“Keep pushing!” Matt yelled, stuffing rounds in his rifle and throwing the stripper clip away. He’d reached the peak at last, but the fight was desperately close and he had to clear a spot for the.30s! Something wet and slimy was underfoot, and he slipped and fell. Jeek and Jindal crowded around him, firing and stabbing, as he tried to climb his rifle, but something grabbed his leg and claws pierced his calf. He looked and saw the Grik whose guts he’d stepped in trying to drag him to its teeth. Flipping open the flap on his holster, he drew his 1911 Colt, thumbed the safety down, and blew the thing’s eye out. Its claws spasmed and he yelled, but then the claws relaxed.
“Gangway, you buncha fuzzy monkeys!” Earl Lanier bellowed, waddling up behind, the heavy machine gun cradled in his arms. “Here! Next to the Skipper!” he ranted, and a ’Cat dropped a tripod that spattered Matt with bloody mud. Lanier splashed to a knee and dropped the pintle in the hole. “Feed me!” he roared, and Matt couldn’t help barking a laugh, considering the source, and Lanier glared at him while the ’Cat quickly positioned a long ribbon of shiny brass shells.
“Get the Skipper back, Jeek,” Earl shouted over the wind and rain and battle. “He’s in the way!” Jeek seemed to notice Earl for the first time, as well as the fact that Matt was down, and he and Jindal dragged Matt behind the gun. “Get a load o’ this!” Earl growled, racking the bolt and pointing the weapon at a new surge of Grik, but instead of the expected chattering spray of copper-jacketed lead, there was only a muffled clack, barely heard. Earl’s face lost all expression. “Now, ain’t that the god-awfulest sound you ever heard?” he murmured, and frantically racked the bolt again. Jindal had helped Matt to his feet, and for the first time he finally looked down on the swarm of Grik below, choking the area between him and the jungle. At a glance, they seemed numberless, but Jindal pointed at the trees, indistinct in the storm-lashed rain. “No more coming!” he gasped. “No more coming out of the jungle! This must be all of them, at last!” He seemed… relieved, and Matt took his word, but looking down, he still saw a hell of a lot of Grik climbing toward them. What, “only” twenty or twenty-five thousand more?
“Get that thing shooting or get it the hell out of the way and let somebody else in!” he ordered Earl. “Bernie!” he yelled back down the slope. “Get them in! Anywhere you can!” He couldn’t see more than a few paces to either side, but it looked like this was the only position so far. Or maybe not, he reevaluated, hearing rapid fire from one of the gun embrasures he’d seen coming up. Most were still spitting canister, but maybe that gun was damaged or out of ammunition. Bernie might find other places. He looked at the swarm and again at Earl, who was slapping and cursing his weapon. No time. Earl would get his gun going or he wouldn’t. The others would find their own positions or not—there was nothing left to do but fight. His leg ached where the Grik had clawed him, and his eyes were blurred by rain and blood, with a near wall of water pouring off his helmet rim when he looked down. Crossbow bolts still fluttered thickly, but their strings were wet and they were much less powerful. Blitzers and rifles still chattered and cracked in response, but there were so many Grik—and they just kept coming. The ones they’d pushed back were having a tough time regaining their ground, scrabbling up the slippery slope on all fours, the rain directly in their upturned faces. Many had even discarded their weapons, coming on with just their teeth and claws. Nothing left to do but fight, Matt told himself again, and thrusting his pistol in his belt, he raised his Springfield once more. “Let ’em have it!” he shouted at those around him.
• • •
Hij Geerki slid down from the me-naak he’d ridden to this ravaged area between the “civilian” Grik and the frustrated troops guarding them. Not far away, to his left, the battle raged at the top of the Wall of Trees, and he yearned to be there, fighting as he’d done in Indiaa. What a strange craving that is, he reflected. I am no warrior, and I am old and nearly useless. Yet, I feel… compelled somehow, to help these friends of my master, General Lord Muln Rolak. Very strange indeed. The same apparent “First Hij” of these resident Grik that he’d spoken to before was waiting for him in the rain, as Geerki had requested. That had been simple enough to arrange. English was considered the “scientific” tongue, and enough upper-class Hij could read it, at least. A message had been sent to the commander of the entrenched brigade to write out the request, put it in a water bottle, and then just throw it toward the surviving Grik huddled under whatever shelter they could find. That was how he’d first made contact. That had been a much different situation, however, and he wasn’t sure they’d meet him this time, but this one did. Geerki peered at the First Hij standing before him, warm rain soaking his thick, finely woven, hooded cape, and wondered how best to proceed. Summoning himself to behave as he’d seen his master do in similar situations, he did his best to project an air of confidence.
