by Adam Carter
“What’s jip?” Cartello asked.
“Pain.”
“Why was its side in pain?”
“I don’t know,” Zebadiah said. “Maybe the big honking knife wound?”
“Knife wound?” Valentine asked, confused. “But there wasn’t any knife wound. The only injury it sustained before it died was the shot Cartello fired through its shoulder.”
Zebadiah shrugged, not much caring.
Valentine’s eyes widened. “It’s a different creature. There are two of them. And we ... we just killed its friend. Maybe even its mate.”
Cartello did not seem at all bothered by the possibility and just rechecked her rifle.
“Would you stop doing that every two seconds!” Valentine snapped. “The damn thing’s loaded fine.”
“Just get itchy fingers when I’m not doing anything,” she said. “So we still have a creature to hunt as well as Hunter.”
“If anyone,” Valentine warned, “says anything about Hunter becoming the prey I swear I’ll scream.”
He noted Stone closed his mouth very quickly indeed.
“Where are you going?” Valentine asked, for Cartello was already halfway out the door.
“Seems to me,” she said, “we have two things left to hunt. Might as well go looking for one.”
“But which one are you going after?”
“Whichever I manage to track first. You keep trying your girlfriend. Maybe she’ll answer.”
“Aubrey’s not my girlfriend.”
“No business of mine.”
And she was gone. Valentine stared after her in abject horror. She had simply walked out on him when two young women were facing imminent death. But there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t fight, he didn’t have the first idea on how to even properly throw a punch. But Whitsmith was out there, and he would not allow her to die while he sat around doing nothing.
He held out his hand to Stone. “Give me your gun.”
“Which one?”
“A ... small one.”
Stone drew a pistol, turned it and handed it over. He looked confused, even partly amused. Valentine ignored him as he tried to work out how to properly hold the thing. Eventually he gave up and shoved it inside his belt.
“Uh, sir?” Stone asked. “It’s going to take a lot more than that to bring down either Hunter or that creature. I think you should lock yourself in your room while I lead a team out after them.”
“I’m not hiding while my secretary’s out there, Stone.”
“I’ll find her. And if she’s alive I’ll bring her back.”
Valentine tried not to wince at that statement. Whitsmith was alive, she had to be. Hunter still thought she needed her, and that would keep her alive. If only he had some clue as to where Hunter might have taken her.
His eyes widened as a thought struck him. He didn’t need to know where Hunter was, he didn’t need to know at all.
“Come on,” he told Stone. “I have an idea.”
His plan should work, in theory. It all hinged on just how bad that storm outside had been.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The ground was strewn with soil and straw, but beneath there was a layer of rock. The chamber was around fifty by fifty metres and entirely vacant of any furniture, obstacles or anything else. There were two doors: one of ordinary size, the other somewhat larger. The walls of the chamber were tall and sturdy, ending at around ten metres in a railing which travelled the entire length of those walls. Whitsmith had no idea what the original use for this chamber might have been, but Dexter Valentine had seen its potential as soon as he had laid eyes upon it. He had termed the area the pit and it was here that former prisoners set their strengths against the various horrors Whitsmith captured from the outside world. The pit would not be used until the current crisis was over, which meant they should remain undisturbed. It was a sound, strategic plan for Hunter to have brought them to the pit, Whitsmith had to admit. It was also ironic, she felt, that she had been brought here to die, just as Whitsmith had brought so many animals before her.
Torrance was not doing so well. She had not spoken much since Whitsmith had laid her against the wall. The single gunshot had sapped the girl of her strength and colour, and no matter what Whitsmith did she could not stop the bleeding. She had seen enough animal wounds in her time to know there was a good chance Torrance would die without immediate medical attention, but sorely doubted Hunter much cared. As for Hunter herself, she had taken a quick look around the pit, to determine its strengths and weaknesses, before returning to Whitsmith with her gun levelled.
“All right,” Hunter said. “You need to start talking.”
