They were on track to fall short of reaching the canal before dark. Perhaps that was it? He hoped to cut his way free during the dark? It didn’t seem likely he would have a chance. Even less of one now that the hunter had caught onto the plan. They would pick up the pace. Push to make it to the canal before dark. And failing that, he had options, depending on just how far short they fell. Tighter ropes or a bullet. Tighter ropes would almost certainly be sufficient.
But a bullet would seal the deal. He could manage a few miles with the stench of death.
Ahead of him the target stopped in the trail, a few feet from a large rock outcrop where the path narrowed as it passed. Wall of rock to the left of the path, steep slope to the right. He was having a coughing, grunting fit, the way one did when they inhaled a bug. If he lost his balance and fell down the slope, it would take a lot of effort to drag him back up.
The noise from the target continued, but it sounded now less like a coughing-grunt and more… guttural.
“SKREEEEEE!” The noise came from right behind the hunter, sending an involuntary jolt through his body as the muscles from his tail bone up through his jaw tensed in series.
If he had not recently drained his bladder, he would have now. He spun towards the sound, finger on the trigger of his rifle.
It was no illusion. A small but vicious-looking yigrit stood there, body and claws twisted and primed to swing.
The hunter angled his rifle to fire and pulled the trigger.
The yigrit’s open claw slashed at the hunter, slicing through the strap of his backpack, his jacket, the flesh of his shoulder and carried on to impact with the rifle, sending it off target.
The hunter saw the end. He would, as he had suggested to the target, be bitten in half by a monster.
But he wasn’t bitten in half, nor was he cut in half. Though his shot missed, the sound alone was enough to send the monster into full retreat, over the rocky terrain, into the low brush, and out of sight.
The hunter breathed a sigh of relief as he reached for another rifle round. As he pulled the round from his belt he felt pain in his shoulder from the slash there. His mind returned to the target.
The guttural sounds! He spun to the target in time to see him disappear behind the outcrop. The guttural sounds and the friend. It really was a friend. To the target. The craziness at the tree!
“Such a waste of all your planning.” The hunter spoke loudly so that the fleeing target could still hear him. How did he think he would escape? The monster had failed to finish the job.
He glanced behind himself to confirm it was clear of monsters. He dropped the bag that was now hanging from only one shoulder and jogged ahead to kill the target. He finished loading the rifle.
“How is this saying? If you run, you only die running,” he said and slowed to round the corner.
The target’s head and shoulder caught the hunter in the stomach. He folded in the middle from the unexpected impact. He managed to slam the rifle weakly down on the target but lost his footing and fell onto his back.
Except he didn’t land on his back. He just kept falling. Automatically, he raised the muzzle of his rifle, and fired at the target. He felt the satisfaction of seeing the round fly true, before the target slid from his view. Then the hunter landed.
Chapter 45
Max reeled from the impact of the stone bullet and tried instinctively to reach his hand to cover the wound in his shoulder. For a moment, the pain in his wrists stole focus as he wrenched his bindings, forgetting that his hands were tied behind his back. He heard a sickening clunk from the bottom of the slope. He cautiously shuffled close to the edge and peered down. The killer was on his back, legs and arms spiraled outwards, eyes closed. Mouth open.
The next move would be to stomp the killer’s skull flat. But the slope was too steep for him to climb down. Even if he did manage to survive all the way to the bottom with both hands tied, he didn’t see how he would get back up.
He made his way back along the path they had traveled until he noticed the bag, his bag, on the ground. He crouched down and with comical effort he hooked the bag around his neck. It lightly strangled him, and he bounced and jiggled until it was more comfortable. He glanced once more at the slope, then turned back in the direction they had come and began to jog.
Now the killer would have to choose. Follow him back through the forest on the trail to Tawnee, and starve, or carry on back to the safety and plenty of the canal.
Chapter 46
Draven had tracked the wild forest man for days. Every time he thought he’d found the trail, the sneaky bushman would slip away, into and through the forest cover. And after the near loss of one drone, he was unwilling to risk either of the irreplaceable remote flying machines again.
Officially he’d been tasked to resolve the issue with the intruder, which meant he was to take whatever action he deemed necessary to ensure the intruder did not go on living in the forest.
Unofficially, it had been suggested, by one of the more influential of his many direct superiors, that he stop the intruder from living in the forest without the intruder actually leaving the forest. To leave his corpse to the locals.
Draven’s official orders came from The HOSaS Science Coordinator of Post-survey Studies and Juvenile Ascendancy. The man was technically in his right to give such an order, but Draven would execute the orders in his own way as he saw fit.
The junior coordinator had many things to say on the topic. He talked about the morality of ‘murder’ and the need to think forward towards the goal of enlightenment. It was the usual motivational nonsense delivered in amateur fashion.
What had really gotten Draven’s attention was Snow White. The strange, beautiful, blood-covered woman they had pulled from the forest. Coordinator Freenan agreed to let Draven meet her when she’d awoken, and it was love at first sight. Of course, it was, how could she resist him? He was handsome, strong, bold. On top of all that he was a pilot. Only the cream of the cream had any chance at his position, and he hadn’t yet met a woman that didn’t want him immediately. Why would Snow White be different?