“You have had ample time to consider ‘The Offer,’” he said. “I must hear your reply.”
“A strangely generous ‘offer,’ made by hunters to those who do not hunt,” the creature observed. “And not an offer to join the hunt. You ask me to consider a proposal so distressingly unprecedented that I may as well contemplate walking across the sea—or flying, like a winged beast! It seems impossible that anyone could even imagine such a thing.”
“We fly,” Geerki pointed out dryly, “as do Ghaarrichk’k now. Nothing is impossible. Even offers such as the one I brought you, to those such as us, from warriors. My masters make ‘offers,’ alliances, accommodations, of all sorts among themselves—and to other folk like us that I have seen.” He clasped his breast. “I serve them myself, and I thrive.”
“So you say,” the First Hij replied skeptically.
“You can doubt me? Here I am before you!”
The First Hij sighed. “It is so difficult to know what to do in these strange times. Prey has come to the Celestial City, slain our Giver of Life, and now ‘offers’ to give us life in her stead. I am not able to believe such things even as I see them.” He jerked his snout toward the battle. “And perhaps I should not. Warriors have come. If they destroy your masters, all will return to as it was before, for us. It is so much simpler to wait for that than to contemplate the unsettling thoughts you bring. I believe we should wait.”
“If you wait for all to be as it was, then you wait in vain. The Ghaarrichk’k will not win this fight. And even if they do, they will slaughter you for what you have seen. They have done it everywhere else.” He cocked his head. “But I come to tell you that you may wait,” Geerki said to the other’s surprise, “as long as ‘wait’ is all you do.” He stared up at the dark, heavy clouds and let the rain wash his face. “I was once as you, so I understand your hesitation. But having seen and done the things I have, lived as I have, since accepting my own ‘offer’ from my master, I am no longer Ghaarrichk’k, and I despise the miserable existence you would again embrace. Even so, I will force you to make no choice except to do absolutely nothing until you do decide.”
“What could we do? We are not warriors.”
“You might cause a distraction, as I suspect you’ve been urged to do by the warriors who remain among you.” He held up a hand. “Do not protest! Do not lie. I know it is so. Coordination was required for this attack, and it could have had no other source.” He made a very human shrug like he’d seen General Pete Alden make so often. “Still, the offer remains. You may contemplate further, as I have said, whether you wish to truly live for the first time in your life, and you may do that for as long as you like. But you must decide this instant whether you will do absolutely nothing while the battle proceeds—or die.”
“How can you know which I choose, in truth?”
“Choose to live by destroying the warriors among you and casting them here upon this muddy ground. They will not die easily and there will be fighting. They are warriors, after all, and your only weapons are those you were born with. The brigade behind me will see the fighting and will leave you to join the gre
ater battle. If they do not see you do what I say, they will destroy each and every one of you—and then leave to join the battle. It’s actually quite simple.”
“What you propose is not ‘doing nothing,’” the First Hij grated uneasily, glancing behind him.
“From my perspective it is,” Geerki suddenly snarled, “as it relates to the outcome of the battle here today.” He sneered. “Even this, my masters here would have done for you, had you made the greater choice sooner. Consider it the price of indecision.” Geerki turned to stalk away, but the First Hij called to him. “How soon must you see us…” He paused, probably glancing behind him again, toward where warrior Hij doubtless watched. “How soon must you see us ‘doing nothing’?” he pleaded.
