He was like a machine now, aiming, firing, aiming, firing, in an endless sequence of death. Until finally he pressed the firing stud and nothing happened. Empty. Shifting the rifle to his left hand he pulled the .75. It boomed and roared, creating a thunder of sound that bounced around the tunnel walls and echoed off into the distance. Renn kept firing—and suddenly the tunnel things turned and ran away.
At first Renn couldn't understand why. Then he had it. Noise. They didn't like the noise of the .75. The whine of the blast rifle didn't bother them, but they couldn't stand the roar of the .75. Being tunnel dwellers they had poor eyesight, an excellent sense of smell, and acute hearing. “Not any more,” he thought happily, squeezing off two more rounds for good luck.
As the last echo died away, and Renn slammed a fresh magazine into the butt of the .75, a shaft of sunlight hit the tunnel floor fifty feet ahead, followed by a makeshift wooden ladder. Moments later Boater's boots appeared, soon followed by the rest of his rotund form. There was a blast rifle across his back and a spotlight in his hand. “Hello Jonnie, just thought I'd drop in and give you a hand. Looks like you don't need it, though.”
Renn felt an upwelling of anger so intense it left him speechless. He was still trying to form words as Boater toed a corpse and shook his head. “Been meaning to clean out these tunnels for the last couple of years ... but just never seemed to get around to it. No, that's not quite true lad, the truth is, I'm a bit past this kind of thing. That's why I thought you'd enjoy a go.”
“Enjoy? Enjoy? Why you lying, cheating, miserable old bastard, I damned near got killed! You mean to tell me you knew about this, knew I was following you, and let it happen? I should kill you right here!”
Boater nodded in agreement. “That's right lad. You probably should, and certainly could, and that's the whole point.”
Knowing he was being sucked in, but somehow unable to help himself, Renn asked, “What's the whole point?”
Boater grinned. “Take a look at yourself. You smell like the bottom of a one-holer, you look like hell, but outside of that there's not a scratch on you.”
Renn ran a mental inventory. The other man was right. There wasn't a scratch on him. “So?”
“So,” Boater replied, “congratulations. Your training is over.”
Renn looked at him for a moment, and said. “You're a complete and total bastard, Boater.”
The older man smiled. “You're right about that lad, you're right about that. Come on ... I'll buy you a drink.”
Boater took him on a tour of the ruins, explaining that he'd discovered them by accident years before, and used them as an occasional base ever since. He really did have a cache of supplies there, not to mention a shelter, complete with some rough and ready homemade furniture.
So as the sun went down, they sat in the great hall of a long vanished race, and drank to each other's health. And as the hours fled away, and they told stories into the night, things were somehow different between them. By unspoken agreement the relationship of teacher and student was gone, replaced by something which if not friendship, was at least a meeting of equals.
And that relationship endured. Weeks and months passed. Boater insisted that Renn never tell anyone about the ruins, saying there was nothing to be gained by letting others know, and pointing out that the old buildings seemed to attract monsters. Renn wasn't so sure the ruins should be dismissed so lightly, but was happy to humor his friend, and knew Boater was right about the monsters. There were lots of them on the island, and that meant good hunting.
Plentiful though they were, after a few weeks of hunting, the monsters started to grow scarce and they moved on. Relying on Boater's past experience, they traveled from one place to another, pausing at his favorite camping spots, and hunting along the way. And for the most part things went very well. In fact, Boater said it was the best season for skins he'd ever had, and credited Renn with bringing him good luck.
But something was missing. Where the hell were the stinks? Boater swore they should have seen five or six by now, and spent a lot of time mumbling about too many hunters, and how there used be a stink hiding behind every tree. In fact, Boater was ranting and raving on that very subject one morning when he rounded a curve a hair too fast and ran right into a full-grown stink.
The poor beast was right in the middle of breakfast, with three of its tubular feeding organs busily sucking up succulent swamp weed, when Fred rammed him, bounced back a good two feet, and then shot forward again as Boater struggled to engage reverse.
That was the first and last time Renn ever saw Boater lose control. Instead of placing the engine in reverse, Boater accidentally killed it, and as they drifted slowly down channel, his face turned beet red with anger and frustration.
