by Ilsa J. Bick
And then—don’t ask her why—she kissed him, too. Just a touch of her lips to his forehead, the way her daddy used to: Love you, kiddo.
“For luck,” she said.
30
Dumb luck, that’s what it was. With the tick of that rock, Tom’s training snapped into place, his reaction as instinctual as breathing: a quick shift of his weight, a backhanded swipe with his left as he spun, the Glock slashing up and around on a steep trajectory because he was aiming for a chin, a cheek.
He missed. Hell, he couldn’t even see what he was trying to hit. The Chucky had put itself in a direct line with the setting sun and was coming for him at his blind spot to boot. All Tom made out was a gray-white blur and two dark coins as the Chucky read his move and dropped below the arc of his swing. Tom went into a staggering spin, his momentum pulling him off-balance as the Glock whirred through empty air. In the next second, the Chucky drove in low and hard, plowing into Tom’s back, wrapping him up, pushing him into a blundering swan dive.
“Ugh!” Tom felt the air gun out of his throat. His arms shot out to break his fall, and he thought, Roll; plant your fist and roll, get on your side! If he hit face-first, it would be over, fast. He could see his end: the Chucky straddling his back, riding him, grinding his face into the deadening snow, holding him there until he suffocated. Or maybe the Chucky planned to simply dump him on his ass. One good slam of a fist to stun him and then Tom would spend his last thirty seconds on earth with his hands wrapped around the spurting rip in his throat as his blood pulsed hot and wet, and the Chucky watched and waited for Tom’s veins to run dry. Roll, go to roll, ro—
He tried; he really did. But two things happened in quick succession, like a one-two punch. The first was the jolt of his right boot on a hidden rock. Tom stumbled, his right leg crimping at the knee. The Chucky had him so low around the waist that the little stutter should’ve been enough for it to set its feet and drive Tom’s chest the rest of the way down. But Tom was trying to roll, and while this Chucky was good—and it was very good; it knew how to anticipate, how to fight—Tom still clutched the Glock in his left hand.
The gun, her gun, saved his life, not because he could shoot or use it as a club but because his hand was fisted in a death grip, and a rigid fist is stronger than an open, empty hand.
Tom’s left arm speared the snow. His fist held; his elbow didn’t crumple and his wrist didn’t break. It hurt like hell; electric jags of pain jittered through bone. Grunting, Tom willed his arms to remain ramrod straight, rigid as pipes. For one split second, Tom was holding both himself and the Chucky on his shuddering arms, his heaving chest hanging a foot from the snow.
Then the moment slipped past and Tom was gathering himself, thinking, I’ve got one shot.
Jackknifing his left knee to his chest, he twisted, cranked his left hip, then drove his leg back as hard and fast as he could, putting all his strength into a single, vicious kick. He felt when his boot made contact, the jar of it in his hip; understood from the give that he’d struck the Chucky’s left thigh, high above the knee.
It was a perfect, incredibly lucky shot. Howling, the Chucky crumpled left. Shifting his weight, Tom squirted right, pushing off with his stronger, left leg, fighting against the suck of deep snow as he spun free.
And he still had the Glock. In another time and place, he might have pitched it. The weapon was useless as anything other than a club, while fingers could clutch and claw and gouge eyes. But if the gun got away from him—say, the Chucky made a grab—with enough pressure on that frozen trigger, the weapon might just fire. Tom couldn’t take the chance. On the other hand, if he threw it away, the Chucky might go after it. In a way, letting the Chucky try would be smart, a way of diverting its attention so Tom had time to strike with his KA-BAR. After all, a knife didn’t run out of bullets.
But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t make himself let go of the Glock. That gun had just saved his life. It was an omen, a sign, as if Alex was fighting by his side. He could feel her in the tang of adrenaline on his tongue, the blood that roared through his veins. So he hung on to that weapon—and her—as he tugged his knife from its sheath.