Whitsmith ignored her. She was knelt beside Torrance, putting pressure on her wound, blood seeping through her fingers. Torrance’s breathing was haggard, her body was exuding sweat which would have given the storm fair competition. For some reason Whitsmith could not stop the blood flowing and she feared Torrance had some form of condition. Her eyes were unfocused and afraid, and Whitsmith felt a pang of pity for the girl she had never liked.
“I said you need to start talking.”
“I heard you the first time,” Whitsmith snapped. She was going to die, they both were, so she could not see any reason to be nice to her captor. “You haven’t asked any questions yet.” Whitsmith continued to put pressure upon the wound and held the girl’s hand if only for comfort. There was still warmth flowing through that hand, although the strength of her grip was waning fast. “Get me a doctor,” Whitsmith said, “and I’ll tell you everything.”
“You’ll tell me everything or I’ll shoot you.”
“And what will that get you?”
“Fine. I’ll shoot her.”
Whitsmith looked at Hunter then. She stood angrily, her gun covering them both. She was a woman not used to being spoken back to, a woman who felt secure behind the barrel of a firearm. She was everything which Whitsmith had always found despicable about her company in this prison, and could only laugh at the sense of humour Jupiter had to send only more prisoners to this world.
“What are they?” Hunter demanded.
“The creatures?” Whitsmith realised she was going to have to start lying, so said, “They don’t have a name. Not an official one anyway.”
“They’re Lustrum aren’t they?”
“Lustrum?”
“We took this armour from a Lustrum camp to the north. Either the Lustrum ran away from these things, or they created them.”
Whitsmith could not think of any reason why the Lustrum would be involved with these creatures at all. The Lustrum had gone to war with the Earth years ago and had fled at the closing of that conflict. Where they had gone no one could say, but certainly if they had taken root on this world she felt she would have known about it. There would have been some clue over the past five years. Unless this was just such a clue.
“All right, yes,” Whitsmith said. “The Lustrum created them.”
“And they turned on their creators.”
“That’s about it. Frankensteinosaurus.”
Hunter’s eyes narrowed and Whitsmith decided she probably should not bait the woman so much.
“I need to contact the Lustrum,” Hunter continued. “They have a space-worthy craft and I mean to take it.”
“I thought you said the camp was deserted?”
“It was. But they have to have left a token unit behind.”
It was wishful thinking, but Whitsmith did not dare tell her that. She was herself insanely curious as to what this abandoned basecamp might have been, but if Hunter and the others had found it deserted it was a good bet there was still no one there. But that was not exactly what Hunter would want to hear.
A sudden thought struck Whitsmith.
“Have you noticed I don’t much like Torrance here?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Humour me.”
Hunter did not seem in a humouring vein, but she r
eplied through clenched teeth regardless. “I did notice. Probably because she’s younger and more attractive, no?”
Whitsmith was almost impressed that Hunter could be such a cow even under these conditions. “She’s also named Torrance,” Whitsmith said, purposefully vague.
Silence consumed the arena for several moments.
“So?” Hunter finally asked, taking the dangling bait.
Whitsmith smiled inwardly. “I have a file in my chambers. I have a lot of files in my chambers, but I have a file about the Lustrum. We found it when we got here, but it never occurred to us they had a base out here somewhere. That file mentions the name Torrance.”
Hunter stared at her and Whitsmith silently willed her to put two and two together. “So you’re trying to tell me Torrance is a Lustrum?”
Whitsmith wondered why the woman felt the need to say it aloud when Whitsmith could not have been more blindingly obvious. “If you want real answers about these creatures, Hunter, Torrance is the one who can give them to you.”
“Wake her up.”
“Wake her up?”
“Shake her or something.”
“Shake ... Hunter, the girl’s lost a lot of blood. She needs a transfusion, she needs surgery, she needs a ... I don’t know what she needs, but whatever it is I don’t exactly have the equipment in my pocket.”
“So this is a ploy for me to get her to a doctor?”
And an obvious ploy at that, Whitsmith felt. But it was also the only chance Hunter had of even possibly finding out the truth, and she knew Hunter would not be able to take the risk that Whitsmith was telling the truth.
