by Larry Niven
Wiser, stronger siblings hooked the twitching dead and dragged them away.
Everywhere grendels were dying, but the line of corpses moved closer and closer to the house. Grendels fought each other, dragged each other away, climbed over their own dead in a mindless fever to reach the house.
A cluster of grendels broke through the mob, racing for the livestock. Omar Isfahan clambered out onto the hill. He lifted a spear gun, sighted with unsteady hands.
He missed. The grendels became suddenly, horribly aware of his presence, and streaked for him. Before Cadmann had time to yell warning, Isfahan was down, three grendels at him. He screamed once, and then there was nothing left to scream with.
“Jerry! Inside,” Cadmann ordered.
The doctor hesitated for a brief second. “Right. Going.”
The cattle had gone mad. They broke free of the pens and stampeded. Grendels brought them down one by one. Grendels died of heat prostration trying to drag butchered cows to safety, or they ran out of speed and were crushed beneath the hoofs of the herd.
The cattle raced to the low wall, over, down the mountainside. Grendels followed.
It was as if a signal had been given. The grendels surged forward, up the hill. Grendels exploded in the minefield, but others were weaving along the safe path. Bullets found some of them; other grendels stopped, considering, looking for an enemy. Too many came on.
Gunfire erupted from within the house. And grendels fell. Flame throwers coughed their last bit of jellied fuel, and scorched monsters reeled away, streaking for the stream.
Monsters crowded up the hill.
“Ida? Now.”
“Need a couple more minutes,” she answered. “Getting that damned water tank out—”
“Right. But get going as soon as you can.” Cadmann raced across the veranda. “Deadfall,” he shouted.
“Sí.” Carlos followed. They left the veranda and raced down the hill.
Deadfall: an enormous boulder, held in place by large chocks. Above it were dozens of smaller boulders ready to plunge down, along the cleared path through the minefield. Chocks held the deadfall boulder in place. A dying grendel crouched against the chocks.
“Son of a bitch!” Cadmann shouted.
Carlos grinned and fired. The explosive shell struck the grendel in the chest. It leaped upward and struck its head on the boulder above, and fell in a heap, still blocking the chocks.
“Aw, shit,” Carlos said.
“You said it. Here.” Cadmann handed him the rifle. “Hold ’em off while I pull.”
“You’ll need help—”
“Bullshit I need help! You watch for grendels.”
“All right.”
The corpse might have weighed eighty kilos. They were getting big, and this one must have fed well. Not too much to drag, but awkward. Cadmann reached for the tail. It lashed. Spikes caught his thigh. He fell heavily against the boulder.
“Amigo—”
“Look out ahead!” Cadmann shouted.
More grendels coming. Cadmann desperately reached the lines holding the chocks in place. “I got it. Be out of the way!”
“For sure.”
He heaved against the lines. The chock moved slightly. He pulled again. It was hard to brace his good leg against the rocks and still have purchase on the line. He pulled again. The corpse moved; crimson foam ran from its back, frothed down against the wooden chocks. This time when he pulled, the chocks moved—
Carlos was firing rapidly now.
One final heave. The chocks came loose. The massive boulder seemed poised in space. Then it began to roll. Down, followed by a mass of others.
Carlos joined in his shout of triumph.
A grendel came over the large boulder, sprang between the smaller boulders, tried to dance among them. It didn’t quite succeed. A rock the size of a footstool hit it in the side. Carlos shot it twice more. Still it thrashed forward, toward Cadmann, who lay with his legs toward it, legs spread, monster crawling up, up, between his legs. Cadmann writhed, twisted. The grendel fell onto his uninjured leg. Something snapped. Pain surged.
Carlos stood staring wildly. Grendels below them. He couldn’t shoot and carry Cadmann at the same time. He looked the question.
“How the fuck do I know?” Cadmann said. He was surprised at how soft his voice was. The grendel hadn’t moved. Sixty kilos of dead meat. Both legs screamed their agony in his brain; he couldn’t think past that. I’ve used up all my adrenaline. Like a goddamned grendel uses up its speed. No adrenaline, and I don’t even care what happens.
