by Rex Miller
Unfortunately, Shooter saw him as well. Caught the elephantine killer lumbering up the hill at him and yelled with delight as he slid the empty brass out, inserted a round, and firmly snicked the bolt closed. Eye to the Laco. Crosshairs on the humongous target, which was too fat to even zigzag, like shooting ducks on a pond—an easy squeeze and his worries were over.The big weapon gave him a satisfactory thump as it tooked Chaingang Bunkowski off the count. All Shooter could see on the grass was fresh blood!
Daniel had been shot several times, including a couple of up-close-and-way-too-personal incidents. He wasn't a virgin, as these things go. But there had never been any pain like this.
It was chain pain. The sort of pain he had inflicted many a time—where there's nothing for a few moments and then, as the numbness begins to wear off, it's such a screaming terrible hurting that you think you'll pass out from it. Imagine the pain from a hundred chain whippings.
He had to bite down on it or it would kill him. He had been hit by SAVANT, but his warning system had jerked him to the side just in time, and he'd taken a bad shoulder wound, high on the left shoulder just above the Kevlar vest. Three inches to the right and it would have blown his head off. In his mind, he fixed all his powers on that one point of focus, as he worked his way, on his right side, back to the car and his duffel.
The body is divided into four quads, subdivided again. The small section where he'd taken the hit was walled off inside his brain. He had to stop the pain. Isolate it there. He imagined the shoulder floating above him, freezing the rest of his upper torso in ice. Cutting off the flow of blood from the pain, slowing his vital signs as he made it to the Buick.
There was an up side. He was alive. Functioning. He didn't have the dogs with him—they'd been left at his hideout. This mess was going to be over. He would now do away with a long-time enemy. Battle dressing. Fighting to keep his mind chilly. He had to stay calm. There was a lot of blood but he liked blood. No problem. Bandaged himself and then wrapped some duct tape over the dressing—he was going to be doing some heavy work, he felt sure.
Got the line tracker out of the duffel. The photo interrupter eye had been tampered with. The robot was now a slightly modified toy. It no longer resembled what the store had sold; It was now rather deadly. He got out his coil. Det cord. Clacker. Three-in-one.
Keys. No problem with the right side of his body at all. Experimented with the left as he started the car. Not bad. He could stand it.
He bit down on the pain as if it were a big, mean steak sandwich. Chewed up the hurt and swallowed it. Drove away from the scene of this accident, around the hill that led to the street above the gun pit.
Parked. Got out. Shooter was still scanning the brush below with the weapon. Biding his time on lock and load. Patient and ready.
Chaingang got out and put the line tracker in place. Doused the can of oil on the wheels and bearings. Put it in place and started off to get an angle on the hide which was less than a hundred feet away. If Shooter had seen him crawl to the car he would feel another shot hit him soon. But he made it to the nearby trees and nothing struck him down.
He was close now. He gritted his ugly shark's teeth and switched on the remote control. The line tracker started forward, and momentum carried it straight ahead, tracking no line at all but moving silently on the oiled wheels, rolling in the direction of the gun hide, a Claymore mine wired to the base of the tracker. As the killer robot neared the gun hide, Chaingang triggered the clacker, and the commanddetonator fired out nearly seven hundred steel balls in a sixty-degree forward arc. Shooter was down in the hide when it went off, and the projectiles missed him, but his reflexes were lightning fast and he whirled and squeezed one off in the direction of the blast.
That was what Chaingang wanted—that one moment when Shooter Price was caught with an empty weapon. Chaingang, came charging and puffing and screaming like a rhino of death, and Shooter was scared shitless, trying to eject the shell and jam that next round in the mouth of his bitch before the fucking son of a bitch could reach him, click—the bolt back, the expended brass flying into the dirt, fumbling for a round, the rhino almost on him. Got it! Big cartridge in the chamber, snick! The bolt closed. Just in time to take the shot and cancel this fucking target out, but his hands were stinging and the rifle was fifteen feet away—ooh, man, that chain was big… and hard.
It only took an instant for Chaingang to throw a yard of tractor-strength chain at his target. But an instant can be quite long. This particular one was of sufficient duration for Robert Tinnon Price to register the reality of the chain that was probably going to end his life.
The image snaked into his field of recognition with blinding speed, so as the moment of shattering impact occurred he had time to realize what had come whirling out at him. He did not have time to reflect on it as it smashed into his weapon.
And then there was the big boy himself doing something he would not have thought possible—dropping down beside him and picking up the weapon, not the chain, and roaring like a crazed animal and bending the super-tough tungsten carbide barrel with his bare hands, blood seeping through the wound near his shoulder, putting an L in his lady's throat.
