Jak caught the bright, white glint of sun on steel and reacted. He fired again before the knife thrower could snap his arm forward. The blade dropped and the thrower crumpled, folding in around the final beat of his shredded heart.
The last shotand its deadly effectmade the remaining cannies abandon their meal. To Jak, some of the chillers seemed much more lively than others. Surprisingly lively. Before the teenager could fire again, the lively ones took off, scattering in all directions like a clutch of frightened spiders. The not-so-lively ones had difficulty slipping into the willows, thanks to the violent tremors that seized their arms and legs. Three of these horrid stumblers lurched toward Jak with clubs raised, mindless of his death-spitting Python. Gruesome leers twisted their blood-daubed faces, lips drawn and tight on one side, drooping on the other; one eye bugging out, the other narrowed to a slit.
Rather than waste ammo on them, Jak shifted the revolver to his left hand. A flat-black leaf-bladed throwing knife appeared like magic between his fingers, then vanished in a blur. Like magic, the short metal handle of the knife reappeared in the side of a cannie’s neck. It was a carotid hit. Blood jetted through fingers clawing futilely at the deeply buried blade, but there was no way to stop the spurting flow. Before the second attacker could take another step, Jak put a black-steel thorn through his right eye to the hilt. The cannie fell to the sand in a shivering, shuddering fit. The third stumbler got the same treatment as the first, but he didn’t try to pull the blade free of the arteries in his throat. As if grateful that the horror of his life had finally come to an end, he collapsed and died quietly, taking a slow, almost dignified seat beside the stand of willows before he slumped onto the sand.
Finding himself alone in the stream channel, Jak stepped over to the remains of Benjy’s carcass. The dirt farmer’s face was stripped to the skull, his jaws gaping in a tongueless, silent scream. The cannies had taken everything from him. His life. His flesh. His scattergun and ammo. His boots, belt and backpack. Left to themselves for a few more minutes, and they would have sucked the marrow from his bones. Out of sight, the scattered cannies would regroup quickly, and when they realized he was on his own, they would come for him. Jak opened the Python’s cylinder and dumped the three empties beside Benjy’s corpse. After thumbing in live rounds, he snapped the cylinder shut and set about retrieving his knives.
The teenager had just freed the blade from the dead cannie’s eye socket, using a boot sole on the forehead for leverage, when he heard fast-approaching footfalls coming his way. Wiping the knife in the sand before replacing it up his sleeve, he moved quickly to cover.
WHEN RYAN ROUNDED a turn in the channel and saw the patch of churned-up, bloody sand just ahead, he waved for the others to halt. “Benjy?” Uda gasped.
Ryan tried to keep her from rushing forward, but she was so determined to get past him that he couldn’t stop her without risking injury to her or the baby. She slipped under his outstretched arm, but ran only a few steps more, stopping well short of the body that lay twisted on the ground.
Uda’s eyes went wide with shock. “No, no, it can’t be” she moaned, drawing the baby more tightly to her breast.
As soundless as a shadow, Jak stepped from the concealment of the tree line, his blaster lowered.
“Is,” he said flatly.
A look passed between Jak and Uda, and she knew in an instant that he was telling her the truth. She let out a soft little cry and sank to her knees in the sand.
“How many?” Ryan asked the albino teen.
“Eighteen left. Mebbe more.”
The new widow’s grieving had to wait. Death for all was very close.
“Everybody into the willows,” Ryan said as he helped Uda to her feet. He took hold of her shoulder and guided her ahead of him. “Fan out,” he told the others. “We need a perimeter.”