“Stand away,” Hunter said. Whitsmith reluctantly obeyed and Hunter approached the dying girl. With her gun still trained upon Whitsmith, Hunter withdrew something from her belt. It was a syringe, so far as Whitsmith could tell, yet injecting Torrance with anything would not do her much good. But there was something it could be which might do Hunter some good.
“That’s a stimulant isn’t it?” Whitsmith asked worriedly. Some strange form of drug had started appearing with field medics about ten years earlier. It was some form of adrenalin boost mixed with a truth serum, although Whitsmith did not know the specifics. It provided a sudden rush of life to a dying patient, long enough for that patient to report urgent information. It had been developed to be used on dying soldiers, so their allies could find out enemy strengths. It did not save the lives of the soldiers being injected, but could save the lives of any following. Once the rush wore off the cells died more rapidly, killing the soldier. For this reason it had become a banned substance in almost every civilised culture.
Hunter clearly did not care.
“You can’t give her that,” Whitsmith said urgently, realising her lies had just caused the death of the girl she was trying to save. “I made it up. Torrance doesn’t know anything.”
“We’re about to find out.”
“No, seriously. I lied.”
Hunter sighed. “Whitsmith, I’m going to kill her anyway once this is done with. It doesn’t matter all that much how she goes, OK?”
Hunter had spoken so callously that Whitsmith felt sick to her stomach. She watched as Hunter drew the liquid from a small plastic bottle, watched as Hunter tore the sleeve off Torrance’s good arm. Whitsmith stared in horror of what she had done and decided in that moment that she didn’t care what happened now. She may not have liked Torrance, but Hunter’s killing ended here.
With a primal roar she had learned from a gorgosaurus she had captured last year, Whitsmith launched herself at her foe. Hunter palmed the syringe, swinging her rifle around to slam the butt into Whitsmith’s stomach. Whitsmith doubled over, her brain screaming at her, her mouth filling with a bitter, coppery taste. Her face exploded in pain as Hunter kicked her in the head, sending her reeling to land in a painful heap amidst the gravel. Whitsmith strained to stare down at where Torrance was stirring. Hunter snorted disdainfully, crouching once more and preparing the injection.
Whitsmith fought to rise, fought her own pain, but she knew even if she got to her feet there was nothing she could do. Hunter was a killer who had survived all this time in the swamps and forests of this world. There was nothing someone like Aubrey Whitsmith could do against her.
An explosion of wood erupted from behind Whitsmith at that moment and she turned her head to see the massive doors yawning wide. A five metre bulbous form lumbered into the arena, charging with the speed of a freight train, its fat body heaving as it ran in great leaps in order to drag its body along.
Hunter dropped the syringe and brought her rifle to bear, but even despite its bulk the creature was swifter. It swung its flappy, thick neck – the victor of so many mating rituals – and slammed the hard flesh into Hunter. She was blown from her feet, her body slamming into the wall of the arena, her rifle clattering away. The creature reared and roared, thudding its forefeet down and almost crushing its enemy. Hunter barely managed to evade the attack, although once more it struck with its neck, battering her a second time against the wall. Whitsmith could see her face streaked with blood, her eyes filled with anger, and she punched out at the creature’s flat snout. Her blow only seemed to anger the creature, however, for it slammed her a third time with its neck, rearing once more and this time bringing its heavy feet down upon one of her legs. Hunter’s scream tore through the entire arena and Whitsmith heard the sickening sound of crunching bones.
She was also very much aware that Torrance was lying dangerously close to the odd combat.
“Aubrey!”
Whitsmith felt hands grabbing her, steadying her. She looked up, startled, into the eyes of Dexter Valentine. He grinned broadly, his relief pouring from him in waves.
“Dex?”
“Dexter and his moschops to the rescue.”
He said nothing more, for Whitsmith threw her arms about him, pressing her lips to his in an embrace she knew Katie Hudson had predicted long ago. Valentine stiffened in shock, but in moments she felt him relax under her embrace. Then he stiffened again and pulled away.
“What?” she asked, confused.
“Uh ... Just, that I think I might be making someone jealous?”
“Jealous?” Whitsmith asked, entirely lost now. She followed his gaze to the raging moschops, which had left Hunter where she had fallen and was now focusing its attention upon her and Valentine.
