“Can you see them?” Pulse hammering in his chest, George went from anger to fear, resentment to impotent rage. Twice now, the patrol had attacked them without provocation. Rage gave way to a vague queasiness, but his remorse over the killings faded as resentment reasserted itself.
“Back up the hill,” Baider indicated in a harsh whisper.
“Give me a landmark.”
“Eleven o’clock. Up eight yards from the tree line.”
George reset the sweep range to deep penetration and deenergized the safety. With a worried sigh and more than a little trepidation, he lurched to his feet and fired, making a wide sweep at waist height. The yellow beam cut a swath left to right. In its wake, brush ignited in great gushing flames. Scattered shots and agonized screams followed the beam's path. Eighty-foot pines crashed to earth amid the thunderous crackling of splintered trunks and shattered branches.
Feeling belligerent, George released the trigger and stood with legs planted, the barrel of his weapon slightly raised. A moment later he realized his stupidity and dropped into the shelter of the grass. A flurry of movement drew their attention. Piker’s boys opened fire, the crack of their weapons deafening at close range.
A man stumbled from charred brush, his rifle to his shoulder, blood spurting from a neck wound. He staggered towards them, firing. A slug split the air past George setting his ears to ringing. One of Piker’s men fired. The gunman dropped his rifle, stumbled backwards and fell.
Several minutes passed. A slight breeze rustled the tall grass. Tumbling water rushed through the gorge, but otherwise the glade was quiet. A muffled cry from the smoldering ruins of the blackened slope. With a jerk of Piker’s hand, two of his boys scuttled past, staying low. When they were nearly to the trees, Baider ran after them, only head and shoulders above the grass.
George set his lasrifle aside to search for the bioscanner and there was Piker on his belly, arms flung out. Specks of blood dotted the grass.
“Piker...Piker.” George grasped his shoulder and gently rolled him over, fearing the worst. Piker's eyes were open, pupils dilated, but he took a deep, tremulous breath and swallowed. His hands twitched. His gaze softened. His breathing became labored.
“Where’d you get hit?”
“Lef side.” Piker coughed and grimaced.
Worried the wound might be fatal, George tore aside the layers of furs and cloth until Piker’s white belly was exposed. Several bruises, some with shallow, oozing perforations, were coloring. On closer examination, George found black pellets lodged in the clothing. Thick layers had protected Piker from more serious injury.
“You’re banged up a bit, but nothing life threatening. A couple days on your back you’ll be as good...” George jumped when two shots rang out from the knoll, followed by harsh commands from young voices, then a shout of victory. “Don't move.” He glanced at Heather, then down at Piker. With a grim set to his mouth, he made the call. “Stay with him. See what you can do with the medkit.”
“Got it right here.” She knelt beside Piker and began removing items: a roll of medstick, self-adhesive gauze, anti-bacterial powder, cleansing pads.
With a hopefully reassuring smile, George snatched up his lasrifle and dashed towards the knoll, staying low, two of Piker’s boys close behind. They reached the edge of the woods just as Baider emerged, holding his automatic to the head of a furry mountain with blood on his face. Two smaller versions appeared with hands on heads, urged on by Piker’s youths, grinning like they won the lottery. They carried an odd assortment of small caliber rifles, revolvers in blackened leather holsters and machetes in aged and ragged leather scabbards.
George stopped and cradled his weapon.
“Too easy,” Baider deadpanned.
“What about the others?” George fell in beside Baider, who gave the furry mountain a shove. The prisoner obeyed Baider’s prod with a sullen glare. The oozing gash across his nose and cheek wasn’t deep, but the smeared rivulets of drying blood on his pale face and matted in his scraggly beard gave him a ghastly, horrific look.
“One was already dead, another too shot up to move. He died when we tried. Other two bought it with falling trees...Laserman.”
“Technology has its advantages.” At once, George regretted his offhand remark. Making light of death wasn’t his way. A fleeting sense of victory made him blush with guilt.
