Had she hit it?
A howl from outside followed by the metal bar slamming against a side window answered the question.
Pepper swayed on her feet, wanting to close her eyes. She stumbled against the second recliner, and Death reached out a cold, bony hand to steady her. “Time to go, honey,” he said in his high-pitched voice.
He was right. There was no more point to any of this. The dead would win in the end; it was their world now, and she was the unwelcome outsider. Time to sleep, to chase away the cold.
But death is even colder than this.
“Pay those thoughts no mind,” the pale figment murmured. “You’re just tired. Time to stop fighting.”
She stayed on her feet, turning slowly with the shotgun, watching the roof hatch to the rear and the big hole in the windshield up front, the minutes ticking by. Death sat and watched without speaking, and the wind filled in the silence.
Pepper had been mistaken. The squealing, metallic wrenching she’d heard a short while ago wasn’t fingernails on metal. It was one of the hinged doors of the lower luggage compartment being torn open.
In the floor behind her, the carpeted hatch that led down there lifted slowly, a pair of malignant eyes peering out. Then it was flung back, and a muscled red arm shot out, a hand locking onto Pepper’s right ankle. With a tremendous yank, Pepper was pulled off her feet. As she hit the floor, the shotgun went off, disintegrating the Garth Brooks guitar in the second recliner. She lost her hold on the weapon, the shotgun bouncing across the floor.
Fiddler screamed, hauling her toward the hole, and Pepper wailed.
Her former band member was trying to climb out of the opening, levering itself up with one hand, only able to hang onto the prey with the other. She’s so strong. Pepper rolled onto her back and started kicking, slamming the heel of one boot repeatedly into a once-beautiful face. The nose broke, teeth were knocked out. Fiddler only growled and tightened her grip.
Pepper screamed again as she felt one of the smaller bones in her ankle crack under the pressure.
Fiddler was almost out of the hole, almost able to use her other hand. Pepper stopped kicking and used that foot as leverage to force herself into a sitting position. One hand groped across the edge of the table above her, struck something cold and metallic, and then the CHP automatic she had placed there bounced to the carpet. Fiddler locked onto her leg with both hands now, using it to pull herself out of the hole. Her mouth opened to reveal a twitching black tongue.
“Bitch!” she screamed, thrusting the pistol forward and jerking the trigger. At a range of only two feet, the bullet struck the creature at the outer edge of the left orbital socket, smashing bone and blowing out a chunk of skull and black hair. The Hobgoblin’s grip released at once and the body fell into the darkness with a thump.
Crying out from the pain, Pepper scrambled to the edge of the opening, gripped the automatic in both hands and fired wildly down into the darkness. The gunfire was deafening, the strobe of released gasses in the muzzle flash hurting her eyes, and still she squeezed the trigger, six shots, ten, a dozen.
Pepper was sobbing, her nose burning from the gunpowder, and she looked into the hole for the crumpled body of the monster. Storm light illuminated the luggage compartment through the open side door, snow blowing in like a dervish. There was no monster there, only a blackish, wet smear on the metal deck and a glimpse of boots and jeans as the creature dragged itself outside, making a growling, whining noise.
“Off you go now,” Brother Death said softly.
Pepper let out a snarl and dropped into the luggage compartment, ignoring the pain spike that ran up her leg when her fractured ankle hit, not feeling the biting cold. Fiddler was a dark shape outside, staggering in the snow. Pepper scrambled across the freezing metal and plunged after her, screaming into the wind and stinging white, the deep cold snatching her breath and quickly sucking the remaining heat from her body.
Only a few feet away, Pepper could see that the violinist’s body was riddled with bullet wounds, but that her first shot, although it had sheared off a piece of skull, had not touched the sticky mass of black and maroon within. She extended the pistol to finish what she’d started. Fiddler spun and let out a shriek, lunging, one eye destroyed and the other bulging. She caught Pepper’s head in both hands, her powerful arms compressing it, chest-to-chest with her prey. Pepper Davis screamed in pain and fury, shoved the barrel of the automatic up under the Hobgoblin’s jaw, pushed hard.