He liked that she was weird-looking but in a cute way. And he liked that she was one of a kind. So, as a favor to the future mother of his children, he considered helping this Max. That was just the generous sort of thing that Draven did.
On the other hand, it didn’t make any sense to just land and pick the guy up. Directly ignoring the requests of his influential superiors, official or otherwise, would be imprudent, and Draven didn’t attain his position as pilot by being imprudent. Instead, he used his ample brain power to concoct a plan.
Wild man Max was not going to make it to Town without help. Certainly not through the dense gorger belt that had been seeded all along the defensive perimeter. He would need some help, a path over, or through the gorgers. A few well-placed cluster bombs should do the job. A few poorly placed cluster bombs would do the job. But Draven was a professional, and so the bombs would be placed well. If that helped Max to get through then good. If not? Perhaps then he wasn’t meant to.
Chapter 47
Anthony still wasn’t taking any food. That he was eating, Max had no doubt, but he wasn’t eating any of the food that Max had on offer. Some other food, food he collected himself in the forest, he was eating that.
“Doozer would yum this right up. And he would be happy to do it. Happy as a Durstsson on date night,” Max said.
Anthony said nothing, but only sat there, looking awkward. Or at least Max thought he looked awkward. Certainly, Max felt awkward. This was an unbalanced relationship in which Max was getting the better deal. With the sled team it was simple. He fed the team. They ran. A lot. They loved to run, and they loved to eat. It was win, double win, since he gave them food to do what they loved to do any way. And Doozer was clearly pleased to be one of the family.
But Anthony just sat there. He didn’t seem bothered or anything, but neither did he give Max anything to work with. No cute noises or
gestures that Max could anthropomorphize into feelings of happiness and contentment. Nothing.
Max couldn’t set him lose though. Not yet. Without Anthony, Max wouldn’t have escaped from the killer. And he wouldn’t have been able to slowly lengthen his lead by continuing to travel through the dark of True Night. Instead he’d have been forced to sit still, holed up in a clump of trees hoping the hunter couldn’t see in the dark. Even travel in daylight would have been slower.
Anthony could smell out gorgers underfoot, and lancers too, so long as they were downwind. It meant that in certain situations, where the terrain was secure on their downwind side, they could move rapidly and without concern of being stick food for those leggy horrors. In short, the yigrit’s home field advantage was priceless.
During the escape, when Max had vocalized the crab summoning call, a general call to defend the pride that he hoped would bring in the yigrit to help, Max hadn’t been sure it would succeed. He saw the blind turn in the path and the slope, and he knew this was his chance. And that he wouldn’t get a better one. Only when Max had stopped to rest, after running for a good twenty minutes, did he know for sure that Anthony, the yigrit, was on his side. Anthony walked up to Max and looked around like this was normal. A couple of yigrit, hanging out in the forest. Then he casually groomed the ropes away from Max’s hands. And just like that, Max was really free again.
During the five days since, they’d traveled every day, and thanks to Anthony, a little bit each night.
Max checked his wound again. The bullet had gone straight through his shoulder which, according to the movies, was a good thing. Both ends of the wound looked terrible, but terrible in a way he assumed was normal for gunshot wounds. All things considered, he thought his shoulder looked alright, though it hurt like hell. He replaced the gray tape bandages. It was time to move again.
He loaded both bags onto his back. The heaviest object in each was a digester. He didn’t need both, but he feared that if he left one behind, he risked giving the killer a source of food. Even if he broke the digester and spread its contents around, all the killer would need to do was find one small piece with a trace of bacteria still on it and he could reboot the culture. Nope. Max would make mistakes, it was inevitable, but he was not going to make that one. He was not going to feed his own murderer. So, he carried both and smiled each time he bowed under the weight that ensured the killer's malnutrition.
With Anthony in the lead, Max stepped back onto the path that roughly speaking would lead him to Snow White.
There was no reason even to think that the killer would still be following him, not after five days without a digester, and therefore without food. No reason. Except one for each time before, when he’d had no reason to think the killer remained on his trail. But the killer had been on the trail then, and Max was certain he was on the trail now. He would remain on Max’s trail until either Max made it to Tawnee or one of them was dead. Max quickened his pace.
His previous guess back at the canal? That they might be closer to Tawnee than New York? That was off. Way off. Even walking it would only have taken a day to reach New York, whereas he had been in the forest for just over six. Or maybe twelve, using Snow’s method of counting by sleeps. Most of that heading south.
Mega had returned days ago, and by now sat high in the sky, day and night. Max was thankful for its return and he hadn’t kept that thanks to himself. He told Anthony all about it, though in a low voice. He was careful to keep noises to a minimum after Snow’s abduction and Doozer’s disappearance.
He had broken with that caution twice. On two separate occasions he was forced to use a bomb, each time to make a path through dense patches of gorger territory he couldn’t go around. In each case the aircraft had homed in on the blast within minutes. He almost caught one of the flying machines with a trap of vines, but it chopped itself free and flew off. Max hadn’t seen the little pests since though, so perhaps it had not been a waste of effort after all.
