Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 26

 

Nightmare

Tatum, rifle slung over his shoulder, clasped the frozen meat in one arm and pulled on the guide rope. He leaned into the gale. Powdery snow whipped up from the ground and fell from the skies. Visibility was zero. A whiteout.

The line around Tatum' s waist yanked sharply, its nether end vanished in whiteness. Tatum waited. Yelling was futile; wind blew his words into oblivion, and he did not want to risk frostbite. The belaying line tugged again, urgently. Tatum let the gusts push him back along his own wake, the plowed furrow already blown smooth. Rennault waited at the end of the safety belay. Tatum put his head next to Rennault' s mouth.

"Thought...saw something!" Rennault shouted.

"What?" Tatum asked.

"Couldn't tell for sure . . . movement . . . low to the ground."

"Why the hell pull me back? Let's get inside." Tatum leaned back into the freezing wall of wind, pulling on the guide rope leading to shelter. Rennault shouted, but he kept moving, intent on returning to the warmth. A muffled scream brought him up short. The safety line jerked tight—viciously tight! Throwing the meat down, Tatum swung the assault rifle from his back and crouched low, waiting. The belaying line tugged painfully hard. Irresistibly, it pulled Tatum over onto his back, jerking him from the guide rope. Flailing, Tatum rolled helplessly in the snow, unable to gain purchase, until he found himself in the middle of snarling mayhem. A nightmare! White-pelted phantoms, growling horridly, fought over some undefinable object. Thrusting his legs deeply in the snow, Tatum gained stability and fired at the scuffling creatures, the muzzle blasts flat cracks in the gale. One of the animals fellconvulsively to the snow. The others disappeared into the blizzard. The line went slack.

Tatum peered into the stupefying whiteness. He saw nothing—nothing but the belaying line fading from sight. He pulled tentatively. Resistance; something was there! He pulled harder but it would not budge. He leaned backward, taking the strain with his legs. The weight on the line—Rennault, or what was left of him— yielded. Tatum forced his legs to push to the rear, hauling the deadweight along the furrow marking his path to the shelters. Tatum yelled. The gale hammered his words back into his mouth. He glanced over his shoulder, frantically peering for the guide rope, blinking wind-driven snow from his freezing eyes.

The belaying line stiffened vibrantly. In desperation the Marine fired a shot down the line, his aim high—in case it still mattered. The line jerked angrily and went slack. Tatum resumed his backward march, staring wide-eyed into the vertiginous blizzard. Backward he struggled. An eternity passed before his shoulder ran up against the rope linking the shelters to the meat house. Grasping the line, Tatum slung his rifle over his shoulder and pulled himself hand over hand, helping his back and legs to move the invisible anchor of Rennault' s body. Slinging the rifle was a mistake.

It came from the direction of the shelters, a growling white blur of fangs. The Marine twisted to bring his rifle to bear, but the burly creature was on him, leaping for his neck and face. Tatum threw his arm up, and the frenzied beast seized it in outsized mandibles, taking ferocious, ripping bites above the elbow, driving the Marine backward into the snow, growling maniacally the entire time. Yellow eyes, insane with ferocity, glared malevolently into his. Animal spit and human blood splattered against his face as he struggled to extricate the rifle. His weapon was fouled in the ropes. With efforts borne of desperation, Tatum cleared the rifle from its tangle and swung the barrel. Holding the tip of the weapon steady with his numb hand, he thrust the muzzle into the growling, pulsating rib cage and fired four rounds. Heat from the barrel flowed through his glove as the creature died, its frenzied jaws still grinding, its throat still rattling.

Tatum could not look at the animal; he could only gape at his arm. His fingers would not move; they still clasped the hot rifle barrel. He set the rifle stock in the snow and prized the fingers loose. Blood pulsed from his wounds, streaming hot down his arm. Tatum felt dizzy. He shook cobwebs from his eyes and tried to think. He removed the sling from his weapon and put his mangled arm through the slack loop and pulled it painfully tight. He pulled even harder, biting his lip, tasting his own blood.

