by James Axler
The woman cocked her head as she regarded him. “Subject’s voice stress level indicates probability that he is telling the truth is approximately fifty-eight point seven percent. Percentage is not enough to trust that he will do as he claims. We will secure them all and leave now.” Blaster still trained on Ricky, she reached down to grab the front of his shirt with her free hand.
“Tania—” one of the others started to warn even as silver flashed in front of Ricky’s eyes, and suddenly the back of Tania’s hand sprouted a thin steel knife handle. Her fingers popped open, and she dropped her blaster into Ricky’s waiting hand. However, her other hand had grabbed his shirt, and she straightened, hauling him to his feet. Before he could get the muzzle aimed at her, she pivoted and threw him against the office wall hard enough to put a huge crack in the drywall.
Ricky’s right shoulder slammed into a wooden stud, sending a sharp pain down his arm and through his chest as he fell to the ground again. The second rap to his head made stars burst in his vision as he brought up the blaster—still clutched in his hand, although he had no idea how he’d managed to hold on to it—and aimed it at the woman. He heard footsteps pounding on the stairs, but wasn’t sure if someone was coming or going. That was followed by the boom of Jak’s Colt Python, its muzzle flash lighting up the dark room, revealing the two men frozen in time for a second as they took evasive action. Oddly, neither of the two men returned fire, but Ricky figured he knew the reason for that. They still want to take us alive...
Not while any of them could fight back, though. Ricky aimed the blaster at the woman running toward him and squeezed the trigger. She jerked, half turning, and Ricky thought he’d hit her, but she turned back to face him as she kept advancing, and he was shocked to find no dark stain of blood spreading across her chest.
He’d missed—from less than three yards away.
She’d dodged the bullet was the only thought he could muster even as she was on him. He squeezed the trigger again just as she swept in, batting the blaster aside with a blurred arm even as it went off. Again, the muzzle flash illuminated his enemy’s face, which was as calm as if she was helping a friend who had just slipped and fallen on the ground. She showed no rage, no fear, no pleasure—no emotion of any kind.
At the same time, Ricky became aware of a stabbing pain in the forearm of his blaster hand. His gaze flicked over to see the haft of Jak’s throwing blade sticking out of his arm just as the albino’s Magnum blaster boomed again.
His attacker had stabbed him! Not only that, but she was also picking him up again. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm, Ricky tried to bring the blaster into firing position, but she brought her head down as she lifted him up, and smashed her forehead into the bridge of his nose.
The pain Ricky had suffered from the previous blow to his head and getting thrown around like a rag doll was nothing compared with this. It shot through his skull, making his eyes water and his nose ache as if he’d just inhaled a handful of dried habanero pepper. Blood gushed from his nose, and his head lolled on his shoulders as he felt the blaster being stripped from his hand, causing another bolt of pain to lance through him. He clung to consciousness, aware that if he passed out, he was as good as theirs. But it was getting difficult to hold his head up. Where are Ryan and the others? he wondered.
The woman suddenly left him alone. His vision clearing, Ricky looked around to see what was going on.
The woman and two men were trying to capture Jak, who was a white-haired blur in the darkness. Normally the skinny fighter would have no problem facing these three, but they were able to either evade his blows or take the worst of what he could dish out and come back for more. As Ricky watched through half-closed eyes, Jak leaped high into the air and lashed out with his foot, the roundhouse kick catching one of the men on the side. Normally he’d be either unconscious or dead, but this guy simply picked himself up off the floor, ignoring the gashed, bloody flap of skin now hanging off his cheek, and came back at the fighting teenager.
They also moved in near perfect synchronicity. A couple of years ago Ricky’s uncle Benito had been hired by a local baron to fix an old machine that displayed moving pictures on a small glass screen. When Benito and Ricky had gotten the device working again, they had both sat in awed silence watching the tiny figures on the screen as they leaped, punched and kicked at each other in what could only be called an incredible dance of combat. When Ricky had asked what they were watching, Benito had carefully removed the large black plastic cartridge that still had the words Loaf of Kung Fu visible. Ricky and Benito had never figured out what that meant, but he’d always remembered how those warriors had moved, using each other as barriers, launching platforms and even weapons.
