplies—there weren’t any left. Also, only four Grik remained; each far more weakened by hunger and exposure than the Japanese sailors. “We must wait a while longer. Umito still lingers, and though he has begged me to, I will not leave him until he has joined his . . . impossibly distant ancestors.” He paused. “You know what will happen to him even then, and we must not allow it. As soon as Umito passes, we will slay the remaining Grik and then move on—get off this damn plateau. It must be warmer at the lower elevations near the sea, agreed?”
The three men had grown close, and Toru didn’t expect an argument from Aguri. There was none. As they’d known all along, a confrontation with their captors was inevitable. It had always been a matter of timing. As it turned out, the exact timing of their plan was a little off, as were the circumstances that precipitated it. When they trudged back to their camp, they discovered their Grik “allies” frantically devouring their—hopefully already dead—friend, and as quickly as a brain can comprehend a thing the eyes try to tell it, everything suddenly changed.
“Aaieeee!” shrieked Aguri, and charged down the slope into the little bowl where their camp lay, bayonet thrust forward before him. All he saw was the spattered blood on the snow and the mangled shreds of his friend dangling from savage jaws.
“No, Aguri!” Toru yelled, bringing his rifle up. One Grik sprang at Aguri, and he and the other man both shot it. It went down, writhing, but another reacted just as quickly. Toru worked his bolt—too slow!—but Aguri lowered his bayonet with a roar and buried it in the creature’s chest up to the handguard—where it stuck. Toru shot a third Grik, still wolfing down gobbets of Umito as fast as it could, and the creature merely collapsed atop the scattered, unrecognizable corpse. But there was still Bashg.
The Grik leader approached Aguri from an angle, leaving Toru without a clear shot. Realizing Aguri’s bayonet was jammed, Bashg plucked a coal from the fire with his claws and held it to the slow match on his musket until it sputtered and smoked. He slid aside the plate covering the priming powder in the pan. “This work now. Less stomachs, lots eat!” he said, almost excitedly. “Us go quick now, do orders!”
Frantically, Aguri released the bayonet from his muzzle and tried to chamber another round, looking at Bashg. Toru was running downslope. Bashg must have realized the fight wasn’t over after all, and before Aguri could raise his rifle, he squeezed the lever on the bottom of his gun. The glowing match descended, lit the charge, and a huge, bloody hole appeared on Aguri’s back as the heavy ball exited and whirred away.
“Stu’id,” Bashg said, surprised. “Lots eat already.” He saw Toru approaching. “Stu’id Jaaph,” he said. “No di’rence. Just us now.”
“No,” Toru snarled, aiming at Bashg’s head. “Big difference. Just me.”
Now, almost ten days later, Toru Miyata was alone. He had a compass to guide him, but it had snowed nearly every night since he lost his friends, and the daytime sky was gray and gloomy. He just didn’t understand the weather, and it was taking a toll on him, despite his dwindling supply of fire-dried Grik flesh. He thought he knew roughly where he was and he should’ve crossed the frontier of the “others” by now; however, he saw no sign of habitation, and he didn’t know how many more miles he had in him. Still, he’d escaped Kurokawa and ultimately the Grik themselves. Despite losing his friends, at least he was free. Unfortunately, if he didn’t find other friends soon, or if this damnable weather didn’t break, he was doomed.
He was roused from his stumbling, exhausted stupor by a terrifying screech and the sound of heavy beasts running toward him. Panicked, he looked toward the noise, knowing his moment of inattentiveness had cost him his life. His panic turned to amazement. Four men, mounted on horses, galloped to a stop before him, rifles slung on their shoulders.
“Blimey!” said one bearded horseman. “It’s a man!”
“Ja,” replied another. “A dead one, if we don’t get him quickly to shelter.”
“Blimey,” the first muttered again. “Looks like a Chinaman or somethin’. Wonder where he’s from.”
“Perhaps we may find out, if we save him,” came the bantering reply. “He must have quite a tale to tell.”
“I do,” Toru suddenly croaked, splitting a lip. “The world’s at war, and the Grik will soon drag you into it.”
Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Page 50