Teeth clenched against a rising tide of agony, Tatum resumed his march. Pulling hard, he closed the distance to the shelters. Several times he felt nibbling jerks on his gruesome trolling bait, but the sensations were dreamlike. Shock set in, reinforced by the numbing intensity of frigid winds. His back hit the solid logs of the A-frame and he slumped against the icy wood, relieved to have his back protected from the wind. And from attack. He fell unconscious.

* * *

Shannon looked up from his cards.

"Where the hell is Tatum? You hear something?" he growled.

The wind howled, a manic ambiance that dulled the mind, the eighth day of the storm. The earthlings huddled helplessly in their shelter, a ragged collection of refugees. Some played cards in the smoky light. Others slept. Unreliable daylight leaked through the apex of the peaked roof, where the sheet metal flue penetrated the logs. The wind-battered metal rattled insanely, and snowmelt dripped and hissed down its length. A musty odor eclipsed all sensations, and sneezes punctuated the whistling draughts more frequently than did civilized conversation.

Shannon checked his watch. "Crap! They've been out over twenty minutes. Chastain, you and Gordon get your gear on! I'm out!" Shannon threw down good cards and stood.

"Cry baby!" Fenstermacher said, dealing. "Marine's can't play poker."

Lee giggled, a lonely sound.

Shannon ignored them and grabbed his hat and coat, while Chastain and Gordon retrieved weapons from the stacked arms in the cold corner.

"Problem, Sergeant?" Quinn coughed from the warmest corner. Dark circles surrounded sunken eyes. He had lost too much weight.

"Tatum' s overdue, Commander," Shannon replied. "Better find out why."

"Right, huh...good idea, Sergeant," Quinn replied listlessly.

Goldberg looked up anxiously at Tatum' s name, a hand on her grossly distended abdomen.

Walking in a crouch, Shannon stepped over the sitting and reclining humans, moving from the warmer area near the fire to the uncomfortably cold area adjacent the door. A gutted marmot, dripping blood, hung from the rafters near the door, slowly thawing. Seeing what was about to happen, the occupants groaned and pulled their sleeping bags higher. Shannon flipped his hood up, zipped his coat over his chin, and pulled on his gloves. Chastain and Gordon helped move the heavy door inward far enough for them to squeeze through. Wind swirled, blasting through the open door, sprinkling the interior with fine crystals. The men used their feet and free hands to move snow, packing a ramp to the elevated surface. Shannon trudged into the drifts and found the guide rope leading downhill. Rising snow had almost covered it.

Shannon followed the rope, breaking his own rule by not belaying to another person. Gordon and Chastain followed in his wake. If Tatum was wasting time in the other shelter, he was going to get a supreme ass-chewing for bringing them out in the blizzard. The sergeant plowed around the corner of the cabin and saw the body slumped in the lee, a dusting of snow covering the corporal's face and clothes. Shannon grabbed the Marine and shook him violently. He looked into the injured man's face. Tatum's eyes opened, blinked once, and slowly shut.

"Get him inside!" Shannon yelled, lifting Tatum's right arm over his neck and pulling him toward the sleep shelter. He noticed the safety line trailing away and felt the invisible leaden weight at its end. Growling noises separated from the insane howl of the wind.

Explosions! Rifles firing on full automatic spat bullets past his head. Deafened, Shannon fell face down in the snow. As he lay, stunned, something heavy struck him bluntly in the back—an animal, a heavy animal! For an instant it stood, and then it pivoted sharply, footpads and claws seeking purchase on his coat, and was gone. Shannon struggled to his knees; he was drowning in the yielding, frigid whiteness. Gordon and Chastain continued a sporadic fire. Shannon heaved upright, ears ringing painfully, to find three steaming carcasses within arm's reach, their thick white fur splotched with livid streaks. One shuddering heap rose on powerful forelegs, materializing into a prognathous-jawed, saber-toothed horror. Gordon fired a single shot, knocking the yellow-eyed demon's head sharply backwards. It was still.