Carlos fired twice. Cadmann couldn’t see what he was shooting at.
The grendels leaped like fleas among the bounding boulders. The deadfall was taking its toll. He could see smashed grendels, he could hear the weakened challenge-screams of grendels facing death. How do you see death, amigos? A mature grendel the size of a mountain?
But a grendel in the air had no control of its path. They leaped, and Carlos took them at apogee, rapid-fire practice with pop-up targets, shoot and forget.
It was over. The slide continued, a horde of rocks among the horde of grendels, crossing the brook and onward. How long had it taken? A minute? Less.
And he had leisure to help his friend.
Cadmann was no more than half-conscious. One leg was crushed; the other looked broken. Carlos worked his way under him and heaved. Cadmann was lifted from the ground, a big man in high gravity, and Carlos walked. Weaponless. Both hands occupied.
The stench of speed was a shroud. It hung in the air thick as fog; it clouded his mind. There was nothing to think about anyway. Pick up Cadmann and walk until you’re in the house.
Depend on hysterical strength. Any passing grendel is on his own.
A larger grendel climbed one of the bigger boulders left by the deadfall. It perched there, looking them over. Carlos paid little attention; he had to watch his feet. He was on uncertain footing, with a mass of ninety-five kilograms sagging from his shoulder. The grendel climbed down at leisure, hooked the ravaged corpse of a heifer and went away. The door was closer.
Cadmann stirred, tried to say something, gave up.
Joe Sikes was in front of him, then up against him. When Cadmann’s weight eased off, Carlos almost fainted in relief. Then they were through the door, and Harry Siep closing it behind them, and Mary Ann swearing as they eased Cadmann to the floor.
Mary Ann saw Phyllis McAndrews die. It didn’t have to be. She could have come in earlier, but she’d stayed at the communications console a moment too long. What could she have been hearing from Geographic? Whatever it was—
By the time she turned to run to the door, a grendel had got behind her. It was heat-exhausted. Its sides heaved, and it was no longer running as a blur. It was still faster than a man, and stronger. It charged, struck Phyllis, and she fell.
For a moment, Mary Ann hoped that Phyllis could throw the weakened creature off. Then its teeth closed. Blood spurted hotly over its muzzle as it tore her face away.
From behind her Joe Sikes fired three times. Twice at the grendel. Once lower . . .
Mary Ann turned and threw up.
Carlos dragged Cadmann into the room. Someone had let the dogs out. Tweedledum met them at the door, barking and trying to lick the blood off Cadmann’s leg. Carlos brushed him aside.
Mary Ann handed her rifle to a now sober Jill and went to Cadmann. He wasn’t quite unconscious. He stared up at her, through her, with pain-dilated pupils. He tried to say something. It made no sense.
“Ida,” he said.
“Ah.” Carlos took out his comcard. “Ida. Cadmann says go now.”
Nothing answered.
“I’ll go look,” Joe Sikes said.
“Get her moving—”
“Sure.” Sikes went out through the back of the house.
“We’ve done what we can,” Carlos said.
Cadmann stared at him for a moment, then nodded. All the strength seemed to drain out of him at once.
Carlos helped her slit his trouser legs. There was blood, and a sliver of bone knifed out of the left leg. “Spiral fracture,” he said. She was amazed at how calm she could be. I’ll collapse later. For now she had work to do.
Blood flowed freely from the right thigh. “Venous blood,” Carlos said. “It flows, not spurts. Jill—give us a hand here, please.”
Cadmann’s mouth worked as he fought to speak. No words came out, but he coughed and a bubble of blood formed at his lips.
“Bruises. Perhaps a punctured lung. The thing fell hard against him,” Carlos said.
“You’re in charge,” Cadmann muttered. “Get out of here.”
Carlos looked down helplessly. “I’ll find Jerry—”
“He’s in the back room,” Mary Ann said. “I don’t know what you’re supposed to do, but it’s your job now. We’ll find Jerry.”