All right, come on. His gaze strafed the rubble-choked flat. For a disorienting moment, he thought the Chucky was gone. It was possible. A peroneal strike, one that caught the nerve above the knee, could incapacitate an enemy anywhere from half a minute to five. Maybe it knew it didn’t stand a chance, or spooked easily. But God, if it was gone and got help, brought friends—worse, if that Chucky’s buddies were already here—he might as well slit his own throat and save them the trouble. He probably could take two or three, but without a decent weapon …
Wait, the Bravo. But it was behind him, by his pack and that ski pole, and he just didn’t want to risk a peek. Besides, he simply didn’t believe the Chucky could’ve moved that fast. So where is it? Frantic, the panic starting to climb his spine, he jumped his gaze west, toward the woods. There was still a good hour before it was full dark and plenty of ruby light left, but long shadows now blued the snow. Still … at the edge of those cantilevered trees, he was certain something moved. Someone else out there?
A shushing sound, to his right, and then a small squeal, the sound of icy snow squeezed by pressure. As he wheeled around, he realized just how lucky he was to still be alive.
The Chucky had been there on the snow, recovering, silently gathering itself, all along. Now it was clawing to its feet, but in his fear and disorientation, it looked to Tom as if the snow itself had assumed human form. The Chucky’s camo over-whites were the best he’d ever seen. Even the boots were sheathed in white. Somewhere along the way, though, the Chucky had lost its white balaclava. So instead of only the dark coins of its eyes—which were strange—he saw its lips skin back in a snarl, and that brown snake of a braid.
Because it was a she: about the same age as Alex, but much taller and more muscular. He still outweighed this girl, but his height advantage was gone, and she was fast, a good fighter.
And yes, he had a knife.
But the Chucky had two.
31
Well, the crows didn’t come at her. Instead, they oiled out of Ellie’s way as they had before. Once she was out and down the ramp, she waded through birds, walking alongside the ramp all the way back to where it joined up with the death house’s front wall and sliders. She knew nothing about geometry, but the point where the ramp was married to the entrance was over her head. At her last physical, the pediatrician said she was of average height: Four feet, plenty of room to grow into your shoes. Whatever that meant. But she thought that what she had in mind really might work.
Running all the way back to her horse cut fifteen minutes down to five, although it gave her a stitch in her side. Even with the exercise, she was also very cold, shivering as the sweat between her shoulder blades and over her face immediately began to wick away.
“Oh-k-kay,” she said to the mare. Her fingers were shaking as she wrapped up its reins. Her face was so frigid her lips was numb. “C-come on, girl.” But Bella was having none of it. Balking, the horse huffed an enormous snort and dug in its hooves. “Please,” Ellie panted. Hooking the bridle, she tried dropping her weight. Skinning its lips from yellow peg-teeth, the animal twisted, trying to angle for a bite while pivoting and aiming a back hoof for a swift, decisive kick. Gasping, Ellie snatched her hand back as the horse’s teeth clacked on air and dodged a hoof that whizzed past her head to plow into her primer pail with a solid chuck. The pail went airborne, sailing for the trees and spilling a trail of tip-ups in its wake. The heavier auger whipped around in a complete circle, like one of those spinners on a game board.
“Easy, easy,” she said. Screwing up her courage, she darted forward and grabbed the auger’s handle, dragging it back before Bella could slice a leg. “Calm down. I’m sorry, okay?”
This was bad. Without Bella, she would have to either wait or walk, and both were out. Too long; we’re wasting time. Fuming, impatience spiki
ng her skin so badly she wanted to peel right out of it, she forced herself to wait while Bella stomped and blew. She had to fix this. Her teeth sawed at her cheek. How did you calm down a horse? Reins are brakes. You stop a runaway by taking away the head. But she had to be on the horse for that, and besides, the mare wasn’t running anywhere. Her problem was that the silly thing didn’t want to go anywhere. Must be a way to take its head, though. She thought back over what she knew about spooked horses. Precious little. But there was a book … Flicka? No, Black Beauty. The fire. James ties a scarf around Black Beauty’s eyes.
Her hand crept to her neck. Chris had her coat, but she’d kept her fleece and wool scarf. Carefully, slowly, she unwrapped the loops of wool, then bunched the scarf into a fleece pocket.