The door to the near shelter sucked inward and MacArthur scrambled through the drifts, rifle poised threateningly, eyes wild. He was hatless, coatless, and bootless, his hair bedraggled, his bearded face imprinted with the indentations and lines of a makeshift pillow. MacArthur registered on Shannon dragging Tatum through the snow. His mouth fell open, but his eyes lingered for only an instant. He scanned the white nothingness of the howling blizzard. A shouting crowd followed MacArthur through the narrow exit, rifle barrels slicing the air.

"Get him inside!" Shannon shouted, taking his knife and cutting through the line around Tatum' s waist. He handed the rope to Chastain. "Rennault' s on the other end."

"What the hell?" Gordon shouted. "What are they?" "Nightmares," Shannon gasped. "Goddam frigging nightmares."

"Bring him over here," ordered a disheveled Buccari from the door of the shelter. She and Dawson hurriedly cleared a space by the fire. "Gordon, get more wood. Boats, get Lee and her first aid kit—fast!" Shannon laid Tatum on the ground next to the stove and headed for the door. He still felt the claws on his back, and his ears still echoed with neck-chilling growls.

* * *

Buccari stared at the bleeding Marine. With Dawson' s help she stripped off his coat. Arterial bleeding increased as he warmed, a pumping fountain of life. Buccari pinched the pressure point under his arm. Tatum moaned—a good sign.

"Need help?" It was MacArthur, shivering, his sock-covered feet soaking wet.

"Take care of yourself first," Buccari replied. "You look like hell."

"How is he?" MacArthur asked, ignoring her.

"His arm's hamburger and he's bleeding to death," Buccari said, her stomach fluttering. "We need to get the tourniquet on."

"Let me," MacArthur mumbled. "Hold the pressure." He knelt, opened the loop of the sling, and ran it up Tatum' s arm just short of Buccari's hold on the pressure point.

"Okay, Nance, grab his shoulder and squeeze hard," he ordered. "Tighter! I want white knuckles." Satisfied with Dawson' s grip, he pushed Buccari's hands away, briefly inspected the muscular arm, and slid the looped sling as high up as he could, snugging it under the armpit. Blood pulsed freely.

"Hold him down," MacArthur said. "Nance, lean on him."

MacArthur stood, holding the free end of the strap, and put a wet foot on Tatum' s mangled arm. Grunting, he pulled with all his might. The bleeding dribbled to a stop.

"Cover him," MacArthur said. "Keep him warm."

"They find Rennault?" Buccari asked. Blood covered her hands.

"Yeah," he replied, shivering. "Most of him. They put him in the meat house." He walked over to his sleeping bag.

The door opened with a snowy blast and Lee tumbled in. Chastain plodded behind her, carrying the medical kit. Shannon followed both of them. Lee walked unsteadily to the injured Marine and took a long look at the arm, testing the tourniquet.

"Shit!" she said, shaking her head. "Has he been conscious?" "Barely," Buccari answered, wiping away gore.

"Shit!" Lee shouted and turned to Chastain. "Put it down." Chastain, pathetically frightened, set the equipment down as if it would explode.

Shannon moved into the circle of light, staring at the bloody mess. "Jocko! Get Jones!" he snapped. "We'll need the horses."

Buccari felt her stomach leap. She took an unconscious step backward.

"Oh, shit," Lee whispered between clinched teeth. She rummaged in the equipment and came out with a syringe. She broke the seal, armed it, and shoved the needle into Tatum' s shoulder. "Hope this stuff is still good. Get a larger fire going and boil water. Sarge, we'll have to cauterize the wound. See if you can find a piece of flat metal we can heat to red hot—a big knife, or one of Chief Wilson's frying pans."

Lee pulled a bone saw from her bag and looked at it with loathing.