There was an explosive CRACK as Pepper pulled the trigger.
THIRTY-FOUR
Skye hunted the Alpha through the shadowy plow barn, and the Alpha hunted her.
A smaller nightmare darted through the maze, reaching the rear fire exit.
Both woman and Hobgoblin scented the dusty, oil-tainted air, drawn to one another, but both circling, trying to flank, to find an advantage. They slipped between the shadows of trucks, darting across openings, pausing to listen for the other. Above them the wind rattled the grime-coated windows as the sky darkened, the storm still growing and devouring the light.
The Alpha could hear Skye’s heartbeat.
Skye followed the Alpha’s musk like a trail.
The ribbon of chain was heavy on Skye’s shoulder as she gripped the galvanized bar in her bare hands, the talons of her left grating softly on the steel. She was moving into the Zone again, that sniper’s place where everything ceased to exist but the target. Her senses were magnified, and there was no longer any fear as to whether her plan would succeed, or if she even had the courage to face the monster. There was only the hunt.
Something scraped against the side of a truck across the open aisle to her left, and the young woman caught the baritone rumble of a soft growl. They had completely circled the barn now, and were moving back toward the front near the open doors. The repugnant scent was stronger here. They were very close.
Skye bolted from between two plows and charged up the main aisle.
Twenty feet away, the Alpha stepped from the shadows and drew herself up to her full height, letting out a primal screech. The sight of her, of what Skye was truly up against, broke the young woman’s nerve, and she stumbled to a halt, staring at the monster.
I’m dead.
Sallinger shifted in the passenger seat of the plow cab, reaching over to switch on the windshield wipers. The blades sluggishly pushed several inches of snow aside, then thumped against the wet flakes that immediately collected on the glass. The plow was too heavy for the wind to make it rock, but the sound of it howling around the cab was that of a hungry wolf, looking for a way inside.
The Ranger was exhausted, and the warm air rushing from the heater vents was making him drowsy. The hopping journey from the barn to the plow had been agonizing, one arm thrown across Bracco’s wide shoulders while trying not to let his one boot slip out from under him. Getting up into the high cab, even with the corporal’s help, had been worse, and now the broken leg was throbbing. He was still without painkillers, and the rhythmic spikes from the fracture made his vision gray at the edges. His jaw ached from clenching.
Bracco had taken his M4 and remaining magazines, leaving him with the corporal’s own sidearm and its single, depleted magazine, then slammed the cab door closed. Sallinger had watched him run back through the snow toward the entrance to the shed. He had also seen the bites up close, and saw that the younger man was flushed and sweating. Not long now.
Bracco saw that his leader had noticed. Neither said anything, and then the corporal had gone.
Now melting snow dripped from Sallinger’s red knit cap and ran in rivulets down his coat. Beyond the windshield he could see silhouettes moving stiffly through the storm, but it was difficult to determine their distance, and it didn’t really seem to matter that much, anyway. He’d found that if he stayed very still, his leg hurt less. The blowing heat was soothing. The Ranger’s head drooped, and he closed his eyes, just for a second, more like a long blink…
Outside
, a small figure scaled the ladder that climbed to the cab, and a slender, red hand worked the handle and eased open the passenger door.
She snarled, grabbed, and sank her teeth into the man inside.
The Alpha’s nostrils flared as she looked at the Skye, red and black electrical flashes of firing synapses triggering sensations of rage, pleasure and violence. The prey was holding none of the weaponry that killed from a distance, only a worthless metal bar.
Meat.
Threat.
Rival.
She would destroy this aberration, tear the bones from her body and crush the brain between her teeth like a hot, wet fruit.
The Alpha roared, and leaped.
As if in slow motion, Skye detected the slightest tightening of the thing’s thigh muscles tensing for a spring, so she struck first. She lunged with all her strength, driving the tip of the galvanized bar forward as the creature’s weight bore down on her. The improvised spear slammed into the Alpha’s belly just below the sternum, piercing the scarlet flesh, and Skye threw her own weight behind it. It punched out the thing’s back just beside the spine, erupting a little over two feet, slick with black ichor.
