Then it stopped.
The waters settled.
The creature’s belly heaved with each breath, but it seemed to be calming, regaining its monstrous composure.
C’mon, Peter thought, but he dared not say anything. The gator’s simple reptilian mind had forgotten them for the moment.
And that was when Boone revved Beastmaster’s engine. The rumbling exhaust sounded angry and alive.
The gator twitched its head to the side, looking directly at Peter with its one good eye.
Damnit, Boone, he thought, and then he noticed the truck was moving. He glanced forward and saw the gates opening. They were through, but too late. The ExoGator exploded from the swamp, slipping in the muck for a few steps before launching back onto the road.
The truck heaved forward in time with the creature. Peter fired at the healthy eye, but missed as the truck shook from an impact. Feesa had leaped onto the cab’s roof. She was crouched and ready to leap, spear in hand. But she wasn’t looking at the gator. She stared straight ahead.
Peter risked a quick look and saw the farmhouse, the familiar blue Black Hawk on the ground, an Apache in the air with its back to Beastmaster, a collection of Chunta on the ground and—
“Jakob!”
The boy broke into a run.
Several Chunta dove for him, hackles raised.
The Apache opened fire.
Blood and carnage ruptured like a fireworks display, fanning red in all directions, much of which splattered across the farmhouse’s white exterior.
Peter screamed in time with Feesa, as their families were mowed down.
Small arms fire responded from the home’s windows.
Peter tried to swivel the machine gun around to blow the Apache from the sky, but he was still locked in place by the rubber bands. And that was a good thing. Had he not been, the truck’s rapid acceleration would have thrown him into the gator’s open maw, just twenty feet back.
Filled with anguish and desperation, Peter screamed and held the trigger down, punching bullets into the Apex predator’s throat. The massive tongue twitched and flailed, rising up over the throat like a meaty shield. But Peter kept on firing, digging a crater into its flesh.
The truck bucked as they rocketed over the bound logs bridging the wide stream. Peter’s aim went high and he stopped firing.
The gator stepped down on the logs, shattering them. Its leg dropped into the stream, slamming its chin into the scorched earth. Ash billowed up around it, and in Beastmaster’s wake, but it was quickly swept away by the Apache’s rotor wash. As the creature scrabbled in the stream bed, trying to pull itself up, the truck pulled away.
Peter unclipped himself from the rubber bands and ducked to the window. “Stay on that chopper!”
“But the gator!” Boone protested.
“Do it!” Peter said, burning with rage that dwarfed the gator’s.
Boone didn’t look happy about it, but as the Apache canted to the side and fled the gunfire coming from the house, the truck turned hard to follow it.
Peter clung to the machine gun as the truck’s motion threatened to spill him over the side. When the truck straightened course again, Peter had the weapon turned forward, ready to fire over the cab and take down the Apache. The attack helicopter was tough. Built for war. They weren’t easy to take down without a missile, but the M249 could do the job, especially if you knew where to aim. But the view between Peter and the chopper was brown and hairy.
He nearly fired through Feesa to take out the Apache. If the chopper hadn’t killed his son, the Chunta clearly would have. And the females still left alive were assaulting the house, and the people within it. Feesa might have made peace with Peter, but her sisters hadn’t. They were still aligned with Eddie.
“Get out of the way,” he shouted at Feesa’s back.
She reared around and roared at him, her face twisted with a fury that matched his own. She’d seen most of her tribe get decimated today, most recently by the chopper, but what could she do against a killing machine like that?
The Apache stopped and turned, its body now ninety degrees to the truck, its weapons aimed at the house, but not firing. They have people on the inside, Peter thought.
The pilot must have seen them coming, because the chopper suddenly swiveled in their direction. But the angle was wrong. It wasn’t aiming at the truck, it was aiming behind it. Peter glanced over his shoulder. The gator had not only freed itself from the stream, but had also closed the distance.
Vengeance or survival? He had just a second to debate the matter. But it was Feesa who made the call.
