by Ryder Stacy
“Yes, I’m sure the gods will welcome you, won’t they?” Killov laughed sharply like a hysterical woman. “And they’ll have you soon. But not so easily—or in one piece. As I was saying, Rockson, what amazes me most about these Qu’ul is the precision with which one can operate them once you become adept. As I have. They’re like scalpels. They can be focused in so many ways. For example, although that is at least ten tons of rock above you, I can lower it at a very slow speed.” He started bringing it down but fractions of an inch at a time.
“Or,” Killov suddenly spat out with a shrill madness, “I can move it fast.” Suddenly the slab was dropping right on him, coming down like a meteor from hell. It loomed huge within hundredths of a second, and Rock’s eyes snapped shut involuntarily, not wanting to see the end. But then another second passed, and another. And Rock knew there was no way in hell it would take more than two seconds for that slab to fall the last inch onto his flesh. He snapped his eyes open, and was looking up at the slab, micrometers from his nose.
“And then you can stop it again, anywhere. Isn’t it amazing?” Killov exclaimed. “I’m going to crush you, Rockson, slowly. Very slowly. You will feel every bone in your body snap, shall feel the very cells of your flesh exploded before I am done with you. Feel your eyeballs pop from your head like rotten fruits.” Killov turned his hand just slightly, the red beam cloaking the entire slab with a crackling, almost invisible sheen of red electricity starting to move again.
Rock could feel it coming down agonizingly slowly. He turned his head sideways, and had to pull in his chest. He winced. It hurt already as it squashed his ear against the side of his skull. And then the skull began compressing slightly as the death slab dropped down another twentieth of an inch in a minute.
Killov was right. Rockson could see that already. This death was going to hurt a lot.
Twenty-Four
As the six-ton slab inched its way down, the pressure in Rockson’s skull was unbearable, as if his brains were trying to come out of him and escape. As if the whole damn show might explode out of his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth at any second. His chest was also being pushed down so that he could only take extremely shallow breaths, each one less than the next—all of which only added to his panic.
He wasn’t exactly afraid of death, as he had been around it too long. He knew that it was going to come knocking on his door some day. He was not even afraid of dying. But he did feel fear of this inhuman monstrosity crushing him down into Freefighter marmalade. A death that was very, very messy.
The pain was unbearable—something of a new order for Rockson, who had experienced the gamut of unpleasurable sensations. A few pleasurable ones as well. But this was a new piece in the cosmic jigsaw puzzle of pain. One piece he would have just as gladly done without.
Rock could hear Killov’s cackling, and then the sound of his own chest bones and the side of his head starting to make a very faint crunching sound. Snap-crackle-pop time wasn’t very far away. Then, even as he waited to start cracking like Humpty Dumpty up on the sacrificial wall, the slab stopped in its tracks. His right ear felt about as flat as a piece of American cheese. He winced in pain and waited for Killov to continue his fun and games—after prolonging the torture another few seconds—to get on with the show. Then Rockson thought he heard a commotion of some kind even above the slamming sounds of his own heart pounding in his ears like a kettle drum.
Yes, definitely, someone was talking. Rock somehow managed to turn his eyes all the way down toward the bottom of the narrow space, and looked between the slab he was lying on and the one that was pressing down from above. A black-garbed figure had his hand around the front of Killov’s throat. What looked like—from Rockson’s vantage point, though he couldn’t be sure—a long, nasty-looking blade was pressed up hard against that throat.
“Now, you’re going to raise that slab up, Colonel,” the voice demanded firmly, saying each word clearly so Killov and all fifteen or so assorted guards and priests standing around the ritual sacrifice room got the message. “And no one here wants to try anything—or there’s one dead KGB slime, and I mean pronto. I’ll slice his throat from eye to eye if one of you makes the slightest move. You—priesty,” the black-cloaked figure yelled to the priest who controlled Rahallah’s death slab and had it down pushing into him about as much as Rockson’s. “Move it!” the figure shouted again, and pulled the blade tighter against Killov’s neck so that a thin line of blood appeared where it was touching.