Meanwhile the stink extracted its feeding organs, extruded thousands of needle sharp spines, and prepared itself to roll over the strange apparition which had just interrupted its meal.
“Shoot lad! Kill the sonovabitch or we're done for!”
Renn didn't even hear. The entirety of his being was concentrated on the stink. It was huge. It filled the sights of his blast rifle. He couldn't miss. But Boater's past words were suddenly ringing in his ears. “You could shoot ’em all day long and they'd still float. No, you've got to hit something vital, preferably the fifth subbrain which provides their motor control.”
Terrific, Renn thought, but easier said than done. The monster was moving now, and in a few short seconds it would be up to speed, and would cross the short span of water separating them in about two seconds. Forcing himself to stay perfectly still, while his whole being screamed at him to run, to get away, Renn summoned up a memory of the crude anatomical drawing Boater had made one evening. It showed each of the monster's five sub-brains, and their location within a stink's ball-shaped body. The fifth was a little off-center left, below the third, a tiny bit larger than the other four. Carefully superimposing that image, over the huge thing which was now speeding towards him, Renn squeezed the trigger.
As the lance of blue energy impaled the oncoming monster, he gently moved it up and down, back and forth, hoping to find the fifth subbrain and slice through it. Because the stink was rolling forward, the beam cut downwards in layers, etching a continuous black line into the surface of the creature's body. The line looked like a black snake as it crawled upwards, smoking as it burned through living tissue, turning moisture into steam. Then the line disappeared over the top, reappearing seconds later, like a snake biting its own tail. But with each revolution, the beam cut a little deeper, until it finally found and cooked its target. By then, the monster was almost touching Fred's bow, but suddenly it lost all motor control, stopped, shuddered, and partially collapsed.
Both men were silent for a moment as they thought about how close the monster had come, and how lucky they'd been. Boater was the first to speak. “Well, lad, I hope next time you'll be a little bit more careful. Something to think about as you carve this critter up.”
Time passed, and while they didn't encounter any more stinks, the skins continued to pile up, until there were too many to carry in one trip. So they put the first load aboard Fred and headed for the lodge. After an uneventful trip they found the lodge just as they'd left it months before.
After unloading, and resting for a couple of days, Renn volunteered to make the second trip alone. Boater agreed, promising to have the first load of skins ready for sale by the time Renn returned.
As Renn pulled away from the dock they both clowned around and showered each other with friendly insults. Boater was still acting out the episode in which a sizable but harmless insect had fallen inside Renn's shirt, and caused him to stage an impromptu dance, when Renn rounded a curve and disappeared from sight.
It took six days to make the round trip, and Renn was still miles away when he saw the smoke, and felt a growing sickness in the pit of his stomach. Boater never built a fire during the day. “Smoke is like a big gray finger, lad, pointing straight down at your locati
on, so don't build a fire unless you want company.”
Opening up the throttle, he ignored any attempt at subtlety or swamp craft, knowing it was already too late for that. Instead he charged down the intervening channels like an enraged beast, scattering wild life in every direction, and swearing steadily. Steering with one hand, he checked his weapons with the other, and prayed it wasn't too late, even though some primitive part of him knew it was, and had already begun to mourn.
So he was looking for something to kill when he roared up the channel and into the pond. An opportunity to avenge himself for what he knew was waiting. He cut the engine at the last second and allowed Fred to coast towards the dock. There was no one in sight. The attack was days old.
“Boater! Boater it's Jonnie!” His voice sounded small in the vastness of the swamp. There was no answer.
As the boat hit the dock with a gentle bump, Renn leaped ashore and whipped one of Fred's mooring lines around a piling.
His rifle was in his hands as he started up the path, and every nerve was on edge. Every single one of Boater's warning devices had been tripped. Up ahead the lodge had been reduced to smoking ashes. Boater had apparently put up a pretty good fight. There were bullet holes and blaster burns everywhere, and a large patch of red sticky stuff on the path which could only be human blood. Good. Renn hoped the bastard bled to death. Maybe his friends had carried the body off. Meanwhile there was no sign of Boater. Where was he?
