by Frank Lauria
“Are you fucking high again? Just listen to . . .”
“No, no, you’re right Fry. What’s to be afraid of? My life is a steaming pile of meaningless toad-shit anyhow. So I say mush on! Canyon’s only a couple hundred meters—after that we’re in skiff city!” Johns reminded, looking around at the others.
He turned back to Fry, jaw set in a nasty scowl. “So why don’t you butch up, stuff a cork up that kid, and get . . .”
Imam moved beside Fry. “She’s the captain. We should listen to . . .”
Johns looked at him in mock surprise. “Listen to her? Her? When she was willing to sacrifice us all?”
Suddenly the breathers went silent. Fry felt their eyes on her but she was too drained to defend herself.
“What’s he talking about?” Audrey asked quietly.
Before Fry could answer, Johns stepped in. “During the crash she . . .”
“This does not help us, Johns,” Fry said, voice rising over his.
“. . . She tried to blow the whole fucking passenger cabin,” Johns finished, staring at her. Daring her to deny it. “Tried to kill us . . .”
“Just shut the noise, okay?” she said lamely.
But the bully in Johns was enjoying himself. “. . . Tried to kill us in our sleep.” He went on, eyes gleaming in triumph. “Paris had it right . . . we are disposable. We’re just walkin’ ghosts to her.”
“Would you SHUT YOUR FUCKING BLOW HOLE!”
Her voice came out a pained screech as she attacked, fingers clawing for his mocking eyes. Johns shunted her aside with one hand, and lifted his weapon with the other. He looked around.
“We’re not alive because of her—we’re alive in spite of her.”
Fry reeled at the edge of the light, burnt-out, beat-up, and bent over with guilt.
“We cannot go through there,” she insisted hoarsely. For a moment she considered stepping into the darkness and letting the predators decide. Johns’s smug voice pulled her back.
“How much you weigh right now, Fry? Huh?” he brayed, lording it over her.
Disgusted, Imam stepped between them and pushed him back. “Fine, fine, you’ve made your point,” the monk said calmly. “We can all be scared.”
Johns yanked a percussive flare and smacked the butt against Imam’s chest. Hard enough to ignite the flare—and get the monk out of his face.
“Verdict’s in,” Johns yelled, lifting the flare like a sword. “The light moves forward.”
This train of fools is shrinking fast, Fry reflected wearily.
Rashad had slipped into harness next to Imam, while Fry manned rear-point. There were no more side-guards. Rashad had rigged an umbrella torch on the sled, but their circle of light had dimmed significantly.
Up ahead, Johns fell into step with Riddick. Disturbed by Johns’s flare, Riddick pulled down his goggles.
“Ain’t all of us gonna make it,” Johns confided.
Riddick snorted. “Just realized that, huh?”
A flurry of clicking shadows blew past them. Johns blasted the darkness, driving the sounds away, and reminding everyone of who packed the firepower.
He turned back to Riddick. “Six of us left. If we could get through that canyon and lose just one, that’d be quite a fucking feat, huh? A good thing, right?”
“Not if I’m the one,” Riddick snapped, annoyed by his ingratiating whine. He started walking away.
“What if you’re one of five?”
Riddick paused. “I’m listening.”
From a distance, Fry watched the two men talking. It was odd to see Johns and Riddick walking side by side, like equals. More like partners, Fry noted, suddenly suspicious.
Audrey noticed too. “What are they doing up there?” she muttered.
“Talking about the canyon, I suppose,” Imam assured her. “How to get us through . . .”
Riddick was listening to Johns’s plan with rapt fascination. Something my old cellmate Headhunter might of dreamt up, he mused, eyes scanning the darkness ahead.
“Look it’s hellified stuff,” Johns said, voice low and sincere. “. . . But no different than those battlefield doctors when they have to decide who lives and who dies. It’s called ‘triage,’ okay?”
“Kept calling it murder when I did it.”
Johns smiled. “Either way, figure it’s somethin’ you can grab onto.”
As they slowly marched toward the chattering canyon, Riddick calculated the options. Think like a scumbag and the answer’s easy, he decided.