The colonel’s eyes were popping, wide as hundred-ruble pieces as he held the Qu’ul out in his hand, trying not to make it jerk or waver as he suddenly realized that his life depended on the state of Rockson’s health. His hand suddenly shook slightly from side to side as a fear-induced drug tremor swept along his arm. Rockson felt the immense slab slide back and forth over him like the biggest piece of sandpaper that had ever existed. It didn’t push down any further, but it scraped over him, rubbing the side of his head. And a whole area of scalp was stone-ground off from a four-inch area.
But then—it was rising. Rock could hardly dare believe it. He was sure he’d bought it this time. He’d already been preparing for how he’d present himself to God. But the slab kept rising up above him, like a balloon, climbing easily into the air—the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. When it was about six feet up, the black-clad figure turned Killov, forcing him to turn to the side, so that the whole slab moved as well.
“Now put it down, Colonel—and you live—I swear,” the mysterious black-clad figure standing behind Killov said with icy command. The colonel somehow believed the words. He could tell if men were lying. It was one of his abilities, his secret tricks. Such a skill had enabled him to take out threats to his power long before they had a chance to strike. Preemptive termination was his rule. But not this time.
The immense slab came down fast. It hit the ground about twenty feet away with a great smash, making the whole chamber shake and some grains of sand fall from the stone ceiling over the assemblage. A roll of thunder went echoing back and forth between the walls of the place.
Just as the second stone, the one raised over Rahallah, came down next to the first, and the floor trembled slightly again, Killov suddenly threw up his arms, grabbing the knife with both hands. He ripped the knife away from his neck, pulled it down hard, cutting his left hand severely. But Killov managed to suddenly duck down and rush through the dusty sacrifice chamber.
Like a rat he disappeared behind a low stone sculpture, and in the flash of an eye was gone.
“Son of a bitch!” the cloaked figure croaked out, throwing back his covering hood. It was Chen. Rock stared in astonishment, his mouth hanging open as the ninja-suited martial master came running the few yards up to Rock in quick sliding steps, as if he was on ice.
“No time,” Chen hissed out. “I will use Quickcharge!” Rockson knew the substance Chen was referring to—a compact, high-powered explosive that was used by crews at C.C. for doing tunnel work. Chen must have taken some from his star-knives.
Rockson turned his head as Chen raced around the ritual slab slapping little pieces of what looked like bubblegum on the four half-inch-thick ringlets that held his wrists and ankles. The ringlets were locked somehow, and they were anchored right into the rock itself, so they had to be blasted.
Even as Chen rounded the head of the sacrificial altar and rushed toward Rahallah’s table, three of the priests pulled long straight swords from beneath their priestly garb and started toward him, to cut him off. Without missing a beat, the Chinese martial-arts master whipped out three of his patented explosive shurikens. They were five-pointed kill-stars filled with the same basic kind of material as the charges on Rock’s bindings.
The three star-knives spun through the air, making a slight whistling noise. They made contact faster than a man could pull a pistol and fire. The shuriken slammed into three red-robed chests, which instantly exploded out into a haze of blood and shattered bone. The three devil-pries
ts flew backward, not even able to scream—they just gurgled loudly.
Chen raced around Rahallah’s table as well, slapping the Quickcharge in place. He was at the third ringlet when Rock’s mini-charges went off. There were four sharp pops and little puffs of black smoke. The charges were extremely small and made to fire tremendous force basically in one direction.
Rockson sat up fast, rubbing his definitely warmed-up ankles and wrists. They were numb from the proximity of the contained explosions. Not that he was complaining. He had barely gotten himself swung around on the table when two more of Killov’s priests rushed at him, stabbing out with their long daggerlike swords. Rockson threw himself backward straight over the table as the swords dug into the stone just where his back had been a second before. He rolled off the other side without stopping, and came down standing.
He had just hit the ground when Rahallah’s charges went off behind him. The black man was up in a flash and rolled off the table to be next to Rockson. Chen joined them, leaping over the table like a black gazelle.