The three arrayed against Jak now moved in much the same manner, utilizing one another almost as props to fight the agile, fast-moving teen. Jak was doing everything he could to avoid getting caught by the men or woman. He leaped up again to deliver another flying kick, but this time one of the men picked up the woman and literally tossed her at the teenager. The two bodies collided in midair and fell to the ground, both of them rolling with the impact and coming up on their feet again. However, the other two had figured out where Jak would land, and had moved to encircle him. When he came up, he was surrounded by the trio.
“Surrender, and you do not have to die here,” the woman said.
“Fuck off!” Jak replied, turning in place to try to watch all of them at once.
Spotting his carbine a few yards away, Ricky crawled toward it, trying to ignore the blinding flashes of pain that bloomed every few seconds in his head. It felt like an hour, but was probably only a few seconds before his hand curled around the cool wooden grip of the De Lisle. Ricky rolled back over and aimed his weapon at the combatants on the other side of the room.
Bracing his longblaster with his good arm, Ricky sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The muffled crack of his De Lisle signaled its discharge, and one of the men fell to one knee, dark blood spattering on the concrete.
Shouts and footsteps could be heard outside, making the attackers’ heads turn toward the noise, then back to look at one another.
“Too many coming,” the woman said. “Take what we have and go. For the Mind.”
“For the Mind,” all three said at once. They nodded once, curtly, and quickly drew their blasters, aiming them at Jak.
“Ricky! Jak!” Ryan shouted from outside. The noise distracted their enemies enough for Jak to leap up, grab the wag lift and pull himself on top of it. The woman fired a couple of shots at him while the two men turned their blasters on the office door and walls, peppering it with bullets.
“In here, Ryan!” Ricky struggled to chamber another bullet with his one good arm. He was also praying that neither of the two men turned their blasters his way. As he rammed the De Lisle’s bolt home, the woman materialized above him, the butt of her blaster slashing across his face.
Ricky saw one last blinding burst of light, then nothing....
Chapter Eighteen
Ryan had awakened instantly at the first shot fired.
The familiar report of Jak’s Colt had him up and out of the makeshift bed with his SIG Sauer in hand.
“Blastershots. Jak?” Krysty asked in the darkness.
“Yeah. I’m going to see what’s up,” he replied. Hearing a babble of voices and footsteps pounding down the outside corridor, he grabbed his Scout longblaster and ran to the door, opening it in time to see three teenage girls running toward him, all talking at once.
“—Jak and Ricky—”
“—couldn’t see the guard—”
“—Tully went, too—”
“—all at the north building—”
Ryan raised his hand with the SIG Sauer in it, cutting off all of them. “Show me!”
They turned and ran back toward the e
nd of the covered hallway. Ryan followed, meeting J.B., armed with one of the M4 carbines, as he passed their door. Mildred stood behind him also dressed and armed.
“Stay here in case they get by us,” Ryan said. “You and Krysty rouse everyone and get them into the main room downstairs.” Mildred started heading back toward Ryan’s room.
As they pounded down the corridor, other sleep-bleary faces peeked out of the rooms. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”
“Get everyone up and go to the main room on the bottom floor,” Ryan answered to each query.
At the stairs, the girls pointed to a building about fifty yards away just as another shot roared from inside. “You all get to the main room below!” Ryan said as he and J.B. ran down the stairway.
Normally the two men would have approached more cautiously, using available cover and watching each other’s back as they moved. But not knowing exactly what was happening inside the building, and with no shots coming at them, they risked their lives on a mad dash to the front door, Ryan on the right, J.B. on the left. At a nod from the Armorer, Ryan yanked the door open and J.B. covered the inside, just as they both heard the familiar muffled sound of Ricky’s silenced carbine.