Renn circled the lodge and found the answer to his question. Two long poles had been sunk into the ground to form a large X. Boater had been nailed to it. He was dead and had been for a long time. They'd stripped him naked, so Renn could see the long spikes which they'd driven through his arms and legs, and the countless brandings which covered his body. The metal had been heated in a fire they'd built at his feet. His legs now ended in blackened stumps.
“Why?” Renn asked. “Why didn't you take the skiff and run?” But deep down he knew why. The lodge was Boater's home. Everything he had was here. Moreover he was a stubborn old bastard, too old to start over.
From all the booze and food containers littering the ground, it was clear they'd thrown a party, and used Boater as the entertainment. He'd taken a long time to die.
A green bird landed on the back of Boater's slumped head, and began to peck at the top of his skull, hoping to reach his brains. When the .75 caliber slug hit the bird it exploded into a thousand scaly fragments. Killing the bird helped, but it didn't begin to quell Renn's anger, or satisfy his growing need for revenge. But that would have to wait. First there was a burial to perform. Putting down his rifle, Renn approached the cross.
As he got closer, Renn noticed something strange. While both of Boater's arms were nailed to the timbers, his right hand was bailed into a fist, with his index finger pointing towards the sky. Bending closer, Renn saw the finger was actually pointing towards some sort of design on the wood just under his fingertip, a crude oval, with a circle drawn inside it. An eye! Boater had used his own blood to draw an eye! Cyclops! Cyclops and his men had done it! Renn nodded grimly, and murmured, “I hear you old friend, I hear you.”
Renn buried Boater on a slight rise, up beyond the ruins of his lodge. As he worked, the first warm drops of rain hit his skin. The fifth rainy season was just about to start. One more and it would be a year since he and Maria had been dumped onto the surface of the LZ. He wondered where she was, and what she was doing, hoping things had gone well for her. If only—but what the hell, she hadn't, and that was that.
It was hard work, but two hours later the job was done. Over the grave Renn carefully placed a wooden cross like the one the old man had worn around his neck. And, as he said goodbye, his tears mixed with the warm rain, and he found it difficult to speak. “Goodbye, Boater. I'm sorry it ended like this, you deserved much, much better. But they made a mistake, Boater. They left me alive. And thanks to you, I'm a hunter now. So I'll find them, Boater. And when I do I'll kill them.”
PART TWO
Hunter
Chapter Seven
As he combed the ruins of the lodge Renn's anger burned with a flame that provided no warmth. He turned up some salvageable equipment, plus quite a bit of useful information. For example, by examining footprints and garbage the killers had left behind, Renn deduced that five men participated in Boater's murder. It didn't take a genius to figure out who they were, Cyclops, Blaster, Knife, Trap, and Scuz.
A walk along the bank revealed that two boats, both smaller than Fred, had been run aground and pulled up onto the mud. Both had left distinctive marks. One had a sharp keel which left a four-inch wide groove in the mud, while the other had a pointed bow, which made a triangular indentation in the soft bank.
Renn also found ample evidence that one of the five men was badly wounded. First there was the blood stain he'd found earlier, plus numerous blood-soaked bandages he'd found laying around in the garbage. From the size and shape of the bandages, he deduced a leg or upper-arm wound, possibly involving a major vein or artery. Nothing less would account for the volume of blood the wounded man had lost.
So, as Renn took one last look at the smoking ruins, and the newly dug grave beyond, he sent Boater one last thought. “Rest easy old friend. They won't get far.”
Renn checked his map as he guided Fred out into the main channel. With loot to sell, and a wounded man to care for, Cyclops and his gang would head straight for town. Both their boats were a lot smaller than Fred, and Renn was pretty sure that only one was equipped with an engine, which meant the second was not only loaded with stolen skins, but was probably under tow as well. That might slow them just enough. He grinned at the thought as he opened Fred's throttle, and plowed up-channel.