Vengeance.
The warrior tribeswoman leapt off the truck’s roof, denting it inward and soaring thirty feet in the air, bringing her face to face with the Apache and the shocked pilot behind the windshield.
Machine guns whirled, prepping to fire.
Feesa cocked the spear back.
Peter opened fire, punching a string of holes through the empty passenger’s seat, distracting the pilot long enough for Feesa to lob the spear.
The idea of a spear taking down an Apache was ludicrous. But when it was thrown by a hulk of a woman, with a force greater than Peter could get out of his compound bow, it wasn’t impossible. That was the lesson learned by the pilot when the spear punched through the windshield, and then his chest, just inside his left shoulder. Pinned back against his seat, and in mind numbing pain, the pilot lost control.
As Feesa landed on barren earth, the chopper twisted, tilted and descended straight for the truck.
Boone turned a hard left, plowing in the shanty village, sending sheets of metal flying like giant throwing stars. Peter ducked as a corrugated metal square spun over his head and struck the gator’s side, digging in deep. But Peter barely noticed the fresh wound as he saw the gator’s attention had shifted from truck to chopper, which plunged on a collision course with the massive reptile.
The gator lunged into the air, its jaws open wide.
The Apache spun in tight circles as it descended.
As the cockpit turned to face the attacking super-predator, the behemoth bit down. There was a crunch as the armored vehicle momentarily repulsed the immense crushing power. The spinning rotor blades struck the snout, cutting deep, but shearing away, one at a time. Angered by the fresh wounds, the gator bit down hard, and the cockpit began to fold inward as the locked pair dropped back down to the ground, but never made it.
Peter could only guess what went through the pilot’s mind. He had been speared and then locked in the crushing embrace of an alligator as large as the Apache he thought would keep him safe. But the man’s response, whether it be a calculated risk, or sheer panic, was deadly—to both man and gator.
The Apache’s rocket pods flared to life, spewing a cascade of explosives that struck the predator head on and burst. Flesh and metal rained down in a tangled mess of monster and modern marvel. As the two killing machines burst into flames, Peter looked over the truck’s cab and saw the farmhouse dead ahead. A moment later, the man named Hutchins barreled out of the front door and sprinted for the Black Hawk, which was spinning up for takeoff.
Peter was tempted to engage the second chopper, but there was still a second Apache around. He was also almost out of ammo, and he couldn’t stop thinking about his son’s fate.
As they neared the house, where a pitched battle between man and beast was taking place, Peter slapped the roof and shouted. “Stop here!”
The truck skidded to a stop. Kicked-up ash flowed over Peter as he jumped from the truck bed, and he ran toward where he saw his son fall.
One of the Chunta charged him, beating its chest, mouth open, teeth primed to sever meat and bones. Peter drew his revolver and leveled it at the monster’s head, but didn’t fire. “Feesa, friend!”
The creature slowed, but didn’t stop. Peter pointed toward Feesa, who had just cleared the shanty town. “Feesa, family!”
He lowered the weapon and the Chunta turned and saw
Feesa, who was now calling out in a booming voice. The fight went out of the Rider and she rushed toward her incoming leader.
Peter dove down by the heaped up dead Chunta, looking for his son’s body, but all he found was an empty shirt hanging from exposed ribs. He yanked the shirt free, opening it wide. He didn’t see a single hole.
He’s not here.
He’s alive!
And then he heard his son’s voice from inside the house, quickly followed by Ella’s and a series of gunshots. Peter vaulted over the dead, took note of Mason’s mauled corpse, and sprinted for the open front door. The inside of the house was a mass of confusion, but no one in the rag-tag group looked like a threat. He heard loud feminine crying from the second floor and took the steps three at a time. At the top of the stairs, he turned toward the sound and nearly collapsed with relief when he saw Jakob clutching a sobbing Alia in his arms. They were both covered in blood, but sitting upright, the way people do when they’re not about to die.