“Ricky? Jak?” Ryan shouted as both men headed inside and swept the small room.
“In here, Ryan!” Ricky’s answering shout was close, but at the same time, blasterfire began perforating the room, making both men hit the floor.
J.B. returned fire, his heavier bullets punching larger holes through the thin walls. He spaced his shots so as to have a decent chance of hitting someone on the other side, careful to avoid the area where they’d heard Ricky.
Meanwhile, Ryan had crawled to the doorway and peeked around its edge, trying to see anything inside. A flurry of movement near the back made him extend his handblaster and fire three times in that direction. A burst of return fire made him duck behind the wall as bullets stitched the drywall panels above his head, showering him with fragments and dust. Something else fell on his head, and Ryan brushed away a sheaf of brittle, flaking papers with a bullet hole through the middle.
“That’s no handblaster!” he said.
“They brought their M4s, too,” J.B. said from the corner. “Where’s Ricky?”
Ryan shook his head. “Didn’t see him.”
“They took!” Jak shouted from inside the large room. “Up—” A flurry of shots cut him off, too.
“Dark night!” the Armorer replied. “Can’t let them have him!”
“They won’t have him long,” Ryan replied. “At least Jak’s still here.” He raised his voice. “Jak, you all right?”
“Yeah.” More shots interrupted him. “Fucker got me trapped!”
“Just hang tight,” Ryan called back.
“Spot where the shooter is, J.B.” The one-eyed man stuck his SIG Sauer around the doorway and fired two shots, receiving another burst of bullets in return.
“On the stairway, mostly covered by the railing and the upper floor,” J.B. said as he rolled over past Ryan to the other side of the doorway and came up in a kneeling position. “Keep his head down for a few seconds.”
Ryan complied, emptying his magazine in the shooter’s direction. While he did, J.B. rested his elbow on his knee and sighted in on the man. He fired three short bursts, then ducked behind the wall, the smoke from their weapons thick in the air.
Silence reigned for several seconds. “Think you got him?” Ryan asked as he changed the spent magazine in his blaster for a fresh one.
“Stick your head out and find out,” J.B. replied.
“No, thanks.” Instead, Ryan stuck his blaster out and fired a round. No return fire answered him. “Looks good.”
“Or he’s playing possum,” J.B. whispered. “If these people have the parasites, they take a lot of pain and can still be dangerous.”
“That’s why I’m not going to rush up those stairs,” Ryan replied. “Let’s go, nice and slow.”
The two men ran toward the staircase without taking a single shot. On the way, Ryan spotted Ricky’s De Lisle lying near the far wall, and detoured to snatch it off the floor.
Jak joined them there, the front of his sleeveless jumpsuit covered in dirt and stains. “Empty,” he whispered. Ryan tossed the silenced carbine to him. Jak checked the load and nodded.
Ryan pointed up the staircase, then to himself, then to J.B., then Jak. Getting nods from the other two, he raised his blaster as he crept to the first few steps.
The staircase went straight up and toward the back wall for three steps, then opened onto a small landing before turning left ninety degrees and continuing up to the roof. Stepping on the far edge of the stairs to minimize creaking, Ryan climbed two of them, leading with his blaster. He felt J.B. right behind him and knew the shorter man was finding his own avenue of fire even while Ryan was in front of him. One more step, and Ryan would be visible to the shooter on the stairs. Steeling himself, he stepped out onto the landing.
The man lay on his stomach, sightless eyes still open, carbine still gripped in his fingers. A large pool of blood beneath him dripped down the stairs. Ryan didn’t lower his weapon, however, but kept it trained on the body as he began climbing, staying to the right of the staircase.
When he was three steps away, the body moved.
Swiveling his head to look at Ryan, he raised the M4 even as Ryan, J.B. and Jak all unloaded on the man. The bullets pulped his head, tearing off his lower jaw and killing him before he could squeeze the trigger.