“You crazy bastard,” Rock said, looking at Chen with a dumb smile pasted all over his face. “How the hell did—”
“Later, Rock,” Chen said, handing them each a fully loaded 25-shot Liberator .9mm autopistol he produced from under the black silk ninja gear. Their weapons had been confiscated by the priests when they had been netted. Rockson swore the guy could pull out half the weapons known to man from under that black suit of his. Chen raised his head fast from behind the table where the three of them were crouched as a few more sand-devils made their move. He let loose with four of the shurikens.
These didn’t explode. They didn’t have to. They just dug into faces, shoulders, and necks. And bit in hard. Four more would-be killers went staggering around, blood gushing out like cherub-fountains on a rich man’s lawn.
“Killov’s already out of here,” Chen said as he dropped back down again. “We gotta move. I think he’ll take out this whole pyramid if he has to—to get us. I’m sure he has it set with charges! I’ll take the lead.”
“Move,” Rock said, resting his hand on the man’s shoulder lor an instant. “Thanks,” he added. But it was too late. Chen was already up and right over the top of the closest slab-table like a panther on the run. Rock and Rahallah followed right behind so the three of them formed a sort of phalanx. They smashed out with punches and elbows and let loose with their respective weapons, taking out anything that moved toward them. And a lot did move as the whole room became a tornado of flashing swords and a few glowing red Qu’ul sticks as the priests tried to get a bead on the swift-weaving bodies.
Suddenly Chen was rising up in the air, enveloped in the sparkling red electromagnetic beam from the Qu’ul. Within an instant he was up twenty feet, heading to a smashing visit to the stone-arch ceiling. But Rock got a bead on the anti-grav-tube manipulator and sliced a seam of .9mm slugs from neck to bellybutton. The priest went flying backward, the red glowing power-stick dropping from his hand.
Chen dropped straight down. For most men a twenty-foot fall would have meant rather serious injury, broken bones at the least. But the Chinese Freefighter dropped like a cat, spinning around in the air so he came down feet first. He landed in a crouch on both feet, letting his whole body go down almost to the floor with the motion, knees bending.
Then he was up alongside them again in a flash, not even fazed by the air ride, ripping two more of the shuriken out from under his black garb, one in each hand. He charged out of the room through an arched doorway that led to tunnels.
A single guard tried to chop down at Rahallah with his broad sword, but the African prince grabbed him off balance and threw the man halfway across the room, smashing him into a stone wall. He wasn’t in the mood to be trifled with today.
Chen led them at full run down the tunnel. They could hear noises all around them, men running down other tunnel systems. They tore ass as if there was no tomorrow. A group of five Amun guards charged out of one of the side tunnels, screaming like banshees as they came with scimitar-swords descending. Rock fired a burst of .9mm fury, and the shots went into the first two in the pack, sending them crashing into their pals behind them. The whole crew collapsed in confusion, cutting one another. Yet still more came.
The escapees shot up an angled walkway, and then suddenly could see sunlight ahead. The tunnel narrowed, and they were at a triangular window about three feet on each side. Chen fit through first, and they saw him disappear downward. Rock went next, diving through in a hail of old-fashioned hot lead. The black warrior was right behind. Below, about eight feet down, was a war elephant with Chen sitting on its neck. Rock landed on both feet on the bull’s back. It didn’t even feel it. He jumped into the battle platform—a low one with weapons tied down all over it.
Then Rahallah came down on his feet on the back part of the papyrus platform, causing some damage—but what the hell, who cared?
Chen yelled at the war beast to move tail. “Qul aktar!” he screamed out, the command for full cruising speed.
The bull took off like a racehorse on steroids. Its huge legs pumped wildly as it went off over the sand and straight away from the giant pyramid. And not a moment too soon. Dozens of guards appeared on the pyramid’s second and third levels and began firing at them. Bullets whizzed all around them, a few slamming into the light armor of the animal, which stopped the shots from entering even the outer edge of the thick hide.
Then from the higher sections, two Qu’ul-wielders who had a view of the fleeing prisoners began sending out their red levitation beams. Wherever they struck, whole craters suddenly appeared as the desert particles were sucked up in multi-ton loads, and then slammed down again toward the elephant.