“Now,” Geerki replied. “I go to stir the troops that guard you to march to battle—or destroy you all. You have until I reach them to begin… doing nothing,” he almost spat, amazed that he sprang from the same species as that loathsome creature. He knew many of his master’s friends remained skeptical that he truly was as devoted to them as he tried to prove each day, but he forgave them. What else were they to think, given the evidence of the Grik at large? But he knew the difference between what he was and what he’d been, and thanked the Lemurian’s Maker of All Things that he’d been captured that day in Raan-goon. He did spit then, hacking a gobbet of phlegm from deep in his throat, and quickened his pace. Long before he reached the trenchline, he heard the growing tumult of fighting behind him.
“Now you can go,” he told the Lemurian officer waiting expectantly below. He looked northeast to where the “main” battle led by General Queen Safir Maraan raged on the beach across the storm-ripped harbor. “I ser’ you, Lord!” he said aloud, fervently.
The Wall of Trees
Five machine guns were up and running now, steaming, hissing, crackling, spitting fire, and scything Grik away like twigs from a broom. They tumbled back, falling on others, tripping them, sliding or rolling down the slope. More crawled over them, clawing at mud and bodies, roaring defiance and rage. Canister gusted from embrasures, sweeping dozens down, right in front of their muzzles, and.50-80 Allin-Silvas,.30-06 Springfields, and.45 ACP from Blitzers, Thompsons, and 1911s continued to slay and maim. Bayonets did their grisly work as the Grik lapped at the summit, tearing bowels, gouging eyes, ripping throats—but the Grik were killing too, with their wicked spears, swords, claws, and teeth, and the Raiders’ line was thinning. The slope ran with blood and gore mixed with feces, and the wind slammed the stench in the defenders’ faces, causing many to retch even as they fought. Nothing Matt had seen in this war, except maybe the fight for Walker, compared to the concentrated killing he and his friends were doing. But still the Grik came on. Worse, since they hadn’t been able to use the machine guns all at once and mass their fire, they hadn’t been able to create the sudden, decisive edge Matt wanted—and they hadn’t been able to bring enough ammunition to keep them going long. So now they were feeding five guns with the ammo they brought for nine, and they were already running low.
Matt emptied his Springfield again and drew his pistol, firing quickly into faces and bodies that writhed in front of him. The loud popping of the pistol was muted now, barely heard by his tortured ears over the thunderous roar of battle.
“Gen’raal Maraan can send nothing!” came the cry of the comm-’Cat behind him. “She holds, even wins, she thinks—but the last Grik landed farther down the coast, and she must shift forces there to stop them!”
“Well, we ain’t gonna win here, if we don’t get some goddamn help!” Earl Lanier shouted excitedly to the right of Matt’s leg. He’d fixed his gun, but he was helping a ’Cat insert another belt. He had only a couple more. Packrat was firing another Browning to Matt’s left, chewing Grik with short, clattering bursts. Matt looked farther to the left, but the rain was worsening as the storm built strength and he couldn’t see far. For all he knew, the Grik might’ve hit the Wall of Trees in other, more feebly defended places as well, but he didn’t think so. These were “old-style” Grik—there could be no doubt of that now—and having found their enemy, they’d attack it with a single-minded ferocity that still amazed him. Whether those that faced Safir Maraan were any different he couldn’t know, but he doubted they were, and only the accident of the weather had driven their ships ashore where they might force her to extend her lines. “She says she already sent all she can!” the comm-’Cat yelled, and Matt blinked bitter amusement at that. He and his destroyermen were the only reinforcements that had reached the Raiders.
“Goddamn it!” Earl shrieked when his gun quit again. “An’ this ain’t even one o’ those new pieces o’ shit! It’s a Colt for God’s sake!”
“It’s a hard-used Colt,” Bernie shouted, carrying a pair of ammo cans and tossing them down in the mud. “Pitch it. Here’s another one!” A ’Cat behind him was carrying one of the newly made weapons, the rain beading on the oil that covered it. “I doubt this one’s even been fired. You take Packrat’s gun. Packrat! Over here!”
