Norm was on top of the one-eyed warrior before he even had time to pull up his SIG-Sauer and end the madness in human form, on him all hot and bothered and quick, faster than any mutie or man could be. The angry killer wrapped his arms around Ryan’s lower body and legs and shoved forward, shoved as hard as he could.
Ryan’s hand was slick with sweat and blood, and before he could bring his panga up for a killing blow, he lost his grip on the blade’s handle, and the long knife went skittering away across the pebble-strewed tile of Freedom’s flooring.
“Fuck this. Time to end it,” J.B. said, unlimbering his shotgun.
“Hold up. The way that freak is twisting around, you might hit Ryan,” Krysty replied. “Especially with a scattergun.”
“Give me your pistol, then.” Krysty shook her head. “Just hold off, J.B. until they’re farther apart. Stupe isn’t even armed.”
Ryan stumbled back, still trying to stay on his feet. He put his hands together, feeling the fingers interlace and lock together, then he brought them down hard as a unified whole on his adversary’s back. He did this once, twice, breaking the man’s grip on his legs. Ryan went back a step, waiting and watching intently as his foe reached down for one of his own pants-covered ankles.
Ryan guessed the scarred man was going for a hidden blade or small-caliber pistol, so he lashed out with a booted foot and caught Lester in the exposed side of the throat.
The force of the kick sent the air wheezing out of the smaller man, and Ryan could only guess at the sensation of multicolored explosion of agony, but he didn’t know his enemy’s ability to take pain. The disfigured man channeled the suffering, used it to make his perceptions bright and clear. For a man whose entire head was once ablaze, a kick to the throat was like a lover’s kiss.
Ryan was ready for Lester as he came lunging back up, his shoulder slamming the one-eyed man in the chest, making his ribs throb and ache. Lester’s arms were slithering around him, locking behind his back as the force of the charge sent the two of them falling backward.
The one-eyed man’s first impulse was to slam his hands against the unprotected sides of Lester’s scabbed head, boxing his ears, until it dawned on Ryan the man had no ears. Second choice in a close fight such as this was to go for the eyes.
Ryan locked his thumbs into the man’s eye sockets and pressed. Ability to absorb pain or not, this move brought forth a keening wail of agony. Lester tried to bite off the sensations of having his already damaged eyes gouged out and instead sunk his teeth into his enemy’s right wrist, breaking the skin and causing streamers of coppery-tasting blood to spurt out. However, fear of being blinded outweighed his ability to throw away the pain and caused him to release his grip on Ryan and go reeling backward.
Krysty’s blaster fired four times, each bullet finding a secure home in Lester’s chest cavity. The self-styled leader of the Winston stickies tumbled backward and moved no more.
“Nice shooting,” Morgan remarked.
The other stickies, seeing their leader fall, eased up on their attack, choosing instead to follow their own whims.
“They’re easing off,” Morgan stated. “Time for us to ease off, too, I think.”
“Where the hell are you going?” Ryan asked.
Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “Freedom’s lost, Cawdor, but I’m still in debt for your assist in saving my hide. Lay down some covering fire and tell your group to follow me. There’s a way out that should lead you away from any stickies until you’re safe on the other end of the back parking lot.”
Ryan didn’t argue. “Dean, follow Morgan! Rest of you pick up after Dean, one by one. Me and J.B. will lay down covering fire and bring up the rear.”
Most of the remaining stickies weren’t interested in fighting against Ryan and J.B.’s marksmanship, and chose either to stagger back outside or turn and go down the main aisle of the devastated mall interior.