Jakob whirled toward him, afraid at first and then desperate. “Dad! Upstairs! He has Anne!”
The sounds of a scuffle from the third floor, along with Jakob’s declaration, propelled Peter around the banister and up the next flight of steps, where he suspected he would find Ella, Anne and the man he should have killed with his own hands. It was a mistake he intended to correct.
36
Ella’s scientific mind sat in the backseat, buckled up and watched with familiar trepidation as her feral side took over.
Gunshots pounded her ears in the tight hallway. Wood splinted. A door was kicked in. Eddie had reached the third floor. And she wasn’t too far behind him, rounding the stairway’s corner. The door, its ruined knob and lock hanging limply, swung slowly closed. On the other side was Eddie, with her daughter, about to escape via the balcony.
And she wasn’t going to let that happen. As valuable as Anne was to the world, as much as she loved the girl, she would be damned before letting ExoGen have her. Even if it meant risking her daughter’s life.
The AK-47 in her hands was slick with the red sludge, and would be hard to aim reliably for more than a single round, but as long as she could see a quarter of Eddie’s body, she thought she could make the shot. Aim for the legs, she thought. Take him down and then finish him off.
She struck the door with her shoulder, slamming it open.
The AK-47 came up, her finger started squeezing, but never finished.
The hallway was empty.
And then, the door pushed back.
The hard wood smashed into Ella’s side. Coupled with her speed, the impact sent her sprawling. She struck the frame of the open door, spun from the second blow and fell to the floor, losing her grip on the assault rifle. As the weapon slid across the unfinished wooden floor and struck the leg of a folding table covered in someone’s solitaire game, Ella spun around to the sound of footsteps.
Anne lay on the floor across the hall, unmoving, unconscious and maybe worse. Ella watched for a moment until she saw the girl’s chest rise and fall. It was a moment too long. Eddie descended on her.
He jabbed the rifle butt toward her forehead, going for the knockout blow. Ella rolled her head to the side. Rifle struck wood, and she struck back. Ella kicked up hard with her left leg, aiming for Kenyon’s crotch. He flinched back more than she was expecting, but the diversion still worked. While he was protecting his boys, Ella grasped hold of the assault rifle, slipped her finger around the trigger and pulled.
A spray of bullets buzzed past Kenyon’s face, chewing up the ceiling and knocking free a cloud of dust. She tried to angle the barrel toward him as the weapon continued to fire, and she nearly succeeded as he held it at bay with just one hand. She mashed the trigger down until the magazine went empty. Kenyon looked aghast for a moment—she’d nearly shot his head off—and then he just looked pissed.
Really pissed.
Ella tried to roll out of the way of his foot, but her body was too big a target. He caught her in the side, slamming the air from her lungs. She tried to kick back, but she wasn’t fast enough. His body dropped atop hers, straddling her.
She punched his wounded arm, eliciting a shout of pain, but he struck back, twice as hard, directly in the sternum. The blow compressed her chest, expelling the air from her lungs and flexing her ribs inward. There were two sharp cracks as ribs gave way, followed by a silent scream that had no air to give it voice.
All of Ella’s fight faded away in the wake of that one punch, perfectly placed with devastating force.
“You know I love you, right?” he asked, a hand around her neck.
Ella wheezed in a breath that was cut short by a sharp pain in her fractured chest.
“Always have. Well, not always, but since we met. Do you remember that day? It was Lawrence who introduced us. Me, the head of security. You, the prized geneticist who didn’t really want to be there, despite your role in fucking over the human race. Not that I mind, of course. I’m on board. My job was to watch you. To make sure you played nice. So I got you in bed. Gave me a reason to see you so much. Of course, it wasn’t just a ruse. Lawrence thought so. Commended me on it. But it was real, for me. Just like it was for you.”
Ella tried to speak, but she could only manage something that sounded like a whale call, as she attempted to suck in another breath. The pain in her chest kept her from breathing deeply enough to counteract the lack of oxygen in her lungs. She saw flecks of red and white, twisting in her vision. They’d have been pretty if not for the ominous message they brought: if she didn’t get enough oxygen soon, she was going to pass out. And then she and Anne would be at Kenyon’s mercy.