“Yeah, well, we’ve got prisoners now. What’re we going to do with them?”
The impromptu march ended. Baider stuck the barrel of his .45 in the furry mountain’s neck and forced him to his knees with a hand atop his head. Baider stepped back and holstered his gun. With the wave of a rifle by a still grinning youth, the other two fur piles kneeled beside their comrade.
George faced them, keeping his expression relaxed, non-threatening. In turn, the prisoners watched him, the mountain sullen, his companions fidgety, with darting eyes. George handed his rifle to Baider and waved the boys back in hopes the gesture would convince their captives of what he was about to say.
“After you’ve answered a couple questions, we’re going to let you go.”
The mountain snorted derisively.
“Look,” George crossed, then uncrossed his arms. “One of your men is up on the hill, gut shot, but alive. He needs your help.”
The mountain snorted again. “Yew take us fer fools?”
“Take it anyway you want. Answer my questions and you can go. Don't and we’ll bury you right here.” George pointed at the ground, but his gaze remained on the big guy.
The patrol leader furrowed his brow and chewed on his lip.
“Last chance.” George motioned to Baider and the seaman aimed the lasrifle at the big guy's head.
“Why yew wanta set us free? We might was gonna kill yas.”
“We have no quarrel with you. If you’d talked to us, you would have found that out.”
The mountain looked away, then at his comrades. They nodded. “What yews wanta know?”
"What do I call you?"
"Josh...Joshua." He jerked his head towards the other two. "Luke an' Peter."
"Hmm, Christian names."
"Huh?"
“No matter. Why were you hunting us?”
“We was hired ta.”
“By who?”
“Han.”
“When.”
“Yestaday.”
George looked at Baider, puzzled. “Hanover expected us to escape?”
Baider shrugged, the lasrifle loose in his hands and no longer pointed at Josh.
“Was thinkin’ maybe yews might,” Josh answered.
For several long breaths, George eyed the prisoner with an appraising air. “Why stop us?”
“Han tells us yews reach the city unner the mount and we all die.”
“Did he say how?”
“De be helpin’ yews call up da devil from da sea.”
“You believed him?” It fit with the hill people's folklore, but it didn't explain Hanover, who's obvious motivation was power.
He didn't answer.
What did he pay you?"
“New rifles ifin weuns stops yews. An’ some udder tings.”
“He didn’t tell you to kill us?” The concept of mercenaries had survived in this land.
The mountain grew more sullen. His eyes cast about, then stared at a spot by George’s feet. These men weren’t cold-blooded killers. They'd acted out of a sense of self-preservation, and though George was certain Josh had seen fighting, it was unlikely the two with him ever hunted men before.
“What did Hanover want you to do with us?”
The furry mountain refused to answer, but his comrades were not so eager to die.
“We was ta bring yews back ta him. We figered ‘live, like he wanted, but ifin yews too much trouble, dead be better ‘un nothin’. Josh told us yews come ta snatch our souls an’ des-troys da wirl.”
Though anger lurked at the edges of his mind, George studied the speaker with a welling sense of compa
ssion. Beneath the layers of furs that made the younger man appear much larger, his face was the same thin pale white as the others: consistent with a light diet and a climate where direct sunlight was virtually nonexistent.
“He said that...Hanover? That we were going to destroy the world?”
“What Josh tole us. He be da one ta talk wid Hanover.”
George’s again studied the mountain. “Did you believe what Hanover told you...Josh?”
Josh glanced up at George, then down. He nodded.
“You still believe him?”
Josh flushed, shook his head slowly. “Yews be mighty diff-rent ah-right. Yews be peoples though. Sames us, but diff-rent. How’s Ah ta knows what yews is?”
How could he dispel these men's fears, perhaps make them allies? No, that wouldn’t be possible, George argued. No magic wand to impress the heathens, just words and gestures, and that would not be enough.
“Josh, take your men and go home. Hanover is dead.”
