The raptors took notice of him, the new threat. They stopped advancing and spread out parallel to him, slightly less than a hundred yards away.
“Wait! You can’t!” Eve yelled after him.
He just did. A pack this small did not frighten him.
“What the hell are you doing?” Noah asked from behind.
Cory ignored them both. He weaved through the layers of razor wire and made his way to the pole where the tied-up man continued to thrash against his bonds. He would know in a few seconds if Noah planned to have him shot. Bold moves were usually rewarded, or so he had read.
“No, please, no,” the man said. “I didn’t do nothin’!”
Cory drew his katana. In one efficient stroke, he sliced through the ropes tying the wounded man to the pole. He expected the man to flee and seek safety, or plead his case again with Noah. This would give him the seconds he needed to get out of bowshot range. But instead of standing, running, or even attempting to move away from the pole, the man fell to the ground, screaming. Cory lunged to catch the guy, but failed to reach him in time. He ended up squatting on one knee next to him. He had not counted on the guy being unable to move at all. He figured the guy would do anything possible to drag himself back to the compound. Unarmed against raptors? That was suicide.
The man held his hands clamped over his leg and seemed unwilling to budge. The pale tip of a splintered bone peeked out from between his fingers, and dark blood oozed from the gash the protruding bone had made. Cory looked over his shoulder. Noah remained on the wall, watching him, not saying a word, silver hair glowing in the torchlight. Sneering, Cory turned back to the injured man. Searching the ground nearby, he looked for something to use on the open wound, a piece of cloth, leaves, something. He found nothing of use there, so he reached for the guy’s shirt, intending to tear it.
Bowstrings thrummed. Instinctively, Cory braced for the expected impact. Nothing hit him. Nor did any of the arrows land near him. He heard another volley whiz by, flying past overhead. His gaze followed them out to the open field. The raptors were running straight at him.
He pinched his left nostril closed and blew to clear his nose. Then he did the same on his right. He rose from his spot next to the wounded man and stepped forward to meet the charge. His black leather duster puffed out behind him as he marched to the threat.
Another flight of arrows whistled past. Two of the charging raptors fell dead.
The weighted ropes he had seen earlier went spinning by overhead, whirling in the air on their way to meet the oncoming raptors. He suddenly remembered the name for the weighted ropes, bolas, South American, Spanish, something like that. The spinning bolas made a thumping sound as they skipped across the graded dirt. At the end of their journey, they entangled the legs of a pair of charging raptors, causing them to stumble and fall. More arrows followed, streaking past, finding marks. But the main pack kept coming, still closing in on Cory. The corners of his mouth formed into a wicked half-smile. Now, he could put all the bullshit behind him and do what he did best. Kill raptors.
He loosened his muscles by taking a few wide, circular swings with the katana. Then he raised the sword, holding it up with both hands while stepping forward to close the distance with the creatures. As he moved into the beam cast by the car-headlight spotlight, he brought the sword up and into the light. The polished steel caught the beam and flashed like a bolt of lightning escaping a storm. Inhaling deeply, he absorbed their foul, rotten stink. Forgetting everything else, the journey, the compound, escape, the dying man, the many troubles he left behind, the new troubles ahead, he wiped his mind clean of thought, and the nerves of his body screamed out for input. He was the predator, and they were his prey. Snarling back at them, he stepped into the melee. With an efficient downward stroke, he planted his feet and cut, using the motion of the first raptor to power the blade cleanly through its neck, separating the head from the body. The body fell dead onto the brown grass, while inertia carried the head bouncing past. Following through on the motion, he switched focus to a new target and spun the sword in a circle to bring it down on the backbone of another. The blade slid between the creature’s vertebrae and cut through the cords of its spine. Blood spurted out in a red, fan-shaped spray. He selected another raptor and twisted his hips to load them up and generate power. He then unspooled, letting the sword trail his sideways motion. Slightly before his shoulders squared with the raptor, he let his wrists snap. The blade whipped around, slicing through meat and bone.