“Sacrifice play,” Riddick muttered. “Hack up one body, leave it at the start of the canyon. Like a bucket of chum.”
Johns gave him a triumphant grin. “Travel with it,” he whispered proudly. “There’s a cable on the sled. We can drag the body behind us.”
Riddick had to admit Johns had thought it through. “Nice embellishment.”
“Don’t wanna feed these land sharks—just keep ’em off our scent,” Johns explained, pleased with himself.
A hundred corpses wouldn’t cover your stink, Riddick thought. But he was curious. He glanced back at the caravan. “So which one caught your eye?”
“Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look . . .”
Johns’s warning was more than paranoia. Behind them, Fry was watching them intently. They’re up to something, she thought, instincts bristling. A vague sense of danger nibbled at her belly.
“Imam, slow down,” she called in a hushed voice.
“What?” Confused, the monk paused to look at her.
“Don’t stop, just slow down,” Fry said, eyes still on the point men. “Little more space between us and them.”
“I would rather we all stay . . .”
Fry turned and gave him a warning stare. “Just do as I say. Please.”
Imam finally understood what she couldn’t say. Brow furrowed with grave concern, he peered at the two men ahead.
“What’s her name anyway?” Riddick knew, but he wanted Johns to say it.
“What do you care?”
Riddick shrugged and strode ahead. “I don’t.”
“Then let’s not name the Thanksgiving turkey okay? I assume you still got a shiv?”
As it dawned, Riddick paused. “What—you expect me to do it?”
Johns seemed surprised by his reluctance. “What’s one more to you? Like this is the one that sends you to hell?”
Comes to deep psycho, ol’ Headhunter’s an amateur, Riddick conceded. He shook his head admiringly. “Oh you’re a piece of art, Johns. They ought to hang you in a museum somewhere.” He turned and started walking to the canyon. “. . . Or maybe they should just hang you.”
Johns hurried to catch up with Riddick. “All-right, I’ll do the girl. You keep the others off my back.” Actually he was looking forward to it. He owed Fry payback.
Riddick stopped, head cocked as if reconsidering.
“Aw, don’t tell me you’re growin’ scruples,” Johns prodded.
“Just wonderin’ if we don’t need a bigger piece of chum.”
Johns angled his head at Imam. “Like who—the Sheik?”
Riddick smiled. “Like Johns.”
As their eyes met, Johns lifted his weapon and fired.
The moment Fry heard the blast she knew it wasn’t aimed at the predators. “Bring the light!” she shouted. She could still see Johns’s flare but Riddick’s handlight was gone.
Audrey came running to her side. “What’re they doing? What’re we . . . ?”
Without answering, Fry sprinted toward the streaking flare ahead.
Riddick was fast but the blast scorched his arm as he grabbed the shotgun and jerked it skyward. Something above them shrieked and loud feeding sounds erupted as the two men grappled for the weapon.
Johns’s flare fell to the ground, creating an arena of illumination but each time they lurched into shadow, fast-clicking predators attacked—talons raking at the struggling men. Riddick and Johns wheeled, still wrestling for the shotgun, and gang-
aimed at the squealing shapes. The blast drove them back—but not very far.
The creatures flapped wildly around the dim circle of light, like huge chittering vultures, waiting for a victim to fall. Riddick wrested the shotgun free, but Johns smacked it out of his hands. The weapon spun to the ground, but as Johns lunged, Riddick kicked it into the night. When Johns turned, he saw Riddick’s shiv, wagging at him like a scolding finger.
“Gotta stay in the light, Johns, that’s the only rule,” Riddick said hoarsely.
Johns circled at the edge of the flare’s light. Riddick feinted and jabbed, pushing Johns against the wall of darkness. Then Johns’s foot stumbled over something. Desperately he scooped it up. A bone . . . a club.
“Bring whatcha got,” Johns growled, suddenly confident. He was finally in his element, kill or be killed. He felt a rush of exhilaration as he hefted the heavy bone. “C’mon Trash-Baby, let’s take the roof off.”
Riddick found his own bone-club, whipped it against Johns’s chest with a quick snap, then jumped out of range. Roaring, Johns swung hard. Bone-clubs clashing, they circled each other, grunting like cavemen. Riddick took his time, patience honed by a hundred prison fights and a decade of accumulated rage.
