Deadliest of the Species

by Michael Oliveri

  A high-pitched squeal cut him off. Bart flinched and Tim spun, knowing it had to be Gus.

  Sebastian stared back at them from between a pair of trees, the front of Gus’s shirt bound tightly in his massive fist. Gus pried at the beast’s hand with his gnarled fingers with no effect, and his mouth opened and closed in noiseless cries and sobs. Sebastian moved around the tree, effortlessly dragging Gus along behind him.

  “Oh, shit!” Tim cried, quickly dropping into a defensive stance. His eyes darted about as he quickly weighed his fight and flight reflexes respectively. Bart stood frozen beside him, his mouth working slowly to release unintelligible gibberish. His pistol gleamed uselessly in his waistband.

  “Shoot him!” Tim cried. The satyr cast Gus aside, tossing him to the ground like a bag of sticks. He crouched down like a wrestler circling an opponent, his arms outstretched him as he prepared to lunge at them. “For God’s sakes, shoot!”

  Bart stammered in response and shuddered violently. He took a step back and, with agonizing slowness, began to move his hand for the pistol.

  The satyr grinned viciously when he saw this. He turned toward Tim first.

  Recalling the last beating he suffered at the hands of the beast, Tim pulled the pistol from Gus’s waistband and pointed it at the satyr’s chest. Fear washed away the satyr’s nasty grin an instant before Tim pulled the trigger. The pistol roared and bucked hard against Tim’s hands, but he recovered quickly and fired again.

  A red tendril of blood flew through the air to spatter against a hanging cluster of leafy branches. The satyr bellowed and dove into the trees, his fur-clad legs carrying him away from Tim with incredible speed.

  “Mother of God!” Bart screamed. He crossed himself vigorously, then looked over at Gus’s limp form. He ran over and rolled Gus onto his back.

  Tim jogged up behind him and looked over Bart’s shoulder, still clutching the pistol and glancing back into the forest occasionally. Gus’s eyes were open, but they lacked focus. His breathing came in shallow, raspy breaths and his flesh turned a deathly pale.

  “Hurts…” Gus whispered. “Chest…hurts…”

  “Come on, Gus! Stay with us!” Bart cried. He gripped the front of Gus’s jacket much the same way Sebastian did only seconds ago.

  “He’s having a heart attack,” Tim said, still looking through the trees. Something flitted through the shadows in the distance. He craned his neck to see better, and caught a flash of white disappear behind a large trunk.

  “Come on!” Bart pleaded with Gus. The old man’s eyes closed and his breathing became so shallow it was hardly detectable. Cold sweat coated his face and hands. Bart checked for a pulse at his neck and wrist but felt nothing.

  “Uh, Bart, we got a problem.” A distinct human shape appeared in the distance, too small to be Sebastian. Long hair flowed out behind it and bounced to one side. Not necessarily a definite indicator of a woman these days, but better to be safe than sorry in Rapture.

  “Gus!” Bart cried again. He pushed repeatedly on Gus’s chest.

  “Let it go!” Tim cried urgently. “We have to get out of here!” He grabbed Bart’s shoulder and tugged on it.

  The broad-shouldered man pulled away roughly. “We’ve got to help him!”

  “It’s too late!” Tim said sharply. He kept his eyes locked on the rapidly approaching forms in the forest but continued to pull at Bart’s shoulder. “They’re almost upon us!” He kicked Bart hard in the behind. “Now get up!”

  Bart rose and turned on him, hands clenched into fists, face red with fury.

  “There they are!” a woman shouted in the forest.

  Bart glanced over his shoulder, and all of his anger drained away in an instant. “Shit!”

  “Come on, back to the cave,” Tim said. “We don’t stand a chance in the open!”

  In a split second Bart weighed their options. He knew he could not run very fast, and they would overtake him in no time. While he could likely stand up to them in a straight fight, he had no way of telling if they were armed. The few ceremonial daggers he saw some of them carry in the past had nasty-looking blades with curved or jagged edges. Tim still held the gun, but if one of the witches got the drop on him before he could shoot them all, it was over.