Flowing from one motion to the next, he spun the katana above his head in a cruel arc of steely death then stepped to one side and directed the motion downward to shear cleanly through the extended neck of another creature. It skidded to a halt and flopped lifelessly to the ground. A torrent of red sprayed at him. He let the sticky wetness wash over him and coat him with crimson gore. He paused to lick his lips. Then he and his whirling blade continued on their lethal mission. As he killed more, he felt as if each creature’s life energy was flowing from the blade and into him. He tingled with excitement. He was Elric of Melniboné, one of his childhood heroes. Two more charged at him, side by side, close enough to each other that with one redirected, helical stroke, he cut under the jaw of one raptor and deep into the neck of the other. The razor-sharp edge made easy work of slicing bone, flesh, and sinew. He swung around to secure his footing, balancing on two legs equally, rooting himself to the ground. He let the weight of the moving blade provide the necessary tension to his muscles as he coiled up like a winding spring. Licking his lips again, he tasted the metallic blood that had misted on his face. He did not enjoy their stench, or their meat, but the taste of fresh raptor blood was ever so sweet.
A flicker of movement demanded his attention. Dropping to one knee, he used the tension stored in his body to accelerate the blade. Extending his arms, he executed a spiraling cut, killing a charging raptor and stopping it where it stood, leaving behind two cleaved pieces. From there, he spun on one knee, letting inertia carry the sword around to slice off the legs of another raptor that had approached from behind. It fell to the ground squirming. Three small raptors rushed him, bunched together as if seeking protection in numbers. He lopped off the head of the nearest and turned sideways, using the dying body of the first to block the other two. The headless raptor fell to the ground. He swept high to low on one of those remaining and sliced off its leg. The third hopped over its dead pack mate, and he met it head on, thrusting the blade through its wishbone, burying the sword deep into the creature’s vitals and chewing up organs. He spun, pulling hard on the blade. It came free with a wet, slurping sound and flung thick clumps of viscera across the field. Only a few raptors remained. He looked up and located the pack leader. It was far off in the distance, watching him, pacing.
The pack leader snapped at an injured raptor next to it, biting down hard on the thing’s neck. The larger raptor lifted the injured one off the ground and over its head. The smaller one squirmed and squealed in the leader’s jaws before it was summarily shaken to death. The leader then flung the limp body to the ground and started for the trees. The remaining raptors followed, nipping at their master’s heels.
New flights of arrows flew out to catch the fleeing raptors, but all came up short.
Cory dropped to his knees. He was covered head to toe in raptor blood. It dripped off his jacket and stuck to his face, pants, and shirt. He opened his mouth and cried out in victory. In that one singular moment, he lost himself in his own personal ecstasy. Bloodlust had filled him to overflowing. But sadly, like all feelings of euphoria, it faded away almost as quickly as it had come, leaving him on his knees, panting. He looked to the trees where the raptors had fled with regret. He wished he’d had the opportunity to challenge the pack leader. He thought of following, but if he ran after them now, the trees would take away the open space, which he needed to do his work. The second pack had also vanished. They could be watching him now to see what he would do. All this meant he would need to
delay his escape. Running into the trees now would be suicide. He had another idea. It would just require a little more time, a little delay.
He returned to the tied-up man and knelt to check the guy’s status. None of the raptors had even come close to the injured man. The guy was sitting with his back propped up against the wooden pole and holding both hands over his injured leg. Blood bubbled between his fingers. It was pouring out onto the patchy grass. He continued to plead his innocence, only now, those pleas were feeble and muddled.
“So, what’s your name?” Cory asked.
“Tim,” the guy whispered. “Name is Tim. Don’t let me die. I didn’t do nothing, I swear.”
“Relax. Let me see.”
Tim eased up a little. Cory pushed the man’s hands away from the wound in order to inspect it. The gash went deep, creating a furrow of torn muscle and skin. It was difficult to tell the exact extent of the injury. As he examined it, though, probing around with his fingers while Tim protested meekly, he could feel pieces of splintered bone moving about. They had ground themselves into the pulpy flesh. Blood was pumping out of the wound in rhythmic spasms. A piece of bone must have nicked the femoral artery when he had fallen from the post, but not severed the blood vessel completely. He knew what an injury like that meant.
