through ligaments, cartilage and the cervical vertebrae, taking what was left of
the head off the trunk in an eruptive, scarlet spray.
The creature slumped off the tall man, the complete disruption of its central
nervous system causing it to loosen its gluelike grip. It fell away, sideways, a
lump of unmotivated meat.
The man shoved the body away from him, breathing harshly. He got to his feet,
Krysty saw by the glaring light of the fire that over his left eye was a black
eye patch. A long scar throbbed whitely from the corner of his right eye to his
mouth. Two red patches on his cheeks glistened where the mutated being’s finger
pads had slapped home, exerting their tremendous sucking power. His hair was
raven black, thickly curled.
He stared at her, suddenly grinned.
“Timely. Thanks.”
She held the SMG limply in her right hand, feeling utterly drained. She couldn’t
say a word, felt as though anything she did say would come out as an incoherent
gabble. Every dull ache in her body became a throb; her limbs, her head, her
womb, her chest. The man’s face blurred, and it seemed to be falling toward her.
Or was she falling toward it?
Strong hands caught her, held her gently.
He said, “You don’t look as though you’ve been having a very good time.”
She found herself with her face buried in the exposed fur lining of his black
parka, where it was open at the zipper. It was warm and soft, its odor not
unpleasant. She felt she could stay there for quite a while, and then thought,
Oh, Mother-god!
She jerked her head away.
“The fire. Explosives. This place. Armory.”
The tall man looked startled. He grabbed an arm, pulled her into the cooler air
outside. Her eyes took in two small armored buggies, one of which was firing
indiscriminately at cabins and huts. The nearest buggy had a side door open and
the tall, dark-haired man hustled her toward it. Faces peered out at her, and
she was suddenly aware that she was half-naked. The tall man had picked up his
weapon and was holding it one-handed, butt into the side of his gut, his other
arm around her shoulders. As they neared the buggy he lifted the rifle and waved
it, and the farther buggy ceased firing.
He said to her, “We couldn’t find anyone else, although we could’ve missed…”
“I’m the only one,” she said. “The only one left.”
“Okay. Up with you.”
He pushed her inside the door and as she ducked her head, she heard the other
buggy roar into a tire-shredding turn before hurtling off toward the outskirts
of the camp. The man banged the door shut.
“Abe!” he yelled. “Get us out of here! That barn’s full of explosives.”
It was cramped. The rear of the buggy seemed packed with armed men, and there
was a strong smell of sweat and hot oil. There were two steps up to the narrow
doorway that led out to the driver’s area, which looked to be equally cramped.
The driver revved the bus, swung the wheel. Krysty glimpsed the storehouse with
flames roaring around the roof, sparks jetting high.
“Trade this for one of your grenades… ?”
A fat man with a stubbled face was grinning at her, holding out a flask. She was
conscious that the weight of the grenade in the upper pocket of her jump suit
had caused the torn material to sag away, exposing her right breast. She closed
her eyes, chuckled tiredly, then thought about which was the priority, thirst or
modesty? She took the flask, put the neck to her teeth and took a hefty slug.
Neat brandy. She spluttered, most of the raw spirit sluicing down her throat and
warming and fortifying her. She took another slug of the brandy and handed it
and the grenade to the fat man, smiling gratefully. Then she pulled her jump
suit together.
“Always the loser, Finnegan!” shouted someone from the rear.
The fat man grinned like a kid and shrugged, then nearly fell off his seat as
the buggy bucked forward, jolting along on its shocks as though smacked by a