Tweedledum barked in rage at the clerestory.
Something crawled up through the stream. Three of the dogs met it there, crowded to get at it. The grendel, weakened, managed to get its teeth into Tweedledee’s neck before the other dogs tore it apart.
Tweedledum turned from the corpse, licked at his sister’s wounds. She whined softly and died.
Stu rushed in, rifle in hand. “The Skeeter’s up! They’re burning out there! Burning and running away—”
There was a sudden burst of gunfire from outside, and twin screams, human and grendel.
The roof sagged, bulged inward. Two grendels fought to push in through the clerestory.
Jill grabbed a spear, shrieked, and stabbed one in the throat. It writhed, whipped its tail, and she backed off. The spear remained in the wound.
It fell into the living room. It pawed weakly at the spear, eyes ablaze with hatred and pain. It tried to go on speed, but had nothing left. They clubbed at it, everyone striking at it, dogs darting in.
The roof collapsed, and two more grendels fell through. One landed nearly atop Jill, and had its jaws in her leg before anyone could move.
Mary Ann shot it, shot again, then turned, hearing a splash. More grendels. More. Coming in up the stream bed, up the stream that ran through the living room.
She fired at full automatic. The gun stopped almost immediately. Out of ammunition. The grendels were still coming. She looked back toward Cadmann—
A river of fire flowed down. It flowed from the bedroom into the living room, under the earthen walls of the house. Flames danced from the water, and Mary Ann thought she had lost her mind.
“Sikes!” Carlos shouted. “He’s poured the kerosene in the river!”
Joe Sikes, I owe you. I guess I already paid.
The fire flowed down to engulf the grendels. They turned downstream, fleeing in terror.
And then there was quiet, save for coughing from the smoke. There were no live grendels in the house.
Another volley of shots.
Somewhere a grendel screamed.
The surviving colonists pulled smoldering furniture and cloth against one of the earthen walls, then smothered the heap with a blanket.
Cadmann stirred and looked at Carlos. He tried to say something.
“Madre de Dios,” Carlos said. “Shut up for a moment!”
It was very quiet in the room.
The veranda was covered with blood. Four men, one woman, three grendels; all dead. Below the veranda and as far downhill as Carlos could see, the plateau was littered with corpses. Men and dogs and cattle; but mostly grendels. Hundreds and hundreds of grendels.
Some lay still. Some crawled, torn nearly in half, trailing entrails from shattered bodies. The air hung heavy with the stench of kerosene and burnt meat. Patches of fire burned twenty meters from the veranda. Ida had brought the fires very close indeed.
The stream no longer burned. It was also no longer choked with grendels. They had retreated in front of a river of fire. Grendels seeking cold had fled from the river and died in the hills.
Other people came out of the house and down from the roof. Gunshots from up above the house: one, two, three, then silence. Rick Erin held a bloody spear. He held it high and shook it in defiance.
The command console had been knocked off its table. Hendrick limped over to pick it up and set aright. He touched the switches, and lights glowed.
Tau Ceti was low on the horizon. Carlos limped out to the edge of the plateau and looked out. The mist had dissipated. He looked for grendels on speed, and found none. Here and there, a grendel dragged the corpse of a grendel or a cow toward the water. He saw them met by emerging grendels, and torn apart.
Something had happened. Something had changed, and Carlos knew it. The grendels knew it!
Human beings were no longer prey. Man was the ultimate killer on Avalon. Grendels were smart enough to learn. The survivors now stalked each other instead of the aliens from the stars, the creatures who had brought death to thousands of Avalon’s former masters.
“Geographic—”
“We’re here. Are you all right?”
Hendrick looked toward Carlos. His face was grimy and haggard, his eyes bright. “What do I tell them?”
“Tell them we’ve won.”
♦ChaptEr 34♦
hunting party
Leviathan, that great dragon in the sea . . .
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
—King Lear, Act I, Scene I
Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder:
the young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet.
