James Axler – Stoneface

He and the warrior fell and rolled clear of the brush, down a slight incline and onto soft grass at the bank of the creek. The Sioux had lost his knife, and his right arm locked in a death grip around Ryan’s neck, while the fingers of his free hand were pressing viciously against his larynx.

Ryan broke the hold by driving a powerful blow into the Indian’s midriff with his elbow. The warrior grunted, and Ryan squirmed free and struggled to his feet. He clubbed down with the barrel of his blaster, striking the man between the shoulder blades.

From a kneeling position, the Sioux lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Ryan’s legs. The one-eyed man fell forward, dropping the SIG-Sauer and toppling over the warrior. He managed to grasp the Indian by the hair and haul him into the stream with him. Both of them pitched into the water with a great splash.

The creek was shallow, barely waist deep, and the water was shockingly cold, but it flushed the burning effects of the gas from Ryan’s eye and nostrils. The two men surfaced at the same time, gasping and blowing like whales. Ryan’s closed left hand slammed into his adversary’s jaw and knocked him off balance. He fell, disappearing beneath the surface.

The Indian clawed his way along the pebble-strewn bottom of the creek, using the gentle current as impetus to push him out of harm’s way, but Ryan grabbed the Sioux by the back of the neck. He tried to rise, but Ryan held him down, using all of his upper body strength. The warrior heaved and kicked, thrashing the water into white froth.

Finally his struggles ceased. Ryan raised the man’s head clear of the water and saw that his war paint had been washed from his face. He recognized the sharp, angular features of Touch-the-Sky, aka Joe. The lean-muscled Indian wasn’t dead, though he was three-quarters drowned, his hair plastered flat to his head and shoulders, eagle feathers drooping and bedraggled.

Ryan allowed him to cough the water from his lungs and sneeze it from his sinus passages. The Sioux was in no shape to continue fighting. Ryan slogged up the creek bank, hauling Joe with him. He dumped the coughing man onto the grass, noticing as he did so that Joe bore two superficial bullet wounds, a blood-oozing hole in the upper thigh and a red-edged furrow across the small of his back.

After a few moments of groping, Ryan retrieved his blaster, ejected the spent clip and reloaded with bullets taken from his cartridge belt. By the time he had accomplished that, Joe was sitting up, inhaling shuddery breaths, his jet black eyes narrowed and seething with hatred.

“Kill me, wasicun ,” he hissed, sounding half-strangled. “I deserve it for failing to kill you when I first saw you.”

“Someone has already expressed the same opinion about you,” Ryan said. “I’m not going to chill you unless you force me.”

There was a sudden, surprised intake of breath, and Joe demanded, “Aren’t you with Hellstrom and his psychotics?”

“We’re with them, but we’re not of them. Get me?”

Joe opened his mouth to answer, but Krysty’s voice, shouting Ryan’s name, cut him off. She sounded very worried and hoarse, and her next call terminated in a coughing spasm.

Gesturing with the pistol, Ryan said, “Take off.”

“What will you tell the others?”

“That you got away from me. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Joe didn’t respond. He rose to a crouch and soundlessly merged with the darkness. Ryan climbed back up the slope and called to Krysty. She ran to him, green eyes clouded by worry and gas-induced tears. She squeezed his arms and touched his face. Fleur marched close behind her.

“You’re wet,” Krysty said. “You’re not hurt, not wounded?”

“No. The Indian got away when we hit the creek. He swam underwater, I think.”

“You think?” Fleur repeated suspiciously. “That was Touch-the-Sky himself! You didn’t make sure?”

Ryan stared at her stonily. “Normally I would have, except that I emptied my blaster saving your life.”

Fleur scowled, then wheeled away, taking long strides back to the campsite. Krysty and Ryan followed her. The area looked like an open-air charnel house, given an added unearthly atmosphere by the planes of drifting chemical fog. The gas had dissipated to some extent, but the survivors of the battle all looked and sounded miserable.