James Axler – Cold Asylum

It was the sort of situation that Ryan particularly hated.

A standoff.

It would be easy enough to butcher the gang where it stood. A burst of fire from J.B.’s Uzi alone would put half of them down on the concrete.

Yet Ryan had never been a believer in slaughter for slaughter’s sake. All he really wanted to do was to try to track down Doc Tanner, whether he was ahead or behind them, then get them all out of the redoubt to explore the locality.

But he had no way of knowing just how many of the cannies there might be infesting the complex.

“We could go back to the elevator and try one of the other passages,” J.B. suggested, showing that he was thinking along the same lines at Ryan.

“Looks best option.”

“What about Doc?” Krysty shouted, raising her voice as the noise from the muties swelled suddenly to almost deafening proportions.

“Don’t know. What time did you all come through?”

“Me and Dean together at nine, more or less on the hour. Michael came through twenty minutes later.”

Ryan nodded. “That’s the interval. I was here at eight. J.B. twenty minutes after that, then Mildred the same period after him. So Doc has to be either a little way ahead of us, or mebbe following on.”

The dull explosion of the blaster roiled up the corridor behind them.

The Armorer spun. “The Le Mat,” he yelled.

“He’s behind us.” Ryan made an instant calculation, trying to determine the balance of terror. “Krysty, come with me. Rest stay here.”

EVEN AS HE FIRED the pistol, feeling it buck against his wrist, Doc’s mind wasn’t totally on his imminent demise at the hands of the muties.

Part of him was distracted and amused by the similarity between the hideous face of the leading attacker and the ghastly appearance of Lon Chancy in the flickering old vid of the Phantom of the Opera , the same staring bloodshot eyes and stretched rictus of a nightmare leer.

The face disappeared into a spray of flesh, bone and splattered brains as the .63-caliber shotgun round struck it though the middle of the porcine nose.

It bought Doc a few moments more of life, the effect of the single shot paralyzing the huddle of muties, silencing their continual cries of hatred. There was just barely enough time to stick the Le Mat back into its holster and ready himself, the rapier on guard. “We who are about to die salute you!'” he shouted, flourishing the sword into a hissing circle of polished steel. “I will rejoin you, Emily, my dear!”

Ryan, sprinting toward the elevator, heard Doc’s defiant voice. He rounded the corner with the sound of Krysty’s boots clattering at his heels and saw the murderous mob, all with their backs turned, oblivious to his arrival.

His first impression was of the scarlet mist that dappled the heads and shoulders of the muties, as well as spraying the ceiling and walls of the elevator.

Boots slipping a little on the cold stone, Ryan skidded to a halt ten yards from the mob, standing with feet spread, his 9 mm SIG-Sauer pointing like the flaming sword of the angel of vengeance.

Krysty stopped at his side, steadying her own 5-shot .38.

He began to shoot a heartbeat before her.

Doc was awash with sweat, his hand and right sleeve sodden with spilled blood. It had been a lifetime since he’d been coached by Adelmo Sicilio at the Boston Athletic Club in the fine points of epee, foil and saber, and he had been so much younger then.

His arm was exhausted.

The muties hardly even tried to parry his repeated lunges, and three more were down on the floor, being trampled on by their fellows. One was choking, pink froth bubbling from the narrow wound in his chest.

Despite all Doc’s endeavors, they still pressed forward against him, knives flailing as they tried to peck at him. Their efforts were so clumsy that he noticed several had cuts on hands and arms from the weapons of others.

But none of that counted.

When he heard the snap of gunfire, Doc could hardly believe it, not until the press of bodies seemed to weaken, heads turning to stare behind them.