But this bull had been trained to dodge and run, never head in a straight line when attacking or being attacked. The elephant moved fast, but all over the place, turning crazy circles, moving straight ahead for a hundred yards, then suddenly lurching at a right angle to its path.
From the pyramids, as the Amun troops tried to get a bead on the thing, it looked as if it were drunk or something, moving around like that. Which made it almost impossible to get a good sighting. At the speed it was moving the nuke-mutated elephant bull was a half mile away from the pyramid within the first sixty-five seconds. A full mile in another eighty seconds. Even the Qu’ul power sticks lost their range after a thousand yards.
“The Ra crystals! We’ve got to get them,” Rock screamed out through the whirling sand which stormed around them. The whole desert was alive with the exploding craters of the anti-grav attempts to take them out.
“They are the counter-force to the Qu’ul!”
“Killov has hidden them!” Chen yelled. “I saw his men take a shroud-wrapped thing off. I can guess its new location.” Chen, half turning his head as the war bull charged on, added, “Maybe we shouldn’t go there now. I mean, just look behind you!”
Rockson turned, as did Rahallah, both men kneeling down in the thickly matted papyrus platform, holding the leather hand-grips. It looked as if an army was pouring out of the main pyramid, and the smaller ones around it as well. Chen exhorted the beast to give it everything it had inside. More than it had ever given before. “Cha-qul-aktar-shrul!” (“Move, or you’re a McPachyderm!”)
“Shit,” Rock snorted as he watched the rays light the sky, watched the first great slabs of stone start rising up into the air and coming down with that dreaded thump less than a mile behind them.
From the numbers that were gathering—thousands of rushing ants, from where Rockson was sitting—it looked as if the whole damned population of Africa was getting ready to come after them.
Twenty-Five
The three Freefighters bounced on just ahead of the smash-stones! Afternoon turned to dusk, and night fell with the speed of an executioner’s descending sword. Chen had busted their asses out of Killov’s bone-smashing hellhole, but none of them had any illusions that they were more than a cat’s whisker away from pulpy te
rmination. They could hear the constant pounding thumps of huge rocks levitated and then dropped behind them. It was like a herd of pile drivers smashing violently up and down.
Colonel Killov was surely leading them now, and was pulling out all the punches. K-Day. There was no question about it. For behind them, the entire Amun Army was forming into its combat units: cavalry of camels, cultist infantry right behind it—and of course, up front, Killov and his cadre of priests carrying the Qu’ul power-sticks. “Squash everything” was the motto of the day.
When Chen stopped the war bull on a particularly high dune, they could see through the night-binoculars that a virtual wall of camels and men was filling up the long horizon, just visible in the starlight and the light from the crescent moon hanging like a guillotine in the velvet sky. Killov’s force moved, but even their fastest camels couldn’t keep up with a Class A war bull in his prime.
The escapees rushed on through the endless miles of sand for two hours. Then ahead Rock suddenly saw the great Nile flowing by, stretching a good mile across. The air was filled with precious moisture, which made the war bull honk a few times with its eight-foot trunk. It wanted to drink after exerting so much energy, after building up so much heat from its pumping muscles. It tore right through a grove of low palm trees, not looking particularly hard where it was going, snapping dozens of them right over like toothpicks. Even as Chen tried to guide it to the right to start heading south, the bull kept on with its own will, straight for the river.
“I think we’re going to—” Chen just had time to say when the elephant reached the bank—a drop of about two feet—and leaped out like the biggest fat man that had ever jumped from a diving board into a swimming pool looking for heat relief. It hit the water with a tremendous splash, and then began a wild flurry of honking and shaking. It covered itself with the wet muddy stuff, whipping up its trunk filled with water and spraying it out. The three Freefighters hung on, not sure what the hell was happening. The bull doused itself and the men with trunkfuls of the cooling river water, and drank from it as well with loud slurping and gulping sounds. All in all, it put on quite a dramatic performance.