As the hours passed, the sound of Fred's engine became an endless drone in Renn's ears, and his legs ached from standing. His eyes burned from scanning the monotonous green of the jungle and his nerves were stretched wire tight. Each side channel and clump of vegetation seemed to pose a threat. What if Cyclops had prepared an ambush? He'd asked himself that same question countless times, and each time he'd given himself the same answer. If there's an ambush ahead, then I'm dead meat. But if I slow down and get cautious, I'll never catch them. Besides, chances are they don't know about me, or if they do, figure I don't count. They've got a full load of skins to sell, plus a wounded man to care for, so there's damned little chance of an ambush.
Renn liked that answer, and always felt better after listening to it. But before long the feeling of well-being it brought began to fade away, doubts crept back in, and the whole cycle started over.
He slowed down as dusk approached, cutting the engine every now and then to listen and watch the horizon for signs of smoke. On Swamp nobody did any serious traveling at night. It was too easy to get lost in the maze of channels and bays. So Cyclops and his men would camp for the night. Renn knew there wasn't much chance he'd catch up to them on the first night out. Besides, he needed a safe moorage for himself, and knew he wouldn't find one going full out.
Even so, Renn almost missed the thin smear of black against the lavender sky. Smoke! Cutting the engine he allowed Fred to coast into shore. Quickly wrapping the bow line around the nearest tree, Renn checked his blast rifle, ran a hand over his other weapons, and slipped into the jungle.
He moved without conscious thought. Six swift steps from one piece of cover to the next, pause, listen, smell, look, and repeat. A game trail ran in the general direction of the smoke. Stay away from it. Trails attract trip wires, traps, and ambushes. Watch your back trail, watch the trees above, watch for things which shouldn't be there. An empty booze container! One of Boater's! Slow now ... there's a clearing just ahead ... damn the fading light. Circle left. Still another booze bottle. An unobstructed view of the clearing. Empty. Last night's camp.
Checking along the river, Renn quickly found the telltale groove left by the first boat's keel, and saw where the other boat's pointed bow had cut into the soft mud of the bank. They were
gone but he'd cut their lead. Stepping into the clearing, he used a small flashlight to check their garbage. A booze bottle, some empty meal paks, and yes, some bloody bandages. So the wounded man was still alive, and still slowing them down. Good. He carefully smothered the fire lest the sight or smell of smoke attract more visitors, took one last look around, and faded into the jungle.
After making his way back to the boat, Renn prepared a simple meal in Fred's blacked out cabin, and got ready for bed. Then, just prior to retiring, he scattered a thin layer of gravel over all the decks. If someone tried to board during the night the crunching sound would wake him. Another one of Boater's little tricks. Then he ducked below, checked his hand blaster, and stretched out on his bunk. It felt heavenly. Seconds later, Renn was asleep.
The night passed without incident and Renn was up bright and early the next morning. He ate a cold breakfast, swept up the gravel, and dumped it into the bucket reserved for that purpose. Then he started the engine and got under way.
The second day passed much like the first. An endless ordeal of physical strain, unrelieved monotony, and cyclical fear. Twice he spotted places where his prey had stopped for a meal, and twice he pulled in to investigate. There was always a lot of garbage laying around. This surprised him at first, since it made them so easy to follow, but apparently Cyclops and his companions were so used to hunting, they couldn't conceive of being hunted themselves. Renn smiled. So much the better.
The second time he stopped Renn was able to add one more piece of information to his growing list. As usual there were bandages among the other garbage, and as usual they were bloody, but this time there was something new, a discoloration, and a very bad smell to go with it. A smell like pus. And pus means infection. The wounded man was getting worse.
As Renn jumped back aboard Fred, he began to worry. What if Cyclops left the wounded man behind? The possibility that Cyclops was the wounded man never even occurred to him. Renn somehow knew the one-eyed man was untouched. So, what if Cyclops left the wounded man behind to make better time, and reached Payout first? It would blow his plan out of the water. Five to one odds were bad enough in the swamp, but to face them in town, where the fire probably had friends and allies, well, that seemed suicidal. So everything depended on at least thinning them out a bit before they reached town. With a renewed sense of urgency Renn cast off and restarted the engine.
Prison Planet Page 9
