Deadly Shores (44 page)

On they fought, endlessly it seemed, stabbing, hacking, slashing, shooting, climbing over corpses that sometimes came to life and had to be killed again. All of them were wounded, even Petey, who'd finally taken all he could stand and bolted for the rear, only to land on a dying Grik that feebly slashed him with its claws. He hissed and bit his assailant, then scampered and coasted away down the corridor screeching, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” There was firing behind them now; they could hear it, echoing up the passageway from the now-distant stairs, but there was no telling how long it might be before help arrived, or how many Grik might arrive first, fleeing from their friends. All they could do was keep fighting, keep moving forward.

Lawrence's bayonet got jammed. Unable to pull it clear, he let his rifle go and drew his cutlass. He didn't have the strength of his bigger adversaries, but made up for it with a more refined technique he'd learned in the Empire. He remained at a disadvantage, however, particularly against spears, and started taking more wounds. None were serious, but they became debilitating, and Laumer replaced him with one of the Marines. Horn's rifle lost its bayonet when the locking catch in the grip broke. He immediately reversed it and drove the Grik with savage butt strokes until the Springfield stock shattered completely. “Give me your weapon!” he shouted behind at the other 'Cat, but before he could take the rifle, a Grik spear pierced his side.

“Ah!” he grunted, and battered the Grik that stabbed him with his rifle barrel before slinging it at another. Then he pulled the spear from his side and drove it into a Grik trying to snake its sword past Silva's slashing cutlass. “Wow,” he said, his eyes going wide, and he sank to his knees atop a Grik corpse.

“You okay, Arnie?” Silva hollered aside, his breath coming in heaving gasps.

“Swell. Just a little woozy all of a sudden.”

Irvin fired past him until his slide locked, then grabbed him under the arms and pulled him back as Isak took his place. Isak was immediately, effortlessly slammed aside by a very large Grik. The last Marine skewered it and hurled it past the heap of bodies Silva had been building in the pause.

“I can do it, Dewy, damn yer stripy tail!” Isak snarled through broken lips.

“I ain't
Hewy
,” the 'Cat replied with a blink of humor. “The
other
one ain't Dewy!”

“I don't give a shit which one you ain't!” Isak retorted, gesturing with his Krag. “Goddamn it, we're almost
through
'em!”

It was true, or so it seemed. They'd advanced a lot farther up the spiraling passage than they'd realized, distracted by the all-consuming necessity of fighting and killing and surviving, and only a few live Grik now blocked their way. These were fresh, however, and refused to budge, while Irvin's party was all injured and exhausted beyond endurance. Even Silva's cutlass and bayonet were slow and clumsy now, and the fact that he wasn't yelling, swearing, or making any sound at all other than gasping for air was proof that he was spent. “Hewy” went down, an axe finding him between the neck and shoulder, and Isak got his wish. He returned to Silva's side. Lawrence tried to pick up the fallen Marine's rifle, but for some reason he couldn't seem to hold it. Irvin took it and stabbed past Silva, driving the bayonet into the belly of a Grik that screamed and pulled itself clear. Blood and entrails burst through the gash, and Isak stabbed it again.

“Can't . . . you . . . just . . . shoot . . . these . . . last'uns?” Silva managed, his chest heaving, as he clumsily blocked a hacking sword with his cutlass and thrust the '03 bayonet through his attacker's throat.

“I'm empty!” Laumer yelled in desperation.

“Take . . . mine!”

Laumer didn't understand. Then he realized that Silva still had magazines for
his
1911 on his belt! He'd been too busy fighting to reload his pistol. Isak bayoneted another Grik, hooting with relieved excitement, but a
bong
echoed in the hall and “Dewy” fell, his helmet dished by an axe. There was no telling if he was alive or not, but he was out. Silva brought his notched cutlass down across the back of the axe-wielder's neck, but shuddered when a Grik in front of him scored with a spear. He knocked it away, but then just stood there, swaying a little. Suddenly, there were only three Grik left, and they backed away, obviously stunned that so small a group could fight its way through so many. They were born fighters, and not about to quit, but clearly recognized it was time to reevaluate things. The one in the middle seemed to realize its most dangerous prey was weakening, however, and took a step forward, crouching to spring.