The lancers, as before, remained the greatest threat to his safe passage. But through careful and paranoid observation, Max had learned a key piece of information. The larger ones seemed always to establish long and wide-open lines of fire. Either they were large enough to remove all the bushes, logs, and brush that might hamper their marksmanship, or they bullied those smaller lancers out of the best spots. Either way, Max could avoid the large lancers and their armor piercing lances by staying clear of the best pathways.
To combat the ‘smaller’ ones he fell back on the cornerstone of his people, he borrowed the armored shells of fallen forest beasts, using whatever he could find on the forest floor, and substituting for better pieces opportunistically. Currently he had a pair of large rounded shells from creatures like those playing king of the hill in rockland. One fastened to his front and another to his back. They had saved him one time already, though the deflected lance was smaller than the one that hit Snow.
Max carried on south, as due south as the land would allow. The forest was quiet. An ominous sign, but one that Max was unable to determine the source of. Anthony too was on edge. Max stopped to hear a noise. The loud but distant rush of the Tawnee aircraft. That the sound came from south of his position, Max took as a mixed blessing. More noise. Explosions. Though still distant, they were much louder than before. Loud enough to feel their shockwaves in his chest, like fireworks on armistice day. Spooked, Anthony ran off into the forest, away from the terrifying noise.
Max knew better than to try and call him back. He climbed a tree to get a view, but the view failed to inform. He’d barely risen above the surrounding trees, and they carried on as far as he could see. But when he heard a new, different distant rumbling, he stayed put. Anthony was not the only creature startled by the violence of the explosions. A scattered stampede of the forest’s various denizens scurried and galloped and trampled through the forest below him. Predator and prey ran from the noise, oblivious to each other’s presence. The stampede abated, but before he climbed down from the tree, more explosions erupted further in the distance. Max could just make out the shape of the aircraft above the trees. It was moving away from him, intermittently dropping bombs.
Max climbed down from the tree and headed in the direction of the bombing run. The forest was Anthony’s home, he would be fine. In all likelihood, once the noise had abated and he’d regained his courage, he would smell Max out to rejoin him.
Before too long Max found the path of wreckage. There was a thick aroma in the air. The combined smell of burnt gunpowder, and another smell. The smell of green. It was coming from the freshly cut vegetation. He had never smelled anything like it, but it smelled somehow familiar, somehow right.
A barrier of the shattered vegetation surrounded the bombed area and he had to jump, crawl and wriggle to get past it. A long wide swath of forest had been trimmed of standing trees and brush, though the ground was far from clear. On the contrary, it was more difficult than ever to pass now. All the trees and branches that had once been held neatly above forest floor, had now been shredded and chaotically tossed onto the ground.
There were a few small clearings with a crater at the center of each. In one impact crater, a large lonely tree was all that remained, all the rest were shattered. Chunks of its thin bark had been torn from its side but somehow it remained upright amid the destruction of all its neighbors. Max didn’t recognize the species. It was very tall and straight as a lance. High up on its trunk there still remained branches, with green needles. Shattered stumps littered the land around it, surrounded by large craters. A few of those stumps seemed to be of the same species as that strange tall tree. Stranger still, they did not have the foamy cores of the fungal trees which also lay torn and strewn about the landscape. Instead the woody substance continued all the way to their cores rather than remaining just under the bark as was normal.
He stayed under the cover of the trees, skirting around the impact sites of shattered vegetation, until he reached different type of clearing,
one that he would have to expose himself to cross. Carefully he searched the area for an observation position, settling for a tall tree near the clearing, he climbed to a high branch.
The view shocked him. A wide pathway parting the forest, stretched as far as he could see in either direction. Along the gap before him was a sea of open gorger mouths. The bombs dropped in the area had shocked the gorgers and triggered their pit-like mouths to open. Some had taken direct hits, converting them into bathtubs of gore and ichor. Max was unable to tell if the others had been killed by the bombs, or if they were merely stunned with their mouths agape. But open-mouthed as they were, it was easy to see where the thin bits of safe land were between the pits.
He continued to watch, pondering what to do. If the gorgers were still alive and merely stunned, they might close at any time. Would they still be discernible from the safe paths beside them? Maybe. Would he still see well enough under a crescent Mega to pass safely? Or should he make a run for it now. The aircraft was nowhere to be seen, at least for the time being.
A popping noise answered the question. One of the smaller pits had just closed its mouth. Max scurried down the tree and dashed towards the gap. He paused at the edge of the trees and was about to continue when he remembered something. Long wide lines of fire.
Chapter 48
The hunter pulled a tuber out of the jerry-rigged bag he’d formed from his jacket. He rubbed it on his pant leg and picked at its divots to remove the soil that remained, then he took a bite. He purposefully chewed until the mouthful of starchy tuber was mashed to pulp, then swallowed. It did little to improve his foul mood.
Starship Relic (Lost Colony Uprising Book 1) Page 21
