As he wasn’t still eating his sandwich, he just stared at the screen instead, his eyebrows rising, then knotting, then rising again, like they couldn’t quite figure out how to react.
“Oh,” he said, as the cameras cut back to the action, and the little Floomfle vanished from view. “Oh, my.”
Thirty-Two
The smell was the most instantly notable thing about Sector Two. This was closely followed by the taste and then, chasing hot on its heels, the smell again.
The name of the sector, which had been carved into a plank of wood and then, it appeared, repeatedly dipped in slime, had not filled Cal with a lot of hope. The Belchpits was not the sort of name that conjured up positive images, and his spirits hadn’t exactly been high to start with following the whole Mech situation.
But the smell, though.
Sweet Jesus, the smell.
It was the smell of rotten eggs and sweaty socks. Of death and decay. Of the laundry facilities at a hospital for the double-incontinent. But there was something acrid and hot about the aroma, too. It was as if someone had collected all the worst smells in the world and then proceeded to make a curry out of them.
Cal’s nostrils decided to have nothing to do with it. As a result, the smell seemed to assault him further back in his nasal cavities, coating his throat with their wretched stink. He gagged frequently. His eyes were constantly awash with tears. His mouth ramped up saliva production in the hope of washing the taste away, but only succeeded in making it worse.
Floora, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned. She trotted along at Cal’s side, her feet squelching on the soft, muddy ground. Occasionally, she’d glance off in the direction of one of the angry-looking bugs that zipped around just above the uneven terrain, but if the insects were planning to launch an attack, they were playing their cards close to their chests.
“This is better, isn’t it?” Floora said, as they picked a path across the mulchy ground.
“Than what?” asked Cal. He found that if he spoke in short bursts, he didn’t have to inhale as often. Ideally, he wouldn’t have to inhale at all, but in the interests of staying alive, he accepted that he probably had to.
“Than the last place. With all the bones,” said Floora. She shuddered. “That was creepy.”
“This stinks.”
“Does it?” asked Floora. She stopped for a moment and took a deep breath in through her nose. Cal gagged in sympathy. “Seems fine to me.”
“Your nose is broken,” Cal told her.
They plodded on. Ahead of them lay nothing but wide open space, but Cal was confident this was another trick, and that they’d soon stumble upon whatever the fonk was waiting for them next. He could’ve asked Perko, of course, but the last thing he needed right now was a face-to-face with that animated shizznod.
Somewhere over on Cal’s left, the ground burped, bursting open a bubble of slime and filling the air with yet more stink. He screwed his face up in distaste and hurried on.
“So, you really knew that guy?” Floora asked, racing to keep up with him. “The robot?”
“He’s not a robot,” Cal said. “And yes.”
“Oh. It’s just that you called him a robot.”
Cal shook his head. “I know what I said. He’s not a robot.”
“He seemed to really hate you.”
Cal shrugged. “Sometimes.” He inhaled, then quickly spat it out again. “But not like that. He’s been brainwashed.”
“Do robots even have—?”
“Not a robot.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.”
They trudged on for a while. The sky was no longer red, and had turned a pretty bog-standard smear of grays. A thin, smirry sort of rain was falling—not enough to notice, but gradually soaking them both to the skin.
“Is he dead, do you think?” Floora asked.
Cal continued to stare ahead of them. “No. Not Mech. You can’t get rid of Mech that easily,” he said, although the tone of his voice suggested he might not entirely believe that. “He’ll be OK.”
Another hurried breath.
“Until I remind him that I kicked his ass, I mean.”
“He fell on some yogurt,” Floora said.
“My yogurt,” said Cal. “So, I get the win.”
Floora opened her mouth as if to argue, but then decided against it. Somewhere behind them, a Sloorg howled. A response came from somewhere over on the left, not quite level with them, but not far off.
The Sloorg that had appeared in the maze had become trapped in the center when the doors had slammed closed behind Cal and Floora. The maze itself had been far easier to navigate on the way out, the labyrinth of corridors having become a single straight passageway without a single hand trying to grab for them.
From there, it had been a straight run to the entrance of Sector Two, with the Hovercams following them every step of the way. The sprint had taken ten minutes or so, nine of which Cal had spent trying not to be sick. This was partly because of the smell, and partly because of the effort.
Maybe, just maybe, Loren could have a point about his replicator usage.
A third Sloorg howled way off on the right. Floora drew in closer to Cal, and they both walked in silence until they were sure the dog-monsters had fallen silent.
“Don’t suppose you have any other friends you might want to warn me about?” Floora asked.
Cal clenched his jaw, as if trying to stop the word escaping. Or, possibly to stop himself from vomiting.
“Three.”
The little Floomfle launched herself a foot ahead of him on her wings and looked up in concern. “What, seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Are they all like the last one?”
Cal shook his head. “Some are worse.”
Floora blinked slowly, trying to process this. “Wow. You need to get a new social circle.”
She peered ahead in the direction they were walking. A pale yellow mist was now clinging to the ground thirty or forty feet in front of them. It would barely be up to Cal’s knees, which meant it would cover Floora completely.
“You think they’re going to be in here, too?” she asked. “Your other friends, I mean?”