Irvin was already fumbling at Silva's pouches for his magazines, but he'd never get one out in time. “Aw hell,” Dennis grunted, pulling Linus Truelove's ornate flintlock pistol from his belt. Shakily, he pointed it at the Grik. The thing's eyes narrowed in realization and it leaped, but with a
clack-boom!
Silva shot it dead. “Always liked to save that one for somethin' . . . you know, kinda weird. But oh well,” he said, tossing the smoking pistol on a corpse and bending over to put his hands on his knees. “Ain't
you
got any bullets left, Isak?”

“Why, maybe I do.”

“Then you better shoot those other two before they eat your stupid head . . . 'cause I sure can't stop 'em.”

Stunned by such an admission, Isak opened his loading gate and dropped his last five rounds in the magazine. The two remaining Grik charged.

Gunny Horn's pistol barked four times, and both Grik sprawled at Isak's feet. With trembling fingers, Isak finished chambering a round and looked at the China Marine, leaning against the wall, his Baalkpan Arsenal 1911 supported by both hands. Slowly, Horn slid to the floor, looking at the Colt copy. “Got so busy, I forgot I even had this thing till you told Mr. Laumer to take your magazines,” he said. His voice was weak and strained. “Are you going to die, Dennis?” he demanded.

Silva managed to straighten, then turned to face his friend. It was the first anyone had seen of his front since they started up the passageway, and he was soaked with blood from his short hair to his shoes. His T-shirt and sodden trousers were crisscrossed with diagonal tears, and there were a fair number of punctures as well. Everyone had seen him weakening, but now they knew it wasn't just from fatigue. It was impossible to say whether he'd taken any mortal wounds, but he had so
many
, he was obviously bleeding to death.

“My God,” Laumer said, and caught Dennis before he dropped.

“Shit!” Isak croaked.

“I ain't gonna die, you idiot gyrene,” Dennis snapped, sagging in Laumer's arms, “so don't go makin' plans for swipin' my Doom Stomper!” He looked at Irvin. “But I'm sorry. I hate to admit it, but maybe I have had enough fun for one day. You mind carryin' the ball from here, Mr. Laumer?”

“No . . . no.”

Silva nodded. “Shift me over by Horn, if you will, then the rest of you go ahead on. We'll watch yer backs. We both got pistols, an' Horn's magazines.”

Lawrence helped Laumer move the big man over to the wall as best he could, and crouched beside his friend. “I'll stay too.”

Dennis shook his head. “Nope. Mr. Laumer might need you, an' we'll be fine. We got Petey, after all.” Lawrence hiss-snorted indignant frustration and spun away. Dennis chuckled, fumbling the magazine Horn handed him into his pistol. He dropped the slide, chambering a round, and then glared at Isak. “You take
care
o' Mr. Laumer, you rat-faced little louse!” His voice softened. “He's a good 'un.”

“But who's gonna take care o'
me
?” Isak demanded, almost whining. Silva blinked. “Who cares? We already know
you're
gonna get ate! Live with it.”

Awkwardly, Irvin patted Silva's shoulder, and the big man winced. “We have to go. We'll come back as soon as we can . . . or the Raiders ought to be along soon. They'll have rescued Surgeon Cross, and she'll get you patched up. . . .”

“Sure.”

Irvin turned to Isak and Lawrence. “Come on,” he said.

Their footsteps echoed up the passageway, fading in the gloom, and Silva looked around. He was having trouble focusing, but when his eyes passed over the 'Cat Marine who
wasn't
Dewy—he smirked—he was pretty sure he saw him breathing.
Good
. He settled back, taking his blood-soaked tobacco pouch out of his pocket. For some reason, he couldn't seem to make his fingers fish out a wad of the sweetened leaves, however, and he glanced down at himself. “I'm a mess,” he muttered, a little surprised. He didn't really hurt that much, but he'd never felt so weak in his life. He turned to look at the man beside him. “
You
ain't gonna die, are you, Arnie?” he asked, but Gunny Horn appeared asleep and didn't reply. “Better not,” Dennis warned, and sighed. “Few enough fellas left to talk with about the old days as it is.” He gazed at the tobacco pouch again, now lying in his lap. “I'd kill,” he said with a smirk, “even
more
stuff, for a cold San Miguel right now.” His voice was barely audible.