The impaled Hobgoblin let out another roar and tore at her attacker with its talons. Skye was still gripping the bar and almost touching the monster, and the shoulders of her coat were shredded in an instant, nylon and down filling immediately turning red as the Alpha’s claws ripped through the material and into the meat of her shoulder blades.
Skye screamed but hung on, still pushing. Another foot of the bar slid through the Alpha’s body, and now the creature was gripping her, black baboon fangs tearing apart her hood, one canine slicing through the top of her ski mask to cut a deep, red groove in her scalp. The Alpha didn’t react to the bar, only intensified the attack, claws tearing through coat, skin and meat.
Not far enough! Skye’s panicked brain was shrieking now. I’m not strong enough!
She had committed, was now in the creature’s grasp only to discover that her plan was not going to work. She’d hurled herself into this hellish thing only to be torn apart.
Behind the Alpha, a boot planted itself against the spiny back, strong hands gripped the bar and then pulled. The galvanized harpoon came free, and then the chain was slipping through Skye’s hands, tearing through the body as her rescuer hauled on the big needle and pulled the steel thread through the Hobgoblin’s core.
The Alpha let out an ear-shattering screech and tried to turn to face this new threat, but then Skye was backing away, hanging onto her end of the chain and preventing the creature from twisting around. On the other side, Corporal Bracco did the same, the monster strung between them.
But the Hobgoblin was strong, and her thrashing threatened to rip the chain from both their hands. The beast snapped at the air, then gripped the links protruding from its belly and gave a great pull.
Skye was yanked forward, right into the claws and teeth, and at that moment Bracco lost his grip on the slick, galvanized bar.
Maybe it was the creak of the cab door, or the sudden gust of icy wind, but Sallinger snapped out of his doze just as the little girl without a face came in for the bite. He tried to jerk away.
And was too late.
Her hands had him by the leg, and she bit deep.
But she bit only into the thick, blue fabric covering the leg brace.
Sallinger yelled, shoved Bracco’s nine-millimeter into Cross’ ear and blew her brains across the dashboard. The creature stiffened and then slithered lifelessly out of the cab to collapse in the snow.
Breathing hard and heart pounding, the Ranger pulled the door shut and watched out the windows, gripping the pistol with a trembling hand. He didn’t think he’d doze off again.
The Alpha locked her hands on the sides of Skye’s head and began to squeeze, her thumb talons poised over the girl’s eyes, quivering. Skye was powerless in the grip, and felt her boots leave the floor as she was lifted by the head.
Bracco, the New Jersey weightlifter, slammed all his mass into the Alpha’s back in a tackle that would have broken an NFL quarterback’s neck. The Hobgoblin let out a shrill cry as the three of them went to the concrete floor, releasing Skye and fighting to throw the weight off its back. Skye scrambled and kicked backward until she was free, and the big Ranger fought to hold the creature face-down. Talons scratched at the cement as the Alpha tried to lever herself upward with her arms, still squealing.
THUNK. Skye’s composite steel tomahawk came down in a blur, severing the Alpha’s right hand at the wrist. “Fight without that!” she yelled, as the creature collapsed to the right. “Extend her other one!” she shouted, and Bracco shifted his weight onto the monster’s shoulders as he took its left arm and forced it forward, using all his strength to stretch it out against the cement floor.
THUNK. THUNK. Two blows from the hatchet took this hand off in the same spot, but not before the monstrous female snapped her head left and bit deeply into Bracco’s right bicep. Blood shot across her twisted face, and the Ranger howled in pain. Still he held on, keeping her pinned.
Skye kicked the Alpha in the face as hard as she could with her heavy Goth boot, the chrome spikes punching little holes in crimson flesh, rocking the head to the side with the impact. Teeth came away from Bracco’s mauled arm and snapped at the boot, one fang carving a furrow in the leather. Skye retreated and gripped the chain in both hands again. “Get her to the plow!”