Johns swung again and missed. Costly error.
Riddick smacked Johns’s club hand, breaking his fingers. Yowling, Johns dropped the weapon. An instant later he lunged, scrambling for the flare with his other hand. Suddenly he froze, eyes bulging in astonishment.
“Remember that moment?” Riddick whispered, voice hot against Johns’s ear as he drove the shiv into his back. Riddick jerked the blade along Johns’s spine, then jumped aside to avoid the oily red geyser of blood gushing from the wound. Blindly Johns crawled toward the flare’s fading glow. Riddick dogged him every agonized step, talking him down to hell.
“Shoulda never took the chains off, Johns. You were one brave fuck before. Oh man, you was Cock Diesel with your gauge . . .” Trembling with primal fury Riddick ripped the badge from Johns’s heaving chest. “. . . with that badge . . . with your chains. Oh yeah, you was Billy Bad-Ass . . .”
Without warning Johns dove for the fallen shotgun and snatched it with his good hand.
“And I’m still Billy Bad-Ass!” he rasped, sweeping the weapon around.
The red laser sight drilled into . . . blackness. Riddick had vanished.
Then he heard a rapid clicking behind him. Johns awkwardly grabbed the flare with his broken fingers and whirled in time to see a huge black shape looming closer. He fired, blasting the predator back but the flare dropped from his stiff, throbbing fingers. The hairs on his neck bristled and he spun around as a second creature rushed at him. Johns pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. Screaming soundlessly as if trapped in a nightmare, Johns hurriedly ratcheted the weapon for another shot. The ejected shell fell beside the flare and in that instant Johns realized it was red.
He’d loaded a red morphine shell in the dark. It was the last rational thought he had before the beast’s talons skewered his armpits like corn forks, and lifted him off the ground. The creature stared at him blankly, with deceptively gentle clicking-cooing sounds.
Gibbering and drooling with mindless terror Johns opened his mouth to scream. It never came. The predator reared back its horned head and slammed it forward. It rammed Johns with the full force of its skull-blade—splitting him in half like a lobster. As Johns’s greasy organs splashed out in a steamy heap the creature began chewing his face off . . .
Fry, Imam, Audrey and Rashad rushed through the blackness as shotgun blasts bolted like lightning behind them. They were stumbling, running, trying to backtrack along the sled marks. Suddenly panicked that there wasn’t enough light, Fry turned to see if she was being pursued—and crashed into something.
“Back to the ship, huh?” Riddick challenged. He’d been standing in the dark, waiting for them.
“Get out of our way,” she said breathlessly.
Riddick stayed where he was, blocking their retreat along the sled track. “So everybody huddles together till the lights burn out? Until you can’t see what’s eatin’ you? That the big plan?”
“Where’s Mr. Johns?” Imam demanded.
“Which half?”
Imam’s face went sickly pale in the dull light. “You mean . . .”
They all looked back where they’d last seen Johns, faces reflecting remorse, disbelief, and raw terror. “Gonna lose everybody out here . . .” Audrey wailed, her eyes welling up.
“He died fast,” Riddick snapped. “And if we got any choice, that’s the way we should all go out.” He turned to Audrey and bent close. “Don’t you cry for Johns,” he whispered gently. “Don’t you dare.”
Numbly she nodded. At that moment they both knew her life was in his hands. Riddick slowly started marching back to the canyon. Audrey fell into step behind him. After a few seconds Fry, Imam and Rashad reluctantly followed.
With Riddick leading and Imam and Rashad pulling the sled, they soon reached the entrance to the canyon. Ahead of them lay the gauntlet, and the blackness was in full cry. Without his goggles Riddick could see the horror waiting for them.
His jaguar eyes recognized the winged shapes perched everywhere like huge gargoyles on a ravaged cathedral. They loomed and hovered, thrashing about in constant movement, skull-blades clashing as they fought, fed and mated with savage ferocity. Their cries echoed hellishly in the canyon, rising above the snapping of bone and rending of flesh as they tore each other apart.
