James Axler – Judas Strike

Reaching the intersection, the companions found the tunnel went in both directions for a good distance, the walls lined with doors. Most were unlocked and led to sleeping quarters for families, empty now. A few were locked, and contained clothing from the prisoners, one room packed to the ceiling with assorted boots. But no weapons.

Every corridor ended in another intersection, each branching out into more corridors and side passages. Closed doors lined the bamboo walls, and they had to check each one before risking to leave it behind them. It was slow going, and they worried about the cannies preparing another trap. The gray men were smart and ruthless, a dangerous combination.

“Place is a bastard maze,” Ryan growled, using a pencil stub to draw a map of the tunnel on a piece of the lighthouse journal. He had kept the page because it showed the strange symbol from the gateway. He had hoped to ask some of the locals to see if they knew what it was. Now he simply needed it as paper. No way he was going to let them get lost down here for the cannies to trap and slowly starve them into submission. He’d rather take a round than go into a stew pot.

Another bit of rag led them to the left of an intersection. This corridor was dark, all of the wall lamps extinguished. Ryan nudged J.B. and motioned behind them. The Armorer nodded and passed the warning onto Jak. He silently agreed, then started down the darkened corridor as if unaware they were walking directly into a trap.

Almost at once, there came the slamming of a door, followed by the barks and howls of dogs. In unison, the three men turned and opened fire at the floor, the fusillade of rounds tearing the hounds to pieces, blowing away ears, legs and eyes. Only a large bitch managed to reach the men, bleeding but still alive. J.B. kicked its head into the wall, Jak used the butt of the M-16 to smash its jaw and Ryan buried a blade into its spine. Still snarling, the beast dropped and lay there heaving for breath, crippled but not dead.

“Couple more of those and we would have been on the last train west,” Ryan stated, reloading the SIG-Sauer.

“Tough like hellhound,” Jak said, checking the clip on the rapidfire.

“What’s that?” J.B. asked.

“Big mutie in bayou. Tough kill.”

J.B. pulled the clip and checked inside. “Ten left,” he announced, slamming it back into the breech.

“Out,” Jak said, dropping the rapidfire to draw his .357 Magnum pistol.

“See big black dog, shoot in eyes,” he said cryptically, cocking the hammer with a callused thumb. “Just eyes. Not stop firing till say.”

Using their butane lighters, they lit the lamps along the corridor but stopped when they found a piece of rag caught between a door and the jamb. J.B. checked for boobies, while Ryan and Jak stood guard. When satisfied it was safe, J.B. picked the old lock and got out of the way. Then Ryan kicked the door open without entering. Taking a lamp from the wall, he thrust it into the darkness. Dirty human faces stared back. People were sitting on the floor, and one of them stood to walk toward the light, a hand covering her face.

“You okay?” Ryan asked, looking her over for injuries that might slow her. The longer they stayed down here, the more time the cannies had to regroup. Time wasn’t on their side.

“Ryan? You came!” Ann cried, then threw herself at the man, weeping uncontrollably.

Holding her by the shoulders, Ryan pushed the woman away and slapped her hard across the face. She recoiled in shock.

“Stay focused if you want to live,” Ryan snapped. “We’re up to our ass in dreck and low on ammo. Where’s the ship?”

Ann blinked in confusion. “What?”

He squeezed her arm. Pain always made a person more aware. “Said you know where a ship was to be found. Tell me and we all leave together.”

“There is—” Ann hiccuped with nerves and tried again “—there’s a ville, on the far side of the island, past the Black Mountains. It’s a port. Lots of ships dock there.”