"I'll need help," she said. The medic glanced around the circle of people and stopped when she came to Buccari. Buccari understood why: she was the senior officer—the leader. She was supposed to take charge, but all she could feel was revulsion and panic.

MacArthur, in dry clothes, shouldered through the ring of spectators and took the vicious saw. "Ready when you are, Les."

They started. Tatum refused to lose consciousness, remaining lucid despite the drugs. Lee gave orders while Chastain, Jones, and Shannon struggled to restrain the injured man's frantic spasms. Dawson hugged Tatum's head, blocking his vision while MacArthur, pale-faced and grim, maneuvered the saw over the tortured limb. Buccari, her resolve shored by MacArthur's determination, stood close by, holding a frying pan in the roaring fire, perspiration rolling down her face and neck. Tatum' s screams drowned out the wet, rasping noises of the bone saw. The ravaged arm fell away, and Lee washed the spongy stump with antiseptic. Buccari, using rags to insulate the heat, pressed the glowing-hot frying pan to the pulpy end of the traumatized limb. Tatum, biting on a rag, screamed twice and mercifully passed out. The sickly smell of cooking flesh permeated the confined shelter.

* * *

The storm stopped two days later. Bright, heatless rays of morning sun found the chinks and gaps in the rafters of the shelters, inducing the hapless occupants still asleep to awaken and to look once again upon a world with horizons. The dawn air, dense and transparent, revealed a host of morning stars twinkling thinly overhead, displaying their arrogance, daring to be visible during the light of day.

Cold! So cold! Faces covered and hands gloved, the earthlings struggled upward, throwing back the snowy blanket of an alien winter. Of their shelters, only the peaked ridge beams protruded into the new day. The thin forest was reduced to a field of pygmy trees, drifted in virgin powder. Standing close to their shelters, the humans looked anxiously across the shrouded lake, vaporous breaths freezing in the air. Snow chirped under their footfalls, and every whisper, every sound, flew fast and far in the iron-hard air. In the distance, connected to camp by a trail of snowshoe prints, two hikers made slow progress. Avoiding the smooth craters that identified the hot springs, they plowed across the bowl of the lake, trudging in velvet shadows, growing smaller all the while.

"Couldn't stop her, Gunner," Shannon said. "Didn't want to. We can't just hide in our shelters. Those things aren't going to go away."

"You could've sent a couple more men," Wilson admonished.

"Those two can move as fast as anyone," Shannon responded. "Sending more men would only have slowed them down. The nightmares won't be a problem as long as the visibility's good. They've got plenty of ammo."

Ammunition. Shannon thought grimly about the limited supply. He worried as he turned and scanned the softly mounded terrain. The blanket of snow eradicated the sharp edges of their rock-tumbled world, and it worked to soothe his anxieties. His vision slipped outward, over the muted ridges and foothills to the awesome and lofty granite giants; the snows could not dampen the sharpness of those spires. Low rays from the rising sun gave the alpine vista a wash of colors from soft gold to brilliant alabaster, presenting the hard lines of precipitous terrain in emphatic relief. Shannon felt a reverence, a sense of awe.

"What did Commander Quinn say?" Wilson persisted.

"He's out of his head," the sergeant replied. "For dinner, if you cook up any of those furry devils, don't grab Rennault by mistake."

"Not funny," Wilson retorted. The men stomped their booted feet for warmth. Both carried rifles.

"Let's check out the lake," Shannon said. "Maybe we can still fish."

"How's Tatum?" Wilson asked, content to trudge in Shannon's wake.

"The dumb grunt doesn't know how to complain," Shannon replied. "How's Goldberg?"

"Real good," Wilson said. "I thought Tatum going down would do her in, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. She's gotten tougher."

"She's going to have be damn tough to bring a baby into this world."

"So's the baby," Wilson sighed.

They struggled through the snow for several minutes without speaking.

"Nance is pregnant, too," Shannon said at last.