Some of the creatures slouched on the canyon rim, watching the approaching party with the pitiless intensity of falcons scanning a file of geese. The survivors pressed forward, weary faces reflecting their stark dread at what lay ahead.
Only Riddick seemed unafraid, but he’d written himself off years ago. For all intents and purposes he was dead—a walking corpse—about to be consumed like some unholy Eucharist, on behalf of a perverse God. What difference does it make? he thought grimly. Either way I’m fodder for the eternal plan. Shit rolls downhill.
“How many do you see?” Fry asked.
Riddick winked at Audrey and shrugged. “Only one or two.”
They bought it.
“Audrey?” Fry said in her best military manner.
The little girl snapped to attention. “Three full bottles,” she reported. “But almost time to refill.”
Fry gave Riddick a rueful smile. “Doesn’t seem like enough to turn back on—does it?”
He heard her. She was telling him it was his call. “Only see one way,” he told them. “Turn the sled over, and drag it like that . . . Girl down low. Light up everything we got—and run like dogs on fire.”
Imam nodded thoughtfully. “The sled as a shield . . . It might work.” The drag sled’s sharp steel sides were bent in a horseshoe shape. Without the power cells to support—and turned upside down—they made excellent runners. With Audrey crawling beneath, she had protection from an air attack. He gestured to Rashad and they went to work.
Fry wasn’t convinced. “And what about the power cells?”
“I’ll take those,” Riddick said.
She calculated the possibilities. None were good. Riddick had eliminated his captor. The witnesses couldn’t be far behind. “We’re just here to carry your light, aren’t we?” Fry said, voice barbed with contempt. “Just the goddamn torch bearers.”
Riddick didn’t seem to hear. “Let’s drop back,” he called. “Boot up!”
As he walked away Fry noticed her torch flame was fading. She dropped down to one knee to refill the reservoir. With just the pilot light burning, Fry never saw the large shadow looming behind her.
Something made Riddick turn in time to see the creature stealing up on Fry. It spread its taloned wings as if waving goodbye. Riddick moved but he knew he’d never make it.
Abruptly Fry’s torch flared, belching fire. The creature shrank back as Fry turned and walked toward him. Doesn’t know how close she came to being hambur
ger, Riddick thought, turning back. Ignorance sure is bliss.
They regrouped in the bone yard at the mouth of the canyon. The constant wailing of wind blowing through the pitted bones played surreal counterpoint to their panting urgency as they worked. Riddick used the loading straps to rig a body harness for the power cells. He’d be carrying over two hundred pounds, but needed to move fast. The harness would balance the weight. Engrossed in his task he forgot where he was for a moment. Not wise.
When he stood up to admire his handiwork, Riddick came face-to-face with a predator.
Riddick knee-jerked back, pulling his shiv as he moved. Then he realized it was dead. Long gone, Riddick mused, inspecting the fossilized skull. The remnant was propped up by other bones, making it seem like a museum display. Nasty-looking beast, live or dead, he decided. The hammer head was crowned by a large bone blade like the one that clove Johns. Below it dangled a reptilian spine as if the blade was linked directly to the nervous system rather than the brain. Pure killer instinct.
Then Riddick noticed something even more interesting. Twin echo-location sensors positioned behind the eye sockets on each side of the skull. As he studied the echo sensors he suddenly understood.
“Blind spot . . .” he whispered.
If he stood directly in front of the creature—nose to nose—he couldn’t be “seen” by its echo locators. Nice theory, he thought ruefully. Hate to test it.
“May I bless you?”
Riddick turned and saw Imam, peering at him from behind a handlight.
The monk gave him an apologetic smile. “I’ve already done the others,” he explained. “It’s really quite painless.”
Riddick snorted. “It’s pointless.”
“Well even if you don’t believe in God, it doesn’t mean He won’t be . . .”
Imam’s voice trailed off when he saw Riddick’s savagely gleaming eyes drilling into his.
“You think someone could spend half their life in a slam with a horse bit in their mouth and not believe?” Riddick asked, voice slicing like a razor. “You think he can start out in some liquor store trash bin with an umbilical around his neck and wind up a company enforcer—and not believe?”