Baider made to protest, but George raised a hand. Piker’s boys grumbled and shuffled. They quieted when Josh got to his feet. George saw no malice when their eyes met, only healthy distrust. The man was almost childlike in his unwillingness to lie, much like the hill people.
At once more self-assured, Josh stood tall. He acknowledged George with a quick nod and faced Piker. “Yew be backin' this? Han dead?"
"Saw wid my own eyes," Piker frowned.
"How?"
"Don' matter. Han's dead."
"What ‘bout are rifles?” Josh glanced between Piker and George, and settled on George.
“I give them to Piker. If he wants to give them back, you’ll have to make a deal with him...later.”
Josh stiffened, like he wasn't accustomed to being told no, then shrugged, relaxed and stepped back. He motioned for his companions to stand. One of Piker's boys mumbled a threat. Weapons came up.
George waved them down, but knew better than to take his eyes off Josh. “You have a wounded man on the hill.”
“He cane walk?”
“He’s gut shot. Can't move on his own.”
“We be gittin’ him ‘fore we leave.” Leader to leader.
“Good. Good.” George nodded slowly, though they both knew the gut shot man wouldn't live long. He would die from the rigors of the journey before adequate medical treatment could be provided, if then.
Josh turned, paused. “Weuns don't trust yews, but we be abidin’ by the ‘greement. Weuns won’t bother yews no mo.” That said he motioned to the others.
“Here.” George took one of the machetes and tossed it to Josh, who caught it with a downward swipe. A sharp pain lanced George’s lower back, but he masked his cry with a grunt. “You’ll need it to make a litter.”
"Uh?"
"Something to carry your man with."
It wasn’t much, but George glimpsed what would pass for thanks in Josh’s quick nod before the patrol leader turned away, his bloody face blank. The three loped towards the knoll and disappeared into the wall of trees.
While George and Heather tended to Piker’s wounds, two of the boys trotted to the foot of the knoll and cut down a pair of stout saplings and several vine strands to fashion a sturdy litter. The potion Heather administered knocked Piker out, allowing her to remove the pellets from his wounds and bandage his side. In twenty minutes, Piker was trussed securely to the hastily, but well crafted litter and the boys were ready to go. There was no sign of Josh, but the recovered bioscanner showed four life forms atop the knoll.
The oldest of Piker’s youths checked the lashings one last time, then stood and faced George. He looked worried and kept glancing towards the trees. “Weuns needs ta take Piker home. Weuns wish yews safe journey.”
“And you. Thank you for coming back.”
“Jes followin’ orders.”
“Just the same...thanks.” George clasped the youth’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Hope to see you soon.”
The four boys hefted Piker and set off at a gait that would have them back at the village before nightfall. It would be an unpleasant ride for Piker.
“Time to follow the road east, into the mountains.” George slung on his backpack, eliciting another sharp jab in his side. A pulled muscle, he figured. Not one to share minor injuries, he cradled his lasrifle across his chest and ignored the pain the movement elicited.
“You two ready?”
Baider’s facial wound was dressed, the white patch in sharp contrast to his grimy face.
“Your lead, George.” Heather smiled grimly.
"You giving orders now?" George chided. He was relieved by the other's departure, but the loss of distraction made him more aware of the dull ache settling in his side and the puckered, but bloodless hole in his cheek.
Already two steps out and setting a brisk pace, Heather flashed a warm smile over her shoulder. It took several long strides for Baider and George to catch up. Beyond the knoll yellow grass gave way to broken polyphalt and yellow-brown weeds. Ahead, the heavily overgrown polyphlat road wound between forested hillocks with straight, pocked, drill-cut granite faces bordering the ancient lane. Jagged boulders loosened by centuries of ice lay scattered about the foot of the manmade cliffs.
They entered a wide passage between hills, and Baider, who had dropped back to cover their trail, caught up with them. “We left guns on the hill. A scoped 30-06 and that wounded guy's .22.”