The big man rolled off and seized the metal bar once more, and together the two of them hauled the thrashing creature toward the double doors, keeping it between them, jerking it this way and that to keep it off balance. It raged and squealed, pawing at the chain with useless stumps that leaked black ooze. They worked together to drag and push the creature outside, then hauled it up and into the high bed of the industrial plow. The bed structure was detachable, designed to be lifted on and off with some sort of winch or crane arm, and at the front of the bed Bracco found a pair of lift rings molded into the steel. He threaded ends of the chain through each, and from below, Skye caught them and pulled, dragging the creature up close against the front of the bed while Bracco returned to the shed for another heavy bolt and nut. He used these to anchor the ends together, finally stepping away.
The Alpha shrieked, hissed, tried to throw herself against the restraint, but the chain punched through her center held her tightly against the steel, immobilizing her. Teeth gnashed and wrist stumps beat at metal, but the Alpha could get no leverage. She was their captive.
“She’ll have to…tear herself in half…before she gets out,” Bracco breathed, bracing himself against the side of the big vehicle with one hand to keep from falling over. Snow was clinging to his flushed, sweating face.
Skye was breathing hard, too. “You saved me,” she said, hugging the big man.
Bracco gave her a weak smile. “Save Sallinger.” Then he climbed slowly to the cab. To Skye he looked like a big wind-up toy that had run down to its final ticks, slow and jerking, about to be still. Bracco opened the cab door and handed his rifle and magazines to the officer inside.
Sallinger gave him the nine-millimeter. “Do you want me to do it” he asked softly.
Bracco jerked his dog tags off his neck and handed them over. “Negative, sir. This one’s on me.” He gave his leader a tired nod and closed the door.
Standing nearby, Skye made the same, silent offer with her eyes, but Bracco just gave her that tired smile again. “Time to go,” he said, his voice barely audible above the wind. Then he walked slowly toward the double shed doors, gave a backward wave, and disappeared inside.
Skye climbed up to the driver’s side of the cab and saw that Bracco had left the pack containing the medical kit on the floorboards beneath the captain’s legs. The Ranger leader’s face was pale, his teeth clenched.
“Let me give you a shot,” she said.
“Just get us out of here,” he grunted.
Skye quickly oriented herself with the da
shboard and controls, thankful to see that the rig had an automatic transmission. She, like most of her generation, had never learned to use a stick shift. Finding one now would have been sadly laughable. The rest of the operation looked straight-forward enough, the dials well-labeled, including the controls to operate the front-mounted snow-blower. A minute later she had the big blades whirring, the cab vibrating and the sound of the machine blotting out the scream of the wind.
Ahead of her, the orange glow of the Coburn could be seen in the distance through the obscuring white of the storm, the hotel now completely engulfed in flames. It would spread to the attached buildings, she knew, the snow doing nothing to extinguish the fire and the wind serving only to feed it. All of Truckee might burn.
Good. Let it burn. Instead of a sanctuary, Truckee had proven to be just another place of death and loss. Burn it all.
“Time to go,” she told the captain, and thought of Bracco as she moved the big rig through the parking lot, aiming it toward the nearby road.
Any sound from a lone pistol shot was swallowed by the noise of the churning snow-plow.
THIRTY-FIVE
Interstate-80 was a cold, deep sea of white, the wind carving wave-like ripples in the crust. Beyond the beat of the wiper blades, the snow was blowing sideways as the massive plow crawled higher into Donner’s Pass. The whirring blades of the six-foot-high snow-blower chewed into the white wall before them, a tall stack mounted behind the cab throwing a high plume behind and to the right.
Skye gripped the steering wheel and drove the plow at a steady five-miles-per-hour, doing her best to keep the machine in the center of the highway. She wandered right and left sometimes, and on several occasions she rubbed the right side guardrail, making her body tense. Once she realized that the tall, slender metal poles spaced at regular intervals along the right side of the road - each sticking up out of the snow with a bright orange square at the top – were there to guide plows and keep them to the road, she did better.
Omega Days (Book 5): The Feral Road Page 32