"I'm glad I didn't kill you," Price said to his old comrade of sorts. No longer afraid. "I admire you very much, you know?"
Chaingang, bloodlust coursing through him, only wanted one thing then, and words had no meaning.
"I've always liked your work." Price turned his back, not to run, but to present his neck to be snapped. Inside, there was no fear, only respect and—what surprised Shooter the most—genuine affection. "I'm ready, Daniel," he said, as Chaingang moved forward to rip the sniper limb from limb.
That evening Chaingang woke up, the wound bleeding, something hot and wet in his face.
"Stop that. Stop that, you naughty little boy. What a naughty little boy you are!" He was talking to the pup that was standing on his face. One of its four paws had slipped into his open mouth while he snored. "Those little feet don't taste good. Those paws stink! Those little paws stink!" he said, kissing the dog.
No one who knew the beast would believe that he might be capable of the tenderness he shows these puppies who cavort around his huge form.
The wound looks all right, and he has seen many such wounds. The battle dressing is difficult to change as the duct tape has melted in the heat and movement, but he manages, and throws the bloody bandages away where the puppies can't get at them.
With a grunt he falls back on his sleeping bag, and the five little dogs wiggle against him.
"Don't you worry. You're safe now," the huge beast tells them. And they give him kisses in gratitude, but he yawns and moves suddenly and five puppies scamper for safety. "You're all right," he assures them. The friendliest one returns and tries to paw his mouth open.
"Stop that!" he says, making a noise like the cough of an engine being started. His version of a giggle. "You little devil."
The monstrosity opens his mind, fully relaxed, as he plays with the pups, letting the ideas flow past his mindscreen. How will he call the good doctor out from his fortress? All the usual con games are of no use—the sissy is smart and extremely wary. A woman? He doubts if Dr. Norman even likes women. There must be a way to draw him outside…
On another level, he must find some homes for these little mutts, somewhere they'll be loved, where a child will learn to give each dog gentle, loving care, and as he thinks of the children he is presented with his answer. He knows how he will take Norman down. The barking cough that explodes from him has no relation to the sound of a human laugh, and, wisely, the five little dogs once again run for cover.
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29
Trask finished reading the news account that blamed the spate of Kansas City homicides on a pair of killers, a man described as a renegade sniper, an "ex-mercenary" named Robert Price, and the legendary mass murderer and serial killer, Chaingang Bunkowski, who authorities claimed had escaped from f
ederal prison. It was quite a scandal, and Trask wished he could have been part of the team that finally broke it in the press. He read about the terrible long-range weapon called SHERFSAVANT, and the cache of unique ammunition that had been found. It was some ending to the violence piece, if he'd only had a show to produce it for.
He turned the radio on and heard his ex-boss ask a guest, "Why is there so much violence in America today? And what can we do about it?"
"I'll tell you one thing—we better get serious about putting the crooks and rapists and killers in prisons that can hold them. We coddle them too much. If somebody rapes a child, for instance, they oughtta be castrated, or if it's a woman—you know—something else like that."
"Go back to an eye for an eye?"
"Well—"
"There's no proof that deters crime."
"Lock 'em up then for life and make sure they can't break out. Make the prisons better."
"Who's gonna pay for all these better, bigger prisons? You and I? The taxpayer? You really want to pay, for some more prisons?"
"I'll pay for my share if they take away the damn TVs and the privileges. Make prison tough again. And stop worrying about overcrowded prisons. Stack 'em. in there like cord wood. Why worry about being so humane to animals who rape and molest and murder? Worry, about the victims for a change…" Trask turned the radio off.
All heat and no light.
The room was still papered in notes. He looked at the chronological summary of the violence material. It was as thick as a book. He pictured Sean Flynn at the mike. Listening to himself inside the old pair of Stanton Dynaphase Forty cans he always wore on the air, big vinyl, chrome, and blue steel headphones, plugged into the air monitor. A researcher—probably some kid fresh from Tennessee—and Babaloo would be in there making notes to slip to him. The idea of going back to radio was a repugnant one. He'd had his share of radio.
Trask picked up the story about the sniper weapon and the serial homicides and thought out loud: "I wonder if I could get a book out of this?"
It wouldn't cost anything to try. God knows he had the research already done. Not to mention the dubious distinction of his nightmarish experience as an eyewitness to a kill.
He took some paper and put it in his machine and typed "THE SHOOTER" by Victor Trask. Changed his mind. Pulled it out and inserted a new sheet of paper, typing a fresh title page:
SAVANT
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About this Title
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29