The accusation, delivered in Baider's droll manner, brought George to an abrupt halt. "Wha...damn!” In an instant, the bioscanner was in his hand. “You think they’ll come after us?” Josh and his boys were still on the bald top, so close together the reading was an indistinct blob.
“What gives?” Heather breathed, flushed. “You want to go back and take them out?”
The cold, emotionless way she raised the question shocked George. A week ago she would avoid stepping on an ant, let alone hurt a human being.
“We’ll be beyond their visual range as soon as we get past this pair of hills.” George pocketed the bioscanner and looked pointedly at Baider. “You disabled them, right?” He already knew the answer. It was as much his fault as Baider’s.
Heather gently rested her hand on Baider’s arm, and smiled, hopeful. "Well?"
“I tossed the clips away.”
"Emptied the chambers?" George asked.
"No."
A sharp crack rippled off the hills. A sigh so soft it was hardly a sigh at all and Heather slumped into George’s arms. Self-recrimination screamed its malignant tune. Is that the way it was to be? My crew killed off one by one? Sagging under the combined weight of Heather and their packs, George dragged her to the foot of the nearest hill and eased her down. He braced her limp body with his, set aside her lasrifle, then peeled off their packs. He placed them behind her for support. “Where?”
“Right shoulder.” She grimaced. “Mary, mother of Jesus...that hurts.”
A cursory inspection revealed a small perforation and tiny blood spatters in the fold of material beneath her armpit. A closer look reassured him the injury wasn't life threatening. "You’re going to get cold, but I’ve got to strip you down.” He didn't wait for her approval to remove her jacket and peel back her jumpsuit.
“Ooo, ahhh,” Heather gasped, bit her lip white and clenched her eyes. She took several deep, ragged breaths then nodded she was okay before George removed her sweater and undershirt. The conforms of her body and the localized trauma occasioned by the wound made it difficult to avoid hurting her. Underclothing off, her bare skin dimpled and grew ruddy from the pinch of frigid air. She shivered and a moan escaped her compressed lips.
George cautiously raised her arm and held it across her chest. “Okay. Doesn’t look too bad. The bullet creased you an inch below the armpit and burned the inside of your arm.” Blood oozed from a three-inch long furrow transecting her bra strap. “Back at base the docs would put in a few stitches, but you’ll be fine. We’ll just have to take it easy on you for awhile.” He s
miled when she glanced up, hoping to reassure her.
“I’m going back,” Baider growled.
“Why?” Getting the medkit from Heather’s pack, George snapped a sharp glance at him.
“They pose a threat.”
“They’ve got a scoped rifle.” George yanked off his gloves and opened the medkit, paused, and glanced up at Baider. “And bullets.”
“Only if they found the clip. Probably just fired the chambered round, got in the last lick.”
“That makes no sense, Baider, and going back...could be suicide, a trap. We got lucky here. The bullet could've taken out Heather's heart just as easy." As gently as he could, George dabbed Heather's wound with a medpad.
“Commanding officers screw up. We all do. My gut says one of them gets away and we’ll have a hunter-pack on our trail. Worth our lives to find out?”
George scratched an itch under his chin with the back of his hand, and stared blankly at Heather’s injury. “Not likely Josh’s people have heard Hanover's dead. If the reward is high enough, losing a few cousins won't deter them.”
There was little else to say, though George wasn't keen on Baider facing the gunmen alone. “You’ve got the advantage in firepower. Don't be too cautious in using it.” Decision made, George dumped out the medkit contents on a clear plastic sheet and selected the other items he needed.
Anger smoldered in Baider’s eyes. “Let me have your lasrifle.”
George handed him the weapon without hesitation. From Manila to Madrid, Baider had survived violent encounters with the dregs of port society, street fighters and bar brawlers. He was proficient in half a dozen combat disciplines and skilled in the use of anything as a hand weapon. Baider would most certainly eliminate the threat, though that offered George little comfort.
“Good luck.” It sounded absurd wishing someone luck in the killing of others, but Josh and his men posed a danger they could ill ignore.
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