Hesitantly, painfully, Petey crept out of the darkness, sniffing and cringing at the growing sound of battle behind them. Focusing on Dennis, he hop-sprinted into his lap. The man usually pretended not to notice him, but this time there was no reaction at all. Staring up with wide, searching eyes, he clawed his way higher, closer to the slack-jawed face.

“Si-vaa?” Petey hissed insistently.

*   *   *

Irvin Laumer, Isak Reuben, and Lawrence had no doubts when they finally reached the entrance leading to the chambers of the Celestial Mother herself. There'd been no other openings in the passageway at all, and they'd reached the end of the line. They advanced cautiously toward this slightly larger, considerably more ornate archway, weapons ready, watchful for guards, but there were none that they could see. Lawrence still couldn't manage a rifle—his right arm wasn't working right—but he held a cutlass in his left hand, cocked to slash, and he instinctively took the lead.

“Easy,” Irvin whispered, holding his pistol up. “I'll go first.” His voice seemed unnaturally loud. “She's got to have some guards, if she's in there,” he explained.

“She's in there,” Lawrence confirmed. “I think there's other . . . phee-males too. I s'ell—taste? Taste their hot 'reath—lung air?” He shook his head in frustration.

“Eww!” Isak hissed. “Then they must be the mouth-fartin'est critters that ever was!”

“Taste . . . pharts too,” Lawrence confirmed.

“Eww!”

“Come on,” Irvin urged, stepping through the arch. The others followed, their wide eyes tensely seeking threats in the gloom.

“Some kinda waitin' room,” Isak guessed, pointing his Krag in the dark corners of the chamber. There were a couple of the saddlelike “chairs” that only Grik could love, but light leaked around a thick drapery at the far end of the room. Isak reached for it with the bayonet on the end of his rifle as they neared it.

“Careful,” Irvin hissed, his pistol trembling slightly.

“The hell with that, they gotta know we're here.” Isak gulped, and slashed the drapery aside.

Beyond was another chamber, considerably larger, filled with what looked like sunlight! For an instant, all the trio could do was blink, as their eyes adjusted, but then they saw at last what they'd come all this way to find. Draped across another one of the bizarre chairs, staring intently at them with large, yellow eyes, was the biggest, most ridiculously obese example of the Grik species anyone had ever seen. Its furry plumage was bright and coppery in the light glaring down from an opening in the ceiling, and it seemed to almost flash with fire as it shifted slightly and rolls of fat moved beneath its skin. Uselessly long, but meticulously sculpted claws flickered on its fingers as it clasped its hands in front of it. With a surprisingly small voice for such a monstrous creature, it spoke.

“What the hell?” Isak demanded nervously. “You picked up some o' that Grik gibberish, didn't you, Larry?”

Lawrence nodded, his crest high and tail stiff, eyes narrowed in concentration. He'd learned quite a bit, in fact, working with the “tame” Grik that went along on the expedition to northern Borno.

“What did it say?” Laumer asked.

“It said to enter and . . . kneel, I think . . . and it'd hear us.”

“My skinny ass!” Isak snarled. “Tell it to flop down offa that saddle an' beg
us
not to blow its fat head off!”

Lawrence snatched his gaze from the monster and looked at Laumer. “She's not going to do
that
.” He looked at Isak. “Don't you get it? That's her. That's really
her
! She knows the 'attle outside is lost, 'ut thinks us are just other hunters, here to serph
her
!”

“Bullshit!” Isak spat. “Let's kill her!”

“Us
really
need to kill her,” Lawrence fervently agreed. Something about this confrontation had him more worried than he'd been at any time during the fight to get here.

“But if we could take her alive, we might win the whole war, here and now!” Irvin insisted, stepping forward into the chamber.

“No!” Lawrence cried, leaping after him, claws outstretched.

Irvin whipped his head toward Lawrence, stunned, but saw a massive Grik, this one all muscle, lunging toward him from the right, beyond the entrance. His pistol came up just as Lawrence vaulted
past
him—at another giant guard, he supposed with relief—and he started shooting the first one. His pistol barked seven times fast, almost as quick as full-auto fire, and the massive Grik—he noticed it had no crest—slammed into him, trying to bury him under its dying weight. He didn't go down, because something had him by the left arm. He saw Lawrence on the floor near the Celestial Mother, painfully trying to rise, and realized he must've been batted away by the far more powerful Grik—that now had
him
.