“No, no. Please don’t let me die. Don’t let me die like this. Help me. Please.”
Cory bowed his head, breathing hard and slow. He put a hand on Tim’s shoulder and squeezed, and then returned to his feet. He tensed, placed both hands on the katana and twisted them on the handle.
“So, where are you from, Tim?” he asked.
Tim looked up to answer. With a single swipe of the blade, Cory removed Tim’s head and drove the blade all the way through the wooden post. The head dropped into the dirt and rolled over twice before settling. The eyes blinked, then stilled. The pole toppled over slowly, picking up speed before finally bouncing off the ground and rolling a few feet away. Turning, Cory wiped the blade on the last remaining clean patch on his jeans and slid the sword into the sheath on his back. He owed the blade blood, and he had delivered.
“Sorry, Tim,” he said somewhat remorsefully. He had only hastened the man’s inevitable death. It would also get the attention of those inside the compound. Maybe make them all think twice about shooting him or coming after him when he ran, which he still planned to do. He had already spotted the path he would take, right back up the road where he had first arrived. Once he made it to the road, he could follow it all the way to the highway, looking for spots to hide along the way. He would have to leave behind his backpack and would need to rebuild his supplies from scratch. He did hope to find a stream or another source of water soon and wash himself off because it was hard to think covered in so much gore and stinking like a slaughterhouse. The raptors would be able to track him by scent alone.
He heard something coming up behind him. He whirled. In one lightning-fast motion, he drew his katana and brought it to the center of his body, preparing to either attack or defend himself. The half-dozen men holding bows drawn to their cheeks forced him to reconsider.
-19-
RUN AWAY
JESSE’S HEART THUMPED in his chest. At that moment, he wished he were alone in the hallway, wished he could have opened the door, stepped outside the room, and there would have been nothing there, nothing at all, but wishes were just that, wishes. Since he lived in the real world, the one in which wishes rarely, if ever, came true, he had to act. So, he pivoted to face the location where the raptors had been trying to breach the wall. The cone of light given off by the flashlight affixed to his shotgun gave him barely enough illumination to see the six pairs of glowing eyeballs that stared back at him. He fought to keep the shotgun steady. The door snapped shut behind him.
The raptors paused as if the rapid change in light had temporarily blinded them, and then suddenly, they came at him all at once. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. He heard his own heartbeat, once, twice. He brought the shotgun up, jammed it back into the pocket of his shoulder, and swung the barrel toward the nearest set of glowing eyes. He squeezed the trigger. The gun barked, throwing a jet of red flame from the barrel. He pumped and fired again before the husk of the first shotgun shell hit the floor. Two raptors exploded, sending out crisscrossing streamers of red in the beam of the flashlight. The reports from the shotgun blasts echoed from the other end of the corridor in two, successive booms that seemed seconds apart. The other raptors hesitated and turned slowly.
They came for him.
He began to pivot so he could run. Slowly, he was moving so slowly. He wanted to move fast. Halfway through his turn, he felt a slight tug on his shirt. A new jolt of panic surged through him.
No! She’d shut the door. He’d seen her do it. Spinning, he aimed wildly. His sense of time sped up to normal. Where are you? Duck! Now! Can’t see! The flashlight cast its narrow beam down the hallway. She wasn’t there. Where was she? Standing where he thought her to be was yet another set of glowing orbs attached to yet another raptor. It must have crept up behind him and raked him with its claws. He hadn’t felt more than a slight tug. He steadied himself, locked aim on the thing’s head, and pulled the trigger. The head popped open, sending rippling chunks of flesh spinning off behind it. The creature’s body slumped sideways and crumpled against the wall. Before it had fully collapsed on the floor, he took off running. Blindly, he twisted the gun behind him and fired at the trailing pack. He had wanted to go the other way, lead them back through his snares, but there were too many to chance it. Maybe he could circle around them and lead them along behind. He heard dozens of angry, sharp claws scraping at the cement floor, seeking traction. He turned and fired again. With a sinking feeling, he realized that when he was in the room with the girl, he had forgotten about the extra shells he’d stashed there. He had two more shells on him but would need to slow down long enough to reload. He couldn’t stop now. He had to keep running.
