JAMES AXLER. Homeward Bound

“Bluffing, Harvey.”

The obese figure clambered clumsily onto the parapet, waving down to the watching, motionless boars. “See, my pets,” he called. “I shall shoot this one-eyed renegade from the shadows and then you shall have his corpse for food.”

Ryan stood where he was, watching Harvey’s insane posturing. The knife was nicely balanced, and the range was short enough, but he wanted to feel his brother sweat as the blade sliced open the soft flesh and drew out his life.

Somewhere above them they both heard the sound of feet and a voice calling out. “My sec men, brother.” Harvey Cawdor beamed.

“No. Fireblast! Can’t you fucking see the truth, Harvey? It’s done and finished. Your power’s gone. The ville’s empty. They’ve all gone. There’s nothing left for you.”

“Nothing left?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is, Ryan. There’s this!”

The little gun flashed, and Ryan staggered back, feel-ing the fiery pain in his left shoulder. Even a small-caliber gun like the .22 packed enough of a punch to knock a man off-balance. Harvey laughed delightedly, seeing blood flowing on the jerkin.

“And again, brother,” he said.

Ryan threw the hunting dagger underhand, seeing the lamplight catch the blade as it spun in the fetid air. De-

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spite his own wound, Ryan’s aim with the knife was deadly accurate.

It thunked home where Harvey’s rippling chins melted down into the top of his chest, burying itself deep in the soft flesh. Harvey Cawdor squeaked in shock, dropping the Colt from numbed fingers, watching as it fell into the pit. He leaned forward, swaying, his vast bulk making it hard for him to keep his balance on the shallow wall.

“May you die of nuke rot,” he said in a reasonable, conversational sort of voice.

Then, as though he’d given up on the struggle, he fell heavily into the pit, landing with the clear crack of breaking bones.

Ryan, holding his shoulder, feeling that it was only a minor wound, looked down into the semidarkness. His hands told him that the bullet had gone clear through without hitting the scapula or the collarbone. He felt dizzy for a moment, but knew he was going to be all right.

Below him the last rites were swift and deadly for Harvey Cawdor.

Both ankles broken by his fall, the gross man lay there on his back like some obscene insect, his rich cloak spread around him in the straw. His mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came from it. One hand touched the taped hilt of the knife where it protruded from his chest, but Harvey made no attempt to withdraw it. The great boars had eased away from the thing that had come crashing down into their pit, but now they were gathering cour-age, shuffling nearer, snouts lowered, jaws gaping.

Ryan watched, leaning on the wall, flexing the fingers of his left hand to make sure the bullet hadn’t severed any ligaments or tendons on its way through. Apart from a dull ache, it didn’t feel too bad.

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One of the great brooding heads dipped, and the teeth closed on Harvey Cawdor’s right leg between knee and ankle. There was the savage crunch of gnawed bone, and the man screamed, a terrified cry of gut-deep anguish.

“Brother… help me!”

The sudden noise disturbed the rest of the tusked mon-sters, and they all seemed to attack at once. The bloated body vanished under the bristled boars, and the last scream was muted and silenced, ending in a dreadful gagging, bubbling noise. Then there was only the grind-ing of teeth and the rending of meat.

Ryan straightened and heard the voice from behind him, a dull, flat voice that seemed bereft of any life.

“Now you can join your brother, Ryan. Jump in after him.”

He turned and looked into the meltwater eyes of Lady Rachel Cawdor. She was holding the lethal dart gun that had once belonged to her son, and it was aimed at Ryan’s stomach.

Chapter Thirty-Five

the dart guns had originally been manufactured by an armament firm with government contacts operating out of a guarded sec complex east of Butte, Montana. Not many of them were still around. Ryan had only seen a dozen or so in his life, mostly out west in the deserts and lagoons of what had once been called California.

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