James Axler – Rat King

storming toward him.

“Sir?”

“Don’t you ever pay attention when you’re at your post, soldier? What does the

good book say, son? Vigilance is the sacred duty of the Sons of Sam. If the old

fart is dying, then the Gen will have the both of us on a fuckin’ charge. And

I’m not patrolling the rad-blast wastes for a month just because you’re a

fuckwit.”

“Sir,” the soldier replied uncertainly to the stream of vitriol, “but what is

it, sir?”

Murphy was carrying a Heckler & Koch, which he cranked up level with the door.

“Monitor, son,” he said shortly. “The old bastard is writhing on his bed and the

medic isn’t getting far. Might have a better idea if the friggin’ sound worked

properly, but all I can make out is friggin’ static. If the old fart dies, I’m

dead meat, and without anyone to succeed me yet. Open the bastard door, boy.”

“Sir…”

Leveling his Uzi, safety off, the guard punched the lock code into the door and

turned the handle. He flung the door in and adopted a combat stance, rapidly

counting the figures standing in front of him.

Six…and the old man was lying on one of the beds, moaning softly and clutching

his guts. Damn, why hadn’t he heard anything? He didn’t want Murphy on his back.

Seeing that all of the captives were in plain sight, Murphy rushed into the

room, sweeping his blaster in an arc to cover them.

“Okay, what’s going on here? What’s the matter with Tanner?” he asked, barely

keeping the panic from his voice.

Mildred turned slowly from where she had been leaning over Doc. “Appendix, I

think. Unless you have the right medical facilities and allow me to operate

immediately, then he’ll probably die.”

Murphy focused on the last three words and panicked.

“The hell you’ll operate,” he shouted. “We’ve got our own medics. Think we’ll

trust some outsider?”

Ryan shrugged. “Okay, you get one of your inbred muties to do it and kill Doc

off. Doesn’t bother me.”

Murphy opened his mouth to snap back a sarcastic answer, then considered his

options.

“Let me take a look at him,” he said, the nervousness now apparent in his voice.

The sec chiefs indecision infected the guard standing in the doorway. Twitching

slightly, and training his blaster on the largest grouping of prisoners—the trio

of Krysty, J.B. and Dean, who stood to the left of the bed—the guard ignored

Jak.

An upbringing in the swamps hunting nervous and sensitive wildlife had given Jak

the ability to move without seeming to do so.

Murphy’s attention was locked on the bed, where Ryan and Mildred stood over Doc.

The guard had his attention focused on the trio clustered to the left-hand side

of the room. The forgotten silent albino teen glided around the room until he

was just behind the guard, in the man’s blind spot.

Ironically it was the sudden awareness of something being out of place that made

him look around.

Too late. The plates from their last meal were still piled on a plastic tray,

with the plastic cutlery heaped beside them. Remnants of the inedible meal still

dirtied the surface of the plates. Pieces of stringy meat from an indeterminate

animal, covered in a tasteless goo that passed for a sauce, were hard and stuck

fast on the surface of the plate that Jak picked from the tray and in one fluid

motion flicked toward the guard.

The albino was small and wiry, but years of practice with his knives had given

him an incredible strength and dexterity in his wrists. He also had an unerring

eye for distance, even with his vision reduced by his injuries. Instinctively he

weighed the plate in his hand and directed it with the required amount of force.

It may only have been made of plastic, and had an edge that was blunt, but it

was also a thin plate. Tilted to a forty-five-degree angle and propelled at

great speed, it had no problem in crushing the guard’s septum as it hit him on

the bridge of his nose. Jak was about six inches shorter than the guard, and had

also crouched slightly when throwing the plate. The upward trajectory drove the