“Four of them. Four new Hunters,” Cal said, sipping in a breath, then gagging it out. “Seems likely.”
Two paces and a hop over a boggy puddle later, a flag appeared in the mist ahead of them. It was not a particularly interesting flag—a red square roughly a foot along each side—but the way it just popped up out of nowhere made them both stop.
The fog itself was growing thicker, too. It was still confined to ground level, but it stretched all the way up to waist height now. Floora clambered up onto Cal’s back, then he stepped ahead into the mist.
It felt warm and sticky even through the suit, and seemed to cling to him as he crept through it.
“It’s a flag,” Floora whispered.
“I know,” said Cal.
Quick breath in, quick breath out.
“Is this normal?” he asked.
“What, magically appearing flags?”
“For the show, I mean. Does this happen a lot?”
Floora thought for a moment. “Not that I’ve ever noticed.”
“What about the… Bogholes, or whatever it’s called?”
“Belchpits,” said Floora. “Yeah, I’ve seen them before.”
“What can you tell me about them?” Cal asked.
Floora thought for a moment before responding. “Nothing.”
Cal tutted. “Great.”
He considered his available options. It wasn’t a long list.
“Should I touch the flag?” he wondered. “Maybe, if I get the flag, I win?”
“I doubt that,” said Floora. “Seems too easy.”
“Worth a shot though, right?” Cal ventured.
Floora made a little hmm sort of noise that suggested she thought it highly unlikely.
“I mean, sometimes they add challenge elements, I suppose,�
� she said. “Like, one time, this guy had to balance on a beam across a lava pit. The Hunter wasn’t allowed to touch him. Juggacrush, I think. If he made it, he got to move on.”
“And did he make it?” Cal asked.
“Not all of him, no,” said Floora. “And the rest didn’t get very far.”
“I still think I’m going to touch the flag,” said Cal. He glanced around across the fog, spat on his hands, then rubbed them together. “OK, here goes.”
He ran. It was only a short distance from where he started to where the metal flagpole had been stuck in the ground.
Cal closed the gap in moments. He was almost at it, the words, “Well, this was easier than I expected,” already forming in his mouth, when a snarling ball of furry fury slammed into him, sending him sprawling into the fog.
For the first second or two of his flight, Cal could think only one thing: Sloorg.
One of the fonkers must’ve caught up and launched a stealth attack. The testicle-headed shizznods!
It was only when he twisted in the air and caught a glimpse of his attacker silhouetted against an enormous full moon that had upped and appeared from nowhere, that the truth hit him.
“Mi—” he managed to splutter, before he face-planted into bog-slime and the final ‘Z’ became a series of garbled bubbles.
Floora landed somewhere in the fog ahead of him with a thud and a splash and a yelp of pain. Spitting out the bog slime, Cal tried to call to her, but a clawed hand caught him by the back of the bodysuit and jerked him cleanly into the air.
The voice of the Host bellowed down from on high as some hairy-looking holographic text appeared in the air behind Mizette’s head.
“I give you… Eeeeeeviscerator!”
On cue, Miz opened her mouth and let out a raw, animalistic roar that blew Cal’s hair back and cleared most of the slime from his face.
“My, my.” Cal gulped. “What big teeth you have.”
Thirty-Three
Cal had fully expected Mizette to bite and/or claw his face off, but instead, she spun and body-slammed him onto the ground, driving him a full foot into the boggy surface.
Under normal circumstances he’d have objected, but considering the alternatives, he couldn’t really complain.
He lay there, wheezing in the warm filth, the mist concealing everything beyond the end of his own nose. He knew trying to reason with Miz would almost certainly be pointless. She could be a stubborn bedge at the best of times, let alone when she was under hypnotic psychic control.
He decided to try, anyway.
“So, uh, how you doing there, Miz?” he asked.
When he got no reply, he tentatively raised his head and tried to peer through the layer of fog. It was like trying to see through a solid object.
“Miz? You still there?”
Nothing.
Cal sat up, his body pulling free of the bog with a shlop. Sitting upright meant the top of his head protruded from the top of the fog. Through the thin uppermost layer of vapor, he saw the flag in one direction, and nothing whatsoever in any of the others.
“Mizette?” he whispered.
A hand grabbed him from behind and he screamed.
“Shh! It’s me!” Floora whispered. “Sorry, did I startle you?”
“What do you think? Yes, you fonking startled me!” Cal spat. “Jesus. Don’t do that.”
Floora clambered onto his back again. “Where did it go?”
“She.”
“Huh?”
“She, not it. Her name’s Mizette. And I don’t know.”
The Host spoke, his tones rolling across the sector like the voice of God.
“Special challenge mode!” he said. “The Prey has seventy-four seconds to capture the flag. If successful, Reduk Topa may advance to Sector Three. If unsuccessful, the Eviscerator shall feast on his remains.”
“Seventy-four seconds. Who the fonk sets a timer for seventy-four seconds?” Cal muttered.
“The countdown starts…”
Cal searched around for any sign of movement, then eyed the flag. He tensed, getting ready to move as soon as the Host gave the order.
“…when I blow my whistle.”