  He broke for the sinkhole, close on Tim’s heels. They raced down the slope in little more than a controlled fall and leaped into the entrance one at a time. They moved swiftly, waiting until they reached total darkness and lost sight of the entrance before turning on the flashlight. When they reached the first drop, Tim grabbed Bart’s shoulder and stopped him.

  “What is it?” Bart asked in a whisper.

  “We separate. One of us has to make it back. If one of us gets caught, we’ll say the other escaped through the trees.”

  Bart started to object but echoes of the women talking came up from behind.

  “Fine. I’ll move ahead. You break off here.” He pointed the flashlight down a narrow side corridor for Tim, then shimmied down the safety rope they kept anchored in place. Bart reached the bottom of the fifteen foot drop before he realized Tim still had the pistol. Probably better that way, he decided, considering their differences in size and strength. He moved on toward the camp alcove.

  In the other passage, Tim shoved the pistol into his waistband at the small of his back and cursed himself for taking off without a light source. He moved at a snail’s pace, feeling his way ahead with his hands and checking his footing before taking a step. Occasionally he waved overhead to check the height of the ceiling. The last thing he needed was to fall in a hole and break an ankle or crack his head.

  As if the thought presaged the action, he stepped down on a slick, wet patch of rock and slipped. His right leg slid sideways on a short slope and into a narrow trench in the side of the wall. He landed hard on his left knee and barely kept himself from crying out. His thigh muscle, stretched to its limit, tightened painfully. Groping in the darkness, he explored the rock features with his hands and foot.

  The trench burrowed neatly into the joint of the wall and the floor, and it felt almost deep enough for him to stand in. The gap opened to nearly two feet wide, more than enough space for him to lower himself into it, which he did. It extended further into the passage than he could reach and it sloped away sharply. Of more immediate interest was the near end of the trench to his left. The water flowed around the corner of the trench and inward onto the cave wall, creating a lip and a shallow depression just deep enough for him to press his back into for extra cover. Even if the women brought a better light source than a simple flashlight, they would be hard pressed to see him until they were right on top of him.

  He crouched down, pressing into the rock and holding the pistol between his knees with both hands. He stroked the trigger guard with his index finger and whispered a brief prayer, hoping it would make it to God’s ears without being intercepted by the witches’ Earth Mother. He smiled to himself, wondering if he finally found religion. At least his groin did not hurt any more.

  Time passed, and Tim wished he had some way of measuring it other than the growing pain in his knees. He dared not shift position, however, as he wanted to be able to stand up and get moving in an instant if necessary.

  At last he heard the women’s voices. They reached the first drop, and though he could barely make out their conversation, he heard enough to know they discussed their options. Two voices dominated the conversation, and he heard a third voice near the end. He might have bet against three to one odds in a casino, but casino’s did not play for one’s life. He hefted the heavy pistol in his hand and felt only marginally better as the footsteps started down the narrow corridor toward him.

  The witches approached slowly and cautiously. Very dim light washed down the rock slope, and before long Tim made out the outlines and edges of the nooks and crannies in the walls around him. He really lucked out in finding such a suitable hiding place. Concealed in shadow and darkness, he sat several inches in from the passage wall. N
ow he only had to worry about handling the approaching witches…

  Slowly and steadily a soft, white light filled the passage. The footsteps came closer. He found if he craned his head a bit he could see up into the passage. He flinched as a white tennis shoe came down in front of him. There were two women, both plain in dress and appearance. Were it not for the fist-sized globe of light floating in the air before them, they could easily have been mistaken for average housewives.

  However, fully aware of their potential power and the danger they posed, Tim moved swiftly and without regret. He seized the bare ankle of the woman in the rear and jerked her off her feet. She fell with a gasp of surprise, then yelped as she banged her elbow on the hard floor. The globe of light burst and flickered out with a tiny pop.

  “Lisa!” the first woman called. Her voice came from directly to his right and he imagined she dropped to the ground and scrambled to find and help her friend.