At the end of the hallway, he turned right and sprinted down another branch, running hard. When he reached the next intersection leading left or right, he slammed into the far wall and rolled off it, meaning to circle back to where his traps were set or maybe climb the stairs. The narrow section he entered ran back to the stairwell and intersected with the main corridor containing the snares. He stumbled forward a few more steps. As he straightened, his foot slipped on something wet. He tripped. He tried to reach out with his free hand to brace himself and absorb the impact, but as he fell, he lost control of the shotgun. It clattered when it hit the floor and spun away from him, and the light from the attached flashlight winked and then went out, leaving him in near perfect darkness.
He heard them coming back for him. Scrambling along on his knees, he reached out for the shotgun. It wasn’t there. All he felt was the cold floor. He crawled a little to the left, checked again.
Still nothing.
The clicking behind him grew louder. Then he heard them stop. They started snorting, snarling. They were close, searching for him, trying to track him by scent. Hoping to remain silent, he reached out again. Something fell from the pocket of his shirt. It tinked on the cement and rolled away. The raptors must have heard it too, because they took off running. He reached forward. This time his fingers touched the barrel and snatched up the gun, pulling it close to his chest and spinning, not knowing if he was pointing it in the right direction. He hoped so. The flashlight on the shotgun flickered once, twice, and blinked out, leaving him with only afterimages of the hallway. He’d seen nothing, but he could still hear them. And, they sounded as if they were getting farther away.
They were going the wrong way. Back to the girl? Why?
He raised the gun closer to his face and slapped the flashlight, then jiggling it until it stayed lit. Shoving himself to his feet, he raised the light to look back down the corridor the way he had come. The corridor was empty. He heard them stop. When they started moving again, the clicking of their nails grew louder. They were coming
for him. Any second. He turned. In the inky blackness, the flashlight illuminated a figure with mottled white and pink skin. It was a raptor, and not just any raptor. The creature snorted. He swallowed hard, feeling like his tongue had slid down the back of his throat.
It was the pack leader, the same one he had seen outside on the car. Either he’d misjudged its size at the time, or up close, it just seemed a hell of a lot bigger. The thing stared back at him as if it had all the time in the world. It cocked its head to one side then the other. This was certainly the ugliest one he had ever seen. It must have been one of the oldest, too. Misshapen, cracked, pink sores covered most of its body, the results of exposure to too much sunlight. The sores oozed yellow pus, which had dried around the lesions into thick, crystalline scabs. The fleshy bag of bloated skin on its head was flopped to one side and was partially engorged. He shuddered in revulsion as he set the gun to his shoulder.
“Time to die, you bastard,” he muttered.
He pulled the trigger. Click. The shotgun failed to fire. With a sinking feeling, he realized he might have made a terrible mistake in counting how many shells he had left in the gun. He also experienced a sudden memory of the man in the Alamo shirt, laughing at him, and running off into the darkness. It was an odd memory to have, but it had come at the right time. His anger flared. Spinning the shotgun around, he swung the butt end at the raptor’s head, smashing the stock against the creature’s ear hole. The raptor opened its jaws and screeched. Jesse stared into the wide-open mouth brimming with sharp, yellow teeth. Some were cracked. Others were covered in black rot. The raptor bellowed again. Flecks of spittle and rancid meat sprayed across Jesse’s face. The stench of decaying flesh was overwhelming. He tried to turn his head sideways to avoid the onslaught, but it did no good. The raptor then drew its head back, preparing to strike with its teeth, preparing to take Jesse apart in one solitary bite and thrash him back and forth until he went limp.
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