Cal started to move, then stopped. “Sorry. Sorry. False start,” he said, raising a hand to the camera. “I thought that was the cue to—”
A whistle blew. Cal jumped up in panic.
“Shizz, shizz, shizz!”
The flag was only ten feet away. There was no sign of Mizette.
Easy.
Way too easy.
He dived to the ground just as Miz launched herself out of the fog, claws and fangs bared.
Cal threw an arm out to save himself, only for it to sink into the ground all the way up to the shoulder.
Over on his left, he heard Miz splat down in what sounded to be an equally messy landing.
“Get up, get up,” Floora urged.
Extricating himself from the bog, Cal launched himself forward again. Miz had recovered even more quickly than he had, though. He dodged as she swiped at him, but her claws tore through his suit, slashing four bloody grooves across his ribcage.
“Fonk!”
He staggered. His foot found a soft, marshy area of the terrain, then the ground sucked him all the way down into its marshy depths.
Cal kicked and thrashed in the sudden darkness. The stink was all around him, testing his defenses, forcing its way in. He grasped for the surface, flailing wildly, his ribcage on fire.
And then, with a burp, he shot up out of the slime and landed heavily on a patch of more solid ground beside it.
Floora coughed and spluttered in his ear as he pushed down his nausea and sat up. The flag was tantalizingly close, but Mizette stood between it and him, her hackles rising, every single one of her teeth on display.
“OK, Miz. Sit,” Cal ordered, raising a finger admonishingly. He knew it was unlikely to work, but it was the best he could come up with at the moment. “Stay. Stay.”
Mizette’s claws extended from the tips of her fingers. Her snout creased as she lowered her center of gravity and prepared to pounce.
“Down! Stay! Sit!” Cal said, rattling off all the dog commands he could think of.
All of them except…
“Oh, shiz. I am so sorry,” he said, as one final idea flung itself to the forefront.
“Why are you apologizing to her?” Floora whimpered.
“I’m not,” said Cal. Reaching back, he caught the Floomfle by the arm. “I’m apologizing to you.”
He raised his voice to a shout.
“Miz? Fetch.”
With a flick of his wrist and a flicker of remorse, Cal tossed Floora as far and as fast as he could. She howled as she went sailing off through the air, arms, legs, and wings all flapping at different rates.
“You baaaaaamston!” she hollered.
Miz’s eyes flicked from Cal to the tumbling Floomfle. Her stomach rumbled, and some primal instinct forced her to spring after the moving target, silver threads of saliva dangling from her teeth.
Cal launched himself forward, kicking and scrambling through the fog and the filth.
His hand found the cool metal of the flagpole. A musical chime rang out, and the fog magically cleared as if it had simply been switched off.
The gate to Sector Three appeared just a few feet ahead of him. He could be through it in four seconds. Less if he ran.
Two down, two to go.
No longer hidden by the mist, Floora lay on her back, her hands raised in a pleading motion as Mizette advanced. The wolf-woman licked her lips, a low growl resonating in her chest, harmonizing with the noises her stomach was making.
“Please, no, don’t,” Floora whispered.
Mizette’s jaws opened to their full terrifying limit.
A whistle from behind her made her stop.
“Hey.”
Mizette turned, snarling.
“Down, doggy,” said Cal, then he swung with the flagpole, cracking Miz acro
ss the head with the weighted metal end.
Her head turned, but she didn’t fall. It took her just a second to compose herself, her hackles rising again as she fixed him with a furious glare.
Cal swallowed. “OK, so that didn’t go anything like how I imagined it would.”
He barely had time to bring the pole up between them before Miz pounced. He jammed it across her chest, the red square of the flag fluttering and flapping violently. A corner of it whipped her in the face, and she tore the fabric to ribbons with her claws, before wrenching the pole from Cal’s grip and tossing it aside.
A red cross appeared above her head. “The flag was captured. The Eviscerator has been defeated,” announced the Host.
A circle of yellow light appeared beneath Miz’s feet. She barely had time to glance down at it before it opened, pulling her down into the ground below.
She roared with fury, but it was quickly silenced as she plunged out of sight and the glowing circle became just another patch of uneven boggy ground.
“Reduk Topa is victorious,” said the Host. “Can he survive Sector Three? Find out, after this word from our sponsor.”
“Don’t you just hate junkrats and pirates?” asked an upbeat female voice. “Doesn’t it drive you crazy when they take your cargo, wreck your property—even murder your families?”
Cal held a hand out to Floora. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“Get off me,” Floora snapped, slapping his hand away. “I could’ve died!”
“No, you couldn’t. I had it all worked out,” said Cal.
“How? How could you possibly have had it worked out?”
“OK, worked out was an exaggeration,” Cal admitted. “But I was confident it’d all be fine. Or, you know, quietly hopeful.”
He held a hand out again. This time, against her better judgment, Floora took it and allowed herself to be helped up.
That done, Cal bent and retrieved one of the torn strips of the flag. “Those fonks think they can use my friends against me,” he said.
Stretching out the fabric, he placed it against his forehead and glared at the closest Hovercam. “You shizznods want a war?”
The Hunt for Reduk Topa Page 27