  Lisa squirmed and kicked in Tim’s grasp as he dragged her into the narrow crevice. He pinned her in place by pressing his chest against her back, though she still kicked at his legs and attempted to elbow him in the side.

  “Stop squirming, bitch!” he said through gritted teeth. He jammed the barrel of the gun hard into her neck and cocked the hammer. “Don’t make me kill you!” He hoped the threat would be enough to make her stop as he was afraid to pull the trigger. Shooting the satyr was one thing, and he justified killing the fat woman as self-defense, but this felt like murder.

  The second woman shouted to the others for help. He heard her groping in the darkness until she suddenly found Tim’s shoulder. Her hand reached toward his neck, her long nails digging into the flesh of his cheek and jaw.

  “Damn it!” He turned his head as he pulled the trigger. The shot deafened him in the confined space of the crevice, and hot sticky bits of flesh and blood exploded across Tim’s face and neck. The other woman screamed and now raked at him frantically. He put his arm out, extending it alongside her own, prayed a ricochet would not kill him instead, and fired twice. The muzzle flash blinded him but the screaming stopped. He sighed with relief and hauled himself out of the crevice and sprawled out on the rock floor.

  “Self defense,” he reminded himself in a whisper. They all talked big in the church, speaking of justice and vengeance, but now that he acted upon it, he had to remind himself repeatedly he was doing the right thing.

  He tried to ignore the hot stickiness on his face and arms.

  * * *

  Bart made good progress as he first headed for the campsite. At the last minute he changed his mind and ducked into the side passage they used as a bathroom. The tunnel ended at a pool of water in a wide, round chamber, leaving him enough space to hide beside the passage opening and get the drop on the women if they explored this passage. With any luck he would surprise the first witch and take her out quick before moving on to the others. He carefully placed the flashlight in a dry corner and turned it off, then settled against the wall to wait.

  Light filled the passage as the women approached and discovered the corridor. Bart listened as they whispered to one another. His hopes first swelled as the two of them talked about separating, then dissipated when they decided to stick together for safety. They entered the bathroom corridor first.

  A knot of fear grew heavy in his belly and he clenched his fist around palms slick with cold sweat. Chances were he had the strength advantage, and hopefully the element of surprise would not be lost as they approached, giving him an extra edge. God willing, he could still come out of this on top.

  A floating ball of pure light with no visible source came floating into the chamber. He started, at first mistaking it for some kind of will-o-wisp to suck the life from him. The footsteps immediately behind it dispelled the thought as he realized the women used it as a fancy magical flashlight. He prepared to pounce on the first woman out of the passage when gunfire rang out.

  The two women froze, one of them giving a small shriek of surprise. Seizing the opportunity their distraction opened up, Bart lunged forward and directly through the glowing ball. The passage plunged into darkness as the ball of light passed through Bart’s body, blazing a warm trail through his innards. He felt no pain, only warmth, and it did not impede his progress as he worried it might. He grabbed the closest witch by the shoulders and pulled her into a throw over his hip. She hit the pool with a splash, her cries of surprise turning into gurgling gasps for breath.

  “You,” the other woman growled. If she had more to say it got cut off as he bore down on her. Even in the shadow his advancing bulk threw across her, he recognized her. Sharon Ryback, one of Alexandra’s toadies, visited his wife sometime before she died. She tried to get his wife to join the coven.

  Anger pumped more adrenaline through him, and he drew upon his years of experience as a wrestler and coach as he drove straight into her and locked her up in a hold. With is arms intertwined with hers and his hands squeezing her neck and shoulders, she buckled easily. She screamed bloody murder and struggled to break free. She tried to bite his wrists and her nails raked at his arms and shoulders. Behind them, Bart heard the other woman splashing around as she shuffled out of the shallow pool.

  He wrenched Sharon head down fiercely. Her neck cracked and she screamed. It was not a strong enough maneuver to break or fracture her spine, but it probably felt that way to her. He locked her head and left arm into a tight hold and he squeezed, putting additional pressure on her with his free hand. She gasped and struggled, though with her body twisted sideways she could not get any leverage on him. He heaved her over, keeping her between himself and the other woman who now stood at the edge of the pool.