Wilson looked at him. "You ever have kids before, Sarge?" "Hell, I never even owned a goddam dog."

* * *

"Think they'll take us in, Lieutenant?" MacArthur gasped.

"Don't plan on giving them a choice," Buccari huffed, adjusting the ride of her pack. The backpacks were loaded heavily with firewood. It had grown dark, and the long day's hike over loose snow had taken its toll. Buccari trudged in MacArthur's wake, ungainly in her crude snowshoes. It was painfully cold, too cold to talk.

Something moved in the gray distance.

MacArthur stopped and peered into the gloaming. The large moon, a crescent settling behind the mountains, offered little assistance.

"I saw it," she whispered, checking their rear.

"Good," MacArthur replied. "I wasn't sure how to break the news."

"Stick to the plan?" she asked.

"Yeah. Soon as it gets too dark to see we'll build a fire." "Pretty dark now," Buccari said, unshouldering the carbine. "Careful with that," MacArthur said. "You're a little too anxious."

"I am not anxious," she sniffed. "I qualified 'Expert' at the Academy."

"You ever shoot anything that moves? Or bleeds?" MacArthur asked.

She shook her head.

"Crap, it's cold," he said, turning his head.

The false light revealed only the texture of snow, and their own footprints trailing into the distance. Stars, subdued by an icy overcast, twinkled feebly overhead.

"I'll shoot first," MacArthur continued, head still turned to the rear. "This assault rifle will do a lot of damage, and there's no sense in wasting bullets. If you have to shoot, make sure you're aiming at the target. Don't just point—"

"Mac!" Buccari shouted. Yellow-fanged, mustard-eyed nightmares pounded out of the darkness, their growls rising in pitch like an approaching locomotive. MacArthur threw up his arms and ducked sideways. The first beast struck his shoulder and knocked him into the snow, unholy jaws snapping for purchase and finding nothing but backpack and wood. Buccari had no time to think—a second snarling creature was leaping straight for the bare whiteness of MacArthur' s face. Her carbine barked and the nightmare twistedin midtrajectory, landing in a convulsing, screaming pile. Other creatures scattered into the dusk.

She swung her weapon to bear on the violence at her feet. The nightmare, straddling the fallen man, ripped and tore at MacArthur's bedroll. MacArthur's rifle was still slung over his shoulder. The Marine, trying to protect his face, struggled to sit. Buccari staggered to find a safe line of fire. With explosive abruptness muzzle flashes lit up the dusk as three gut-muffled reports from MacArthur's pistol rent the air. The animal jerked violently and slumped to the snow, its whiplike tail slapping a pattern in the snow. And then it was still.

MacArthur shed his pack and crawled, trembling, to a crouch, assault rifle in one hand, a smoking pistol in the other. He pounced on Buccari's still thrashing nightmare, slamming his rifle butt on its skull. Bloodcurdling growls whimpered to silence.

"You okay?" she panted, wrenching her eyes from the saber-toothed monster at her feet. It was dark. All she could see was his silhouette.

"Yeah. Just.. .some scratches. Time to build that fire."

* * *

"Sentries have heard the sound of long-legs' death sticks," Craag reported.

Braan nodded thoughtfully. The two warriors stood in the outermost chamber of the hunter leader's residence. Brappa-theyoung-warrior, grown taller and backlit by the hearth's golden glow, stood in the tunnel passage leading to the main living area, listening to the news. Soft noises of mother and child came from within.

"What dost thou make of it, my friend?" Braan asked.

"Growlers are about. 'Tis likely a patrol of long-legs makes their way to us, and they have been beset by hungry beasts," Craag answered.

"Can we not help?" Brappa asked impetuously, and insubordinately.

Braan excused himself and turned gently to his son.

"Brappa-the-young-warrior," Braan said. "Dost thou not have enough to think about with thy wedding on the morrow? Spare thy courage for the ultimate test. Leave this trivial matter to old hunters."