“What the hell?” Earl bawled. “No damn ’Cat…”
“Can cook like you,” Bernie finished, letting others decide what he meant. “Packrat knows guns better.” He joined Matt, his pistol in his hand. “That’s the very last ammo,” he shouted in his ear. “When it’s gone…”
“We keep fighting,” Matt said simply, holstering his own pistol. His Springfield was stabbed in the mud by its bayonet beside him. “I’m already empty.” Reluctantly, he drew his battered Academy sword and ran his hand down the notched blade. Bernie looked at him, rain-thinned blood spatter running down his boyish face. He paused, then nodded grimly.
“We keep fighting,” he agreed. The semicircle of Grik in front of them that had been kept open by the pair of machine guns began to close. Earl splapped down behind Packrat’s gun, cursing at the Grik guts he’d landed in, and Packrat and his assistant were jamming a belt into the new one. The fighting remained close everywhere else, but they’d have one more brief respite before the Grik closed over them here and Matt would have to use his sword yet again—one more time.
It was hard to hear, but it suddenly seemed like a new kind of yell was building on the right. At first, Matt thought it was the roar of the mounting wind. But shouts raced toward them down the line, excited, exhausted shouts of hope—then glee, which turned to screams of triumph and encouragement.
“What the hell?” Matt murmured, straining to see. The Grik were too close, too thick to see beyond them, and they were still pushing forward, snarling, yipping in anticipation, but he sensed that something was happening. Something the Grik wouldn’t like. “Get those guns firing!” he shouted. “Everyone! Let ’em have it with everything you’ve got!” The firing had diminished as those who still had ammunition tried to conserve it, but now they let loose with a last, stunning flurry that mowed the closest Grik down. Packrat’s new Browning opened up, chopping across the faltering Grik behind, side to side, and then Earl’s finally joined in, doubling the slaughter. The roar on the right continued to mount, and Grik started looking that way, pausing, staring, mouths gaping wide in sudden confusion. They were winning, grinding down their prey—but the sounds of triumph were not Grik and even if they couldn’t see what was happening either, they instinctively knew it wasn’t right. Major Jindal practically crashed into Matt, gasping, and Matt held him up before he could fall, avoiding the bloody bayonet on the rifle the man still clutched.
“Risa!” Jindal grated, and cleared his throat. “God, how can I be so thirsty on such a day!” He looked at Matt, at Bernie. “Risa is charging the Grik flank with the Maroons!” he finally managed.
“They’ll be torn apart!” Bernie objected.
“No! The brigade guarding the Grik below has joined her! Nearly the entire brigade! That creature, Geerki, I believe, says even if the ‘civilian’ Grik wanted to cause any mischief, they are somewhat too occupied at present to achieve it!” Matt tried to see again, and suddenly he could. A sudden easin
g of the torrential rain revealed a roaring tide of tie-dyed, helmeted troops and gray steel bayonet-bristling muskets surging down the slope from the right, backed by far greater numbers than they’d had before. And the Grik were responding, recoiling, being driven under, and starting to flee. Even as they did, others behind them, as yet unaffected or unaware, slew the ones that turned on them, fighting to get away, or were killed themselves in the growing panic.
“Grik rout,” Matt said, amazed.
“What’s that?” Jindal asked.
“Grik rout,” Matt explained. “Courtney Bradford’s term. Something you’ve never had the pleasure of seeing before, and I never thought I would again. Don’t you get it? These are ‘old’ Grik, probably ‘pure’ Grik. They only know attack, and if they’re not attacking, they’re losing.” He smiled grimly. “And if they’re losing, they run away, useless to continue the fight!”
“What can we do?”
Matt stared to the right, watching the entire line at the summit begin to follow Risa’s charge, peeling down to join it as the companies to their right, one by one, did the same.
“Charge them!” Matt replied, grinning now. “Pass the word! Charge bayonets, by companies, from the right! Probably not a proper command, but I’m a destroyerman, not a Marine. Cease firing as soon as the guys around us go!” he shouted at Earl and Packrat.
“What?” Earl yelled back. With a feral yell that seemed to release all the tension and terror of that long, vicious fight, the men and ’Cats who moments before had been preparing to make their final, bitter stand, leveled their bayonets and raced down the slope at the Grik who’d already started to turn away.
Straits of Hell: Destroyermen Page 47