“Okay, girl,” she said, moving much more slowly than she wanted. The mare was quivering; she could see its hide twitching. When her hand found Bella’s bridle again, Ellie resisted the urge to pull or do anything but stroke the animal’s neck. “Easy,” she said as the horse tossed and blew a loud and long horsey raspberry. Ellie kept stroking, telling the horse, It’s fine, that’s good, it’s okay. When the horse was only breathing and no longer stamping, Ellie inched out the scarf, thought for just a second—you watch; this only works in books—then reached up and draped the scarf over Bella’s eyes.
To her astonishment, the mare didn’t toss or even move. Ellie could actually see the tension rippling and then running out of the horse’s powerful shoulders. Still talking nonsense, she tied the scarf, lightly knotting it behind the horse’s jaw.
“All right, let’s go,” she said, cautiously gathering up the reins, bracing herself for the bolt Bella would surely try. The horse did tug but only once.
It was, Ellie decided, a good omen.
In five minutes, the mechanical rasp and clack of the crows swelled through the trees. Bella’s ears pricked, angling toward the sound like radar dishes homing in on an alien signal.
Don’t bolt, please don’t shy. Ellie held her breath but then thought that if she didn’t get spooked, the horse probably wouldn’t either. The milling crows parted as they had before, like waves retreating from a beach. Ellie led the horse all the way to the point where the ramp met the slider and felt a burst of elation. Her saddle was just even with the ramp at its highest point.
This is gonna work. Throwing the reins over the horse’s head so they draped over the horn, she scurried up the ramp. The slider complained, and that made Bella turn her head, but Ellie was already wheeling inside to where Mina, tail thumping, patiently waited. This has to.
She spared a few seconds to press her ear to Chris’s chest. His heart balled with a dull thump … pause … thump … pause … thump … Boy, that was really slow. She wished she knew if that was good or bad, then decided anything was better than zip. His eyes still roamed, but his breathing was better, no gasps now, and his skin was pinker.
Drag him. That was what she’d decided. Grabbing up pillows from the other bodies, she eyed Chris, the distance he would fall, then arranged the pillows into a landing zone. Shaking out two of the burlap sacks, she spread these over the pillows, then clambered back up to Chris, braced herself on her knees, hooked her hands under his arms, and levered him into a slouch against her lap. His arms were heavy but floppy, his limp hands dangling, the fingers like the legs of dead spiders. Chris’s head slewed then lolled, and she could see the steady but slow throb of his pulse in his neck. The smudges under his eyes were bluer now, not as gray.
“Okay,” she said. She hitched toward the edge in fits and starts, scooting him what seemed an inch at a time, feeling with her feet for the moment when her boot tipped over the pallet’s lip and into air. Chris was much heavier than she’d expected, and she was sweating, her breath coming in harsh pants. Tail swishing encouragement, Mina watched as Ellie worked her butt toward the edge with another gigantic heave—
Her right foot shot into thin air. Gasping, she felt herself tilt as Chris’s weight shifted against her chest; her left knee, still bent to support him, fired with a sudden tearing pain as she tumbled sideways off the pallet. She came down hard on the pillows, on her back, and in an awkward splay, like a ballerina doing a really bad split. The impact slapped the air from her lungs, and pain roared all the way into her groin. Chris was so much dead weight on her chest, and he’d jack-knifed, although he was now mostly off the pallet, his legs loosely flexed at the knees. Squirming out from under, she got her boots planted and pushed to a stand. Her left knee yelled, but she could gimp on it just fine and that was all that mattered.