"Eeyah! Young warrior!" Craag added. "Gliss, thy mistress to be, my young sister, is fair and strong. Growlers are as playthings by comparison. Thou must save thine energy and wiles if thou art to be the master of thy residence. Marriage and mortal combat are as first cousins."

A derisive hoot emanated from the direction of the fire's glow where Ki-the-mother sat by the hearth. It was a time of felicity in the house of Braan and universally for all hunters of the cliff colony. Winter was for marriage and mating. The ferocity of cold storms kept the tough animals near home. The young hunters, the sentries, still posted the cliff edges, ever vigilant for encroaching enemies, but the mature hunters found themselves idle. With the scars and injuries of the summer campaigns behind them, well fed and of welling energies, the experienced warriors directed their attentions inwardly, to their families. It was a time for training, for teaching, for telling, and for touching.

"Apologies, my father, and my brother-to-be," returned the chagrined young cliff dweller. "I have intruded where I belong not. I apologize for the directness but not for the essence of my question. The long-legs took care of me in my need. Is there not something we can do to help?"

"A fair question, and from the heart, but for now we must wait. It is too cold. We cannot fight in the open under these conditions. Permit us to finish our discussion."

* * *

"Sarge! I heard gunshots," Gordon shouted as he came through the door of the dayroom shelter, bringing with him a wave of frigid air.

Shannon glanced up from his meager and greasy dinner and looked over at Chief Wilson. Wilson shook his head, keeping his eyes on his plate.

"How many, Billy?" Shannon asked.

"A couple—maybe three or four," he responded. "Way out. You could barely hear 'em. You know how sound carries in this cold air. Beppo heard 'em, too."

Shannon stared past the sentry's shoulder. There was nothing to do.

"Mac's just taking target practice. Let me know if you hear more."

* * *

"You're bleeding," Buccari said as she kindled a small fire. It flared, its amber flames revealing a ragged gash down the corporal's cheek.

"Was afraid of that." He removed his glove and gingerly touched his bearded face with bare finger tips. He glanced down at the bloodied fingers and grabbed a handful of snow to hold against the wound. "I still got work to do."

The Marine checked the wind. The air was still. Using a snowshoe, he dug deeply, throwing snow into a pile next to the widening hole. Satisfied with the depth and breadth of the excavation, MacArthur walked out of the deep hole and proceeded to stomp on the snow pile and the area around it, adding more snow and packing it hard. Returning to the pit, he carved out a lateral hole—a snow cave—under the area he had compacted. MacArthur transferred the burning brands from the small fire to a spot before the cave opening. He laid the packs and their wood supply at the cave mouth.

Buccari leaned up against the side of the pit, keeping her eyes outward, looking for movement. She glanced at the industrious Marine as he melted snow in a cooking pan.

"Don't be watching me, Lieutenant," he said. "Keep your head up for more nightmares! You've got sentry duty, or do you want to cook?"

"Sentry, aye!" She struck an alert pose. The small moon rose in the east, an illusion of brightness. Vague shadows moved at the limits of vision, but she could not resolve any beasts clearly enough to fire. MacArthur left the snow crater to hack apart one of the carcasses. Cooked on skewers over the flames, the charred meat was greasy, tough, and gristly, yet the ravenous hikers consumed goodly portions, and with relish, sitting as prehistoric man had sat many light-years away, both in time and distance.

Sated, Buccari melted a pot of snow and drank the water. "With all due respect, Lieutenant, you'll be peeing all night." She laughed. "Where's the latrine, now that you mention it?" "Over there." He pointed opposite the fire, "Doesn't make sense to take a walk, does it?"

"No," she said. "Let me clean that scratch, before the water cools."

"From latrines to my face," MacArthur said. "What am I supposed to think?"

"At least you're smart enough to make the connection," she replied, dipping a rag in the water and throwing on another log.