—Psalm 91:13
It was a small pond up a stream that fed the Miskatonic—a stream not much larger than Cadmann’s Amazon. The pond was the nearest possible thing to an oxbow lake, still connected to the stream but without the rushing waters. There were boulders piled at its lower end. Mits Kokubun wondered about those boulders. Could grendels have put them there? Beavers were smart enough to build dams. Why not grendels?
Correction: grendel, singular. They were too damned competitive to cooperate, ever.
A nest of boulders overlooked the pond. It was a good place, high enough and steep enough that the resident grendel would have problems getting there. Mits searched the pond area with his binoculars.
“Still nothing.”
“Still nothing,” Joe Sikes said. “Half the morning gone. Christ, what does it take to get the mother out of there?”
“Some of them just won’t come out and fight.” Mits tapped his comcard. “Stu. Still nothing.”
“Well, it’s there. Samlon in the pool and Geographic photographed the shadow. Those things should have more respect for our explosives shortage. I’ll try speed soup again.”
“Well, okay, but I don’t think it’ll do any good.”
“So? We’ve got more speed than explosives. Stand by.”
They waited. After a moment Skeeter One skimmed across, twenty meters above the pond. Its cabin had a pebbled, battered look, but it flew well. A thick pinkish mist cascaded down and was blown into the pond scum and into the rocks around its bank.
They waited. Nothing happened.
“That was your Skeeter,” Sikes said.
“Yeah.”
“What was it like?” Sikes asked. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean. What do you want me to say? Stu and I sat there in the Skeeter while the mothers backed dents in the hull. It was fun. Just as it was starting to get dull, a big one bashed its head right through. Damn near got my foot. I chopped it with the ax. It tried to pull its head out, but it was caught on the torn hull metal where it poked through, and then the others outside started eating it. They ate it alive.”
“I’d have liked to watch that,” Sikes said.
Mits looked at him. Sikes didn’t seem to be kidding.
The comcard squawked. “Nothing, huh?”
“Not a damn thing,” Mits answered. “Let’s get a move on. I want sashimi tonight.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll use a bomb. Have to call that
in. Stand by.”
“Our luck, everybody will be busy,” Sikes said.
“Nah. They’re too hungry to be busy. Fresh samlon.”
“I guess I’m getting sick of fresh samlon.”
“It’s better’n nothing. It’s way better’n grendel.” Mits swept his binoculars around the edges of the pond. Nothing. Not even bushes. Grendels would eat anything in preference to samlon. Then they ate samlon.
“Got it approved,” Stu’s voice said from the comcard. “You ready?”
“Ready here. Set it for max depth. The damn thing’s hiding on the bottom, trust me.”
“Standby.”
The whish of rotors grew louder. The craft came over the low lip of the rock basin surrounding the pond. It hovered at the center of the pond, and a dark barrel fell from the doorway. “Bomb away. And me too,” Stu said. The Skeeter darted off west.
The pond exploded in a geyser. Mits waited, counting seconds to himself.
A half-grown grendel burst from the water. It scrambled onto the beach and ran in drunken curves. Blood poured from its mouth. It rolled and found its feet again, ran, rolled, stopped to take its bearings.
“Sayonara, sucker,” Mits hissed. He held the sights on the area just behind the head, down five centimeters from the back ridge, the central ganglion complex that corresponded more or less to the human medulla oblongata. He squeezed off the round. The grendel darted ahead one step and died.
Mits thumbed the comcard. ‘Tell ’em. Meat!”
The samlon were starting to float to the surface.
They came in tractors and jeeps and on foot. A team set up nets across the river downstream from the pond. Others inflated boats and set out on the pond. They spread nets. The pond would be seined again and again.
Dead samlon floated belly-up. They weren’t very big—from half a meter down—but there must have been fifty in sight, and the team downstream would take more yet.
Skeeter Three came in carrying a prefabricated smokehouse. Colonists trickled in from uphill, bearing firewood. Hendrick Sills moved among the various groups. “Load the Skeeters as fast as it comes in. Some of us’ll have to walk home to leave room. When the Skeeters are full we can start filling the smokehouse. Ida, what are you doing?”