All right, hurry up, hurry up. Pulling his legs off the rest of the way, she got Chris arranged on the burlap sled, tucked all the remaining sacks and her coat around his body. Then she went to his head, fisted up tongues of burlap, and pulled, really put her weight into it. He moved—not by a lot, but the burlap let out a shush as it skidded over stone, and suddenly, his head was six inches closer to the slider than it had been only a second before. Huffing, grunting, her boots clapping stone and Mina keeping pace, she hauled him all the way to the slider, which she’d left open this time around. The crows were bunched up at the edge but backed away in that black eddy as she slid the burlap onto the snow. Here, the going got even easier. As she dragged Chris to the left and toward Bella, she eyed the saddle. Okay, slide him as close as you can, then roll him onto his tummy, and you’ll have to push, get his chest over the saddle—
As if someone somewhere flicked a switch, the crows went completely still and silent. Just a dead stop, like a soundtrack suddenly cutting out. What? For a second, Ellie actually thought there was something wrong with her ears. But then she heard Mina’s pants and her own harsh breaths, and the hard drum of her heart. Uh-oh. All the fine hairs bristled on her neck. She was still in her crouch, but now she let go of the burlap and straightened. Beneath her boots, the snow spoke in tiny, alarmed squeals. In his burlap cocoon, Chris sighed a low moan.
As one, the crows lifted in a huge, silent storm, exploding from the snow and the death house to rocket away in a swirling cloud. It was so much like the day everything died that Ellie threw her arms over her head and screamed, “No, no, not again!” She couldn’t help it. But there was no detonation of pain in her head. So it’s not that. Eyes wide, she threw her head back, watching the crows silently spin away. Then what? What could—
By her side, Mina began to growl, deep in her chest, a sound that swelled to a snarl.
Oh … Her mind couldn’t squeak out the no. Heart slamming her ribs, Ellie swept her eyes from the sky and those silent birds and down to the snow and the woods. Oh boy, I’m in so much trouble.
Because there, in the clearing and at the mouth of the trail that would take her and Chris from the death house to safety, was a girl.
32
Those knives were real trouble. The Glock in his hand wouldn’t fire. Neither would the Eagle. His Bravo was out of easy reach. Tom thought about that silver glint in the trees and wondered just how many other Chuckies were out there, knives at the ready, and what they were waiting for, unless this was simply the way they did things. Send in an attacker, one right after the other, to tire him out before swarming in for the kill, like wolves.
For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder just how long this girl had waited, watched. He’d been on the snow, exposed, for … what? A half hour? At least that—and a good portion of that time, he’d been out of it, so consumed with visions and flashbacks and the manic jitter of something close to insanity that it would’ve been smarter and easier to take him then.
But she wants to fight. The Chucky was on her feet now, and God, she recovered fast. Fear iced his throat. She didn’t want to just kill him. She had knives and she’d plowed right into him. He should already be dead. Come to think of it, she could probably handle a rifle or pistol just fine. But this girl wanted the rush, the fun of the kill. The blood.
And there’s something wrong with her, different. Given she was a Chucky, this wa
s an understatement. It’s her eyes, something about them; the color … too dark. But she was so far away he wasn’t certain, and that was just fine, thanks.
Forget her face. Concentrate: don’t lose track of the knives. Tom watched as she began to circle, very low, moving carefully left to right—and Jesus, she wasn’t sinking much. Shuffling, he turned, keeping her in sight, feeling the shift of uneven stone beneath his boots, dismally aware that she was compensating for his longer reach by forcing his knife hand further away and off-target. He didn’t know what kind of knives she had, but they were wicked: silvered steel, long and thin, single-edged, with only the suggestion of a curve. Hers were real fighting knives, made for cutting and slicing. Her blades were already in motion, scything back and forth, sparking in the setting sun, and he had trouble keeping track of both. As the light got worse, that would also get harder, assuming he lasted that long. He thought this might be over pretty quick. She didn’t need to get in a killing thrust. All she had to do was cut him a couple of times and then stand back and wait for him to weaken, or bleed to death.
Any soldier knew hand-to-hand combatives, how to grapple and kill, and part of basic training was the rifle-bayonet course. The reality was a lot simpler: the guy who survived was the one who held off an attacker until his buddies arrived with guns. Unlike Special Forces and Black Ops guys, all of whom were big into close-quarters combat, Tom knew only the basics of what to do with a knife: cover the middle, defend the face and neck, deflect with the left hand and forearm, stab hard and fast, put your weight into it. If he could get close and behind her knives, he might slash her face. Better yet, cut her forehead, let all that blood spill into her eyes and blind her. But he knew he wasn’t good enough for anything fancy. Rush her, and he’d probably end up impaling himself on her knives and doing the job for her.