“Don’t worry about speaking. I know you’d deny it. You can pretend all you want. You can tell Peter that you never cared, that all the sex was fake, that you were thinking of him the whole time. But you and I will always know the truth, and it can be our truth again.”
He smiled and then punched her head. “You just need to sleep on it.”
Despite the pain, Ella couldn’t groan. Still couldn’t breathe. The weight of his body and the pain in her chest kept her from even considering taking action, even blocking his second punch, which he delivered to her forehead.
Her vision faded in and out, teetering on the fringe of unconsciousness.
She watched through blurry vision as his fist raised up again, then dropped like a hammer. But when it came down, something was attached to it.
“Get off her!”
Anne.
Awake and on the attack.
The weight on Ella’s body lifted away. Kenyon screamed in pain. She heard bodies tumbling. A moment later, Anne spit something on the floor. Kenyon stood above her, clutching his ear. Blood flowed between his fingers.
Beaten and breathless, Ella managed a chuckle.
The sound distracted Kenyon for just a second, but Anne took advantage of it, throwing herself at the man. But she wasn’t fast enough or strong enough. Eddie hopped out of the way and shoved, using Anne’s momentum against her. She slammed into the wall and fell to the floor. Not quite unconscious, but definitely out of the fight once more.
“You two are a real pair,” Kenyon growled. “You know what? Fuck it, Ella. I’m done trying to save you. If you want to live? And I mean really live? With your daughter? You know where to find us.”
He took hold of Anne’s shirt, lifted her off the floor and dragged her to the door. Her little feet thumped over the cracks in the floor, each bump taking her daughter further away. And as the girl’s limp feet bounced down the hall in time with the chop of the helicopter above, she knew she’d never see the girl again.
Ella wept as she dragged herself toward the hall. She lacked the strength to stand, and all the willpower in the world couldn’t overcome her injuries. She sagged to the floor when she reached the doorway, head turned toward the far end, where Eddie stood with Anne. He dropped her by the door at the end of the hallway and started working the lock. There was a deadbolt, two sliding
locks and a padlock.
When he reached the padlock and failed to yank it free, Eddie started back down the hall. When something large outside exploded, he stepped over Ella without a second look or a taunt. He returned to the hallway with the AK-47 in hand. Then he walked to the end, shot the padlock off and discarded the weapon.
Eddie opened the door, grabbed hold of Anne once more and stepped out into the light of day. He looked back at Ella, shaking his head as she raked her fingers against the wall, pulling herself up in a last, desperate attempt to save Anne. “You know where we’ll be. And you’ll always be welcome.”
He looked up and started waving.
Ella took one slow step after another, moving down the hallway, toward Eddie. Toward the rifle. She tried to speak, to delay him, but she still had no voice. That she was mobile at all was miraculous.
The pounding pulse of a helicopter rotor roared down the hall. A tornado of air struck Ella head on, and it took all she had just to remain upright. If she went down again, she wouldn’t get back up.
Eddie reached up and caught a metal wire with a carabiner and a harness at the end. He looped the harness around his waist and legs, wincing as he used both arms. Locked in place, he picked up Anne again, holding her to his waist with one arm. Ella wanted to scream at him. To tell him to lock Anne in, too. But Anne’s safety wasn’t his primary concern. He was just trying to escape. To survive. Just like everyone else, but in his own screwed up way.
Ella reached out a hand as she took one step after another, resisting the rotor wash, fighting against her pain and closing the distance. Anne’s name squeaked out of her throat, but nothing could be heard over the thunderous chopper.
Eddie turned his back on her, eyes on the chopper above.
I’m going to lose her, Ella thought.
And then the view changed. At first she thought her vision had gone screwy again, but then she focused and saw the body of a man charging down the hallway.
Feast Page 23