  “Keep back,” he warned her. “I swear, I’ll kill her.”

  “You don’t have the balls,” the witch hissed. Her dark hair and complexion lent her a wicked look in the dim light, and a chill ran down his spine.

  “Try me,” he said. He wrenched Sharon roughly for emphasis. Her struggling diminished steadily, the removal of her air supply taking its effect. She bit into his side repeatedly, but he only squeezed tighter against the pain. Before long, even her bite weakened.

  The tanned woman advanced on him. “You kill her, and we’ll string you up by the balls and let the animals eat you alive.”

  “You’d do it anyway.” He took a short step back. Sharon’s movements almost ceased. He only needed a few more seconds…

  The witch did not grant them to him. The globe advanced with her, hovering over her head as she whispered softly. Her right hand wove intricate patterns in the air. Bart felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, as if he were caught in an electrical field before a lightning strike. If she got a spell off, he would be screwed and he knew it. He hurled Sharon to the ground and lunged at her.

  She danced backwards, attempting to keep out of his reach while finishing her spell. Bart moved faster and landed a solid punch high on her cheekbone. Her head flopped backward, her concentration broken, and she reeled back until she lost her footing and splashed into the pool again.

  Bart turned to Sharon. She sat up groggily, holding her throat and gasping for breath. He threw back his foot then kicked her hard in the side of the head. The blow slammed her into the opposite wall hard and she collapsed. She did not move, and blood trickled across her face.

  Bart turned back to the pool and jumped, tackling the rising witch. He struck her full in the chest and knocked her backward, taking both of them down into the water. He held her down and straddled her hips, then shifted his grip to her throat. He extended his arms and managed to get his head and shoulders above water, at the same time squeezing her throat and holding her head down. She screamed, the cry breaking the surface in a series of bubbles. She kicked and squirmed, clawing first at his hands and then at his face. She could not match his strength, and he watched her inhale a great gulp of water as she tried to scream again. She bucked and pushed and pulled but he held fast. It did not take her long to quit, and as she faded a
way so too did the floating ball of light. He counted to sixty slow before climbing off of her.

  As he stood, he felt her body slowly rise to the surface. He flipped her over, leaving her to float face down. He felt his way back to the passage opening, then followed the wall to the comer where he left the flashlight. He flicked it on and looked around. The woman in the water did not move. He leaned forward and aimed the beam into the corridor. Sharon still laid motionless, her breathing very shallow.

  The exertion and the dissipation of his adrenaline left his limbs shaky with exhaustion, a feeling he had not experienced since his wrestling days. His legs felt like jelly, but he had to find out if Tim was okay. He made his way back up the tunnels and passageways, stopping twice to catch his breath.

  “Tim?” he called softly as he neared the point where they separated.

  “Down here,” a voice replied.

  “Tim! Are you okay?” he asked, moving down the passage.

  “I’m fine.”

  Bart found him lying on his back in the middle of the passageway. Blood and bits of flesh clung to the young man’s face, neck, and arms. One woman lay against the wall, her shirt drenched with blood. He saw a second woman wedged into a small crevice, a chunky red splash marring the rock face above her.

  “Jesus,” Bart muttered. He crouched down and laid a hand on Tim’s shoulder, fearing the young man went into shock. “You sure you okay?”

  “Positive,” he replied. He eased the hammer down on the pistol and held out one hand.

  “But the blood…” He took Tim’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

  “It’s not mine.” Tim used the edge of his hand to wipe away the gore on his face. His stomach churned, but he kept it under control. He flicked the gunk off his hand. It made a quiet splat on the floor. “Ick. I’m doing my best not to get sick.”

  “C’mon,” Bart said, leading the way back up the passage. “We’d best get out of here before any more of the women show up.”

  Tim nodded, mostly to himself, and followed. He lowered the hammer on the pistol so he would not inadvertently shoot himself, then wiped his slick hand on the wall. It did little in getting rid of the blood. He felt it drying on his face and hands.