Dark Reckoning by James Axler

The eight big wheels spuming madly, frothing the water in their wake, the LAV headed for the nearby land.

Things below the surface of the lake were already fighting over the body of the sec man, tentacles lashing wildly as multiple muties engaged in mortal combat over the flesh. The scattered MRE packs floated away unnoticed, the waterproof wrapping reflecting the dim sunlight like golden flakes on a silvery pool.

As the LAV-25 sloshed onward, the officer sure hoped the other wag had escaped the storm without so many deaths. They were the last hope for the project, and he had already decided that if there was no dish at any of the three locations, well, they would just keep the wag and take off on their own. A man could make himself a baron with a fighting craft like this!

Then he threw a look at the radio speaker in the ceiling.

“Well, we survived,” Brandon said quickly. “All hail Baron Sheffield!”

The men noted what the officer was looking at and even the ones with broken bones cheered as heartily as they could. The baron wasn’t with them, but Sheffield was still very much in control of his troops.

“Sir, Johnson is aced,” a private reported from the rear of the vehicle.

The lieutenant glanced over a shoulder. “You’re the guy who closed the door, right?”

“Ah, yes, sir.”

“Then you’re the new driver. Take his shirt and blaster. When we hit the shore, strip the dead of boots and ammo, anything else we might need. When we reach the shore, toss them out.”

“We need to bandage the men, and should check the APC for damage, too,” the sec man suggested, yanking off the corpse’s gun belt and blaster. He could cut the hash marks off the dead man’s shirt later. The blaster was a lot more important.

“More to the right!” the sergeant shouted down. “That’s it, sir. Hold your course!”

“We’ll do both on land,” Brandon said gruffly. “But let the local animals attack the body as a diversion. Get me?”

“Yes, sir. Better them than us.”

“Words to live by,” the officer muttered under his breath, glancing at the silent radio speaker.

Chapter Eight

Charging through the stone columns, the companions headed for the slope that led to the redoubt. Weighted nets fell from the sky, landing everywhere. The muties were throwing blind, hoping for a catch, but the stalagmites blocked the nets and many simply wrapped harmlessly around the columns.

Reaching the base of the slope, J.B. turned and fired two rounds at the screaming mob. A runt fell sprawling, a dozen others behind him tripping over the corpse. But the rest arced around the pile of wiggling forms, many twirling slingshots at their sides.

A rock smashed on a column, the missile exploding apart from the impact. Doc recoiled, a bloody cut on his cheek.

“Bounders!” he shouted, and fired the LeMat.

The thundering blast of the Civil War weapon echoed wildly in the confines of the cavern. The runt with the sling flipped backward, a hole drilled completely through his chest. Slowing their advance, the other muties angrily shook their weapons and shouted. Then a dart of fire shot by overhead and impaled a runt. The others backed away quickly.

Glancing upslope, Ryan saw Krysty standing at the mouth of the tunnel struggling to reload the crossbow. Then he narrowed his eye and raised the SIG-Sauer, firing at the runts that were crawling spiderlike along the sheer wall of the cavern yards above the tunnel opening. He hit one, dislodging the mutie, and it fell silently to its death on the rocky floor. Another was only wounded and began to retreat, but the rest spread out and started to converge on the woman from every direction.

Loaded crossbow in hand, Krysty stuck her head out for a second and saw the runts coming her way. She shot at one, the arrow entering its neck all the way to the feathers. The little humanoid still crawled on for another yard before going limp and plummeting away.

“Molotovs!” Ryan shouted, drawing his panga, the long blade shining in the light of the silver moss.