“Shit, look that!” Jak said as he worked the De Lisle’s bolt action.
Something was moving in the dead man’s mouth. His throat bulged as a slimy, slug-like creature emerged from the esophagus. Night black and glistening, it had no eyes, but waved two antennae as it began oozing onto the stair.
“Ugly bastard,” Ryan said as he steadied his blaster and pulled the trigger.
“No, wait!” J.B. said, but it was too late. The 9 mm bullet tore through the squishy mass, almost tearing it in two. The parasite writhed once, and all three men clutched their heads as a strange shriek reverberated inside their brains, like the grating noise of overstressed metal being torn apart.
“What fuck that?” Jak asked when it had died away. “Other one not do that.”
“No idea,” Ryan replied. “Come on, let’s get Ricky.” He stepped over to the body and pulled the M4 out of the corpse’s hands. “Bullet hole in the stock, and the receiver took one, as well. It’s junk now.” He tossed the mangled weapon aside. “Let’s go.”
The top of the stairs ended in a trapdoor. Ryan tried opening it, but it was stuck or locked. “I’m going to shoot it.”
“Wait—if it’s steel, the bullet could ricochet and plug one of us instead.” J.B. squeezed past him enough to reach up and push up on the hatch. “Got some give—probably tin. Go for it.”
“Stand back.” Ryan put two bursts into the handle, the reports making his ears ring in the enclosed space. When he tried shoving the door up this time, it opened.
“Slow,” J.B. whispered.
“I know, dammit!” Ryan eased the trapdoor open just enough to peek out. From his vantage point, the roof appeared empty, but he knew how deceiving that could be. “Sure wish I had a stun gren.”
“Wish had rocket launcher, but don’t,” Jak whispered. “Goin’ out, or me?”
“Hold on, Jak. Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Ryan whispered back. “On three, J.B. One...two...three!”
Shoulder blades tensing in anticipation of receiving a bullet, Ryan shoved the door open and dived out onto the hot, sticky roof. At the same time, J.B. came up and covered the side opposite the hatch with his M4. Jak served as cleanup, covering the left and right sides as he emerged from below.
At the far end of the garage roof, three moving form
s were visible in the moonlight, each carrying another person over his or her shoulder.
“Hold it!” Ryan shouted even as the invaders extended their blasters at the three.
Ryan, Jak and J.B. hit the roof as the invaders opened fire, but they couldn’t shoot back for fear of hitting the hostages. Steel blurred through the air, however, and one of the kidnappers dropped his hostage and fell to his knees, clutching at his suddenly fountaining throat. The freed captive managed to roll away, even with arms and legs bound.
Hauling the last hostage up in front of her as a human shield, the woman unslung her longblaster and sat down, covering her companion with aimed shots as he began lowering the other captive off the side of the building.
“I can’t get a clear shot!” Ryan said. “We have to flank them!”
“I’m open to suggestions as to how!” J.B. replied from where he was lying behind the hatch, the only cover on the roof. “She’s going to walk rounds right on top of us if we don’t do something!”
“Fuck that! Take out!” Jak said, rising on his elbows enough to aim at the other man. He triggered a shot, making his target jerk as the round hit him in the back, but the guy stayed on his task. Jak yanked the bolt back and chambered another round, but three shots from the woman made him hug the roof before he could shoot again.
“Can you get her with the Steyr?” J.B. asked.
“I’ll try.” Holstering his SIG Sauer, Ryan brought around the Scout longblaster and snugged it into his shoulder. The range was far shorter than how he normally shot, but what he really needed was the magnification provided by the 2.5x scope. The woman’s face leaped into focus, appearing to be only a few yards away. She was scooting backward, hauling her unconscious hostage—Ricky, Ryan noticed with a grimace—toward the edge of the roof while keeping the M4 tight to her shoulder and firing single shots at the three men. One-handed.
