To his left, Ryan was sure he could make out a rippling noise, like the river lapping on stone. Unable to see either bank, it was impossible to have any idea of where they were in the treacherous currents as they shifted and changed.
The hand that erupted from the water and gripped his left wrist had no nails on its grotesquely long fingers, fin-gers that had five joints and were webbed halfway along their length. The skin was creased, hanging at the wrist in folds. The touch was cold and slippery, but as tight as a machine wrench.
The face emerging from behind the pincering hand was worse than anything from the deeps of a jolt-spawned nightmare. The jaw protruded eighteen inches beyond the gaping holes of the nostrils. There was no forehead, the naked bones of the skull angling back in pitted ridges. The ears were tiny, pinned flat to the side of the hairless head. The eyes were narrow, protected by blinking hoods of leathery tissue. Even in that insipid light, the eyes burned
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with a ferocious and demonic glare-less than a foot from Ryan’s own eyes.
And the clashing teeth! Row upon row of them, over-lapping, sharp fangs that grated on yellow stumps far-ther back in that wolfish thrusting jaw. The breath was fetid, like an opened grave, and it nearly choked Ryan.
The creature had come up under the bow of the raft in total silence, its attack so stealthy that none of the others had even noticed that Ryan’s life was under a desperate threat.
With his left hand pinioned and lying on his right side, Ryan wasn’t able to get at either the blaster or the long panga.
The mutie grabbed at the logs with its other hand, bracing itself to lunge at Ryan with its fearsome jaw. Life was a bare handful of heartbeats.
Instead of pulling back, Ryan jabbed his head toward the monstrosity, butting it on the end of the snout with his own forehead. It was a jarring blow. The grip relaxed for a moment, and Ryan was able to throw himself to his side, freeing his right hand. He clawed across for the hilt of the panga, feeling it slide free from the sheath in a whisper of death.
Jak Lauren had spotted the struggling figures and yelled to the others. But help would be too little and too late. Salvation lay in the eighteen inches of honed steel.
The teeth were slashing in at him, and Ryan punched with the heel of his hand, feeling blood gush as the jag-ged fangs caught the side of his wrist. But the maneuver bought him another precious second, time to swing the panga. He tensed his arm and shoulder, putting all of his power and weight into the downswing.
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Instead of aiming at the dripping skull, he slashed at the lean, muscular arm as it rested across the hewn timbers of the raft.
The impact powered clean to his shoulder, and he felt the panga hack through the flesh and bone, burying itself in the wood. The tight fingers on Ryan’s own wrist slack-ened, and he was able to roll free, tugging at the blade as he fell back.
The mutie gave a hissing, bubbling cry of pain, still trying with a manic ferocity of purpose to claw its way onto the raft. Its severed hand wriggled and jerked with an obscene life of its own. Even as Ryan looked at it, the clawing hand toppled over the edge and vanished into the Hudson.
“I’ve got it!” J.B. shouted, warning Ryan to drop down clear of his line of fire.
But Ryan Cawdor wasn’t about to do that. The sudden appearance of the horror had startled him, had fright-ened him. That didn’t happen very often, and the best way of shifting the memory of the chilling, paralyzing fear was to destroy the mutie with his own hands.
“Get down!” Krysty shrieked, appalled at the hideous monster that was now aboard their craft. Blood was coming from the stump of its wrist, but it oozed rather than gushed in sticky gobs of dull brown ichor.
Feeling carefully for balance on the shifting timbers, Ryan readied himself. Feinting at the creature’s legs, he altered his aim and cut at the other arm. But the mutie was lightning quick, dodging so that the steel skittered off its reptilian skin, leaving a small gash in the flesh.