“I remembered the accident you had with the moschops hormones,” Valentine said nervously. “When we collided in the corridor and they spilled all over you?”
“I remember you pawing at my chest, Dex.”
“Yeah, kind of hoped you’d forgotten that.”
Whitsmith realised what he meant though. He had released the moschops so it would follow her scent, and when it had arrived it had found Hunter being aggressive so had dealt with her. And now that was done with it could see Whitsmith in the arms of another man.
“Surely,” Whitsmith whispered, her eyes never leaving the creature she did not want to antagonise, “it can’t think I’m a moschops. I mean, do I look like a moschops to you? And think very carefully before you answer that.”
“I think it’s confused. It can smell a mate, but can’t see a thing.”
Valentine was right. Now things had calmed somewhat, the moschops was looking around in all directions, trying to figure out why this strange bipedal creature smelled so good. Whitsmith heard Torrance groan and knew they had to end this quickly or she would die.
“I’m going to draw it away,” she told Valentine, releasing him entirely. “Get Torrance to a doctor.”
“You’re going to what?”
“It’s all right, I deal with these animals all the time, right?”
Valentine looked about as convinced as she felt.
“Aubrey, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Whitsmith shook her head. She was not at all certain what she was herself feeling at that moment, but adrenalin and near-death were playing huge parts in her emotio
ns and she could have done without Valentine suddenly deciding he was in love with her.
“Just get Torrance to the doctor,” Whitsmith said.
“Aubrey, this is important. There’s another ...”
Whitsmith ran before Valentine could say another word, although even as she took her first step she began to wonder how that sentence would have ended. Another woman? Was that it? Was he trying to tell her he still fancied his chances with Torrance? She had no idea how she felt about that and just thought it was a good job she was already running.
She could hear the bellow of the moschops behind her, followed by the thunderous padding of its heavy feet. Whitsmith bolted through the huge doors and did not stop running. She had no idea what the moschops intended to do when it caught her, but a thousand horrific images flashed through her panicked mind, and the kindest of them would have been her being pounded to pulp like Hunter before her.
The doors led to a short tunnel which broke out into a larger chamber, also kept empty. The animal pens were not too far away, but Zebadiah had not wanted them kept too close to where they would be fighting in case they were spooked by the noise of dying creatures. There was a door in the wall through which it was far too small for the moschops to squeeze, and Whitsmith flung it open, barrelling through and striking her elbow against it in her haste to be away.
Whitsmith drew to a halt with a gasp. Before her, crouching in the shadows and tending to its wounded side, there was a bipedal reptile she had been promised was dead. The creature raised its head in her direction and hissed savagely, its eyes taking on a flicker of recognition and hatred.
Without a second thought, Whitsmith spun and bounded back into the other room, ducking the thick throat of the surprised moschops to stumble over her own feet in her haste to get away. Running as fast as she could, Whitsmith fled back towards the arena, having a fairly good idea now of what Valentine was trying to tell her there was another of. She wished she could feel relieved he had not been talking of another woman after all.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Aura Torrance was dying. Valentine had seen enough death in his time to know when it lay before him. Her skin was almost white, her breathing shallow and weak, and blood continued to pour from her wound. He could see where Whitsmith had made a good enough effort to bind the injury and create a tourniquet, but she clearly knew nothing of doctoring. Unfortunately Valentine knew even less. He had radioed for assistance, demanded their doctor be sent to the arena at once, but knew help would come too late. Torrance was losing body heat, and it did not matter how much Valentine rubbed her hands or wrapped her in his own suit jacket, he knew he would never be able to restore warmth to her. He looked upon her face, so young and full of promise. Her cheeks were grimy and soiled, there was a graze down the side of her face which appeared to have been caused by a boot. Her lips, so full and cherry red before, were now thin and turning blue as they dried out. Her entire body was shivering and Valentine held her tightly, fighting back tears. Over the years of his confinement he had seen many people die, but none of it had ever bothered him before. He had never cared for anyone, not until Torrance had walked into his life. Aubrey of course, he had always cared for Aubrey, but she was just Aubrey.