Buccari knelt in front of MacArthur, wet rag poised. The corporal looked up, gray eyes sparkling in the dancing light of the fire. The gash, running from the fat part of his cheek diagonally into his beard, was deep enough to have required stitches in a civilized world. It would make a scar. MacArthur winced as she dabbed the cloth around the wound. As she was swabbing the injury, a lock of hair fell in front of her eyes. MacArthur reached up and gently jammed the tress under her hat brim. Buccari smiled, feeling embarrassment, and other emotions.

"Thanks. Hair sure gets in the way." She looked away.

"Pretty hair," he said shyly. "Keep it out of your eyes. You have the first watch." MacArthur pulled the shredded sleeping bag from his pack.

"Use mine," Buccari said, amazed MacArthur would even think about sleep. "I can wrap yours around me. What do I do while you're sleeping?"

"You ever hear of Jack London?" he asked, exchanging sleeping bags.

"Yes, but—oh, I get it. It's cold. Time to talk philosophy."

"London wrote about wolves...and fires," MacArthur said without levity. "That's the philosophy that matters: keep the fire burning. Nightmares will understand fire; best argument I can think of, but be ready to shoot. Use the rifle but have your pistol ready. Give me the carbine." He positioned the sleeping bag and crawled in. "Wake me up in two hours, and then it's your turn to sleep. We'll do two-hour shifts."

She sat down in the cave mouth and scanned the darkness surrounding the crater. The opposite side was trampled low, and she had a good view. But behind her, directly over her head, the view was obstructed by the packed mound of snow. The feeling that something was there weighed heavily. She threw another log on the fragile fire and leaned against the shredded sleeping bag, soaking in the feeble warmth. She checked her watch. Two minutes had crept by. MacArthur was already asleep, his breathing deep and slow. Her own eyelids slipped downwards. Shaking fogginess from her brain,she stood slowly, warily turning her head to peek over the snowbank.

Nothing. Nothing but the black night. She turned and looked past the fire and detected dim sparks of light floating in the air. The cruel stares of three predatory animals hung suspended in the distance, three sinister pairs of eyes glowing red in the firelight.

"Aw, shit!" she whispered. Her cold hands perspired. She threw another precious log on the fire and lifted a burning brand into the air. Sparks sprinkled about her as inconstant illumination spread over the shadow-dappled snow. Surrounded! She counted ten beasts and stopped. There were at least thirty, all stealthily converging.

"MacArthur!" she exhaled, breathlessly. "Mac!"

She kicked his foot, afraid to take her eyes from the frightening vision. MacArthur stirred, moaning dully.

"We got company, Mac. I need . . . need your help."

The Marine eased from the cave and rose to a crouch. "At your service," he muttered, moving closer. His hip touched hers.

He took the assault rifle, replacing it with the carbine.

"That one's closest," MacArthur croaked, indicating a fierce specter directly across from the fire, its huge under canines shooting up past the top of its snout. "Let's hope he's the leader. Hold your ears." MacArthur took quick aim through the flames, exhaled, and fired a single round, dropping the animal like a lump of mud. The other monsters evaporated into darkness.

The Marine checked his watch. "Kick my foot before you fire at the next one." MacArthur took the carbine, handed her the assault weapon, and climbed back into the cave. He leaned on his elbow and peeked at the fire.

"Go easy on that wood." He flopped down and zipped the bag over his head.

* * *

"Beppo! I heard another shot," Gordon whispered excitedly. His breath glowed in the faint light of the little moon. Both men listened quietly.

"Ja, me too," Schmidt answered. "You tell Sarge. I will wake up Mendoza and Chastain for the next watch."

* * *

"Another death stick explosion, Braan-our-leader," said the sentry.

"Only one?" asked Braan.

"Only one," the messenger replied.

"A good sign." Braan dismissed the sentry.

* * *

MacArthur breathed heavily in his sleep. An hour crawled by. Buccari arranged the crumbling logs, causing yellow flames to flare brightly. Close by—behind her—a rumbling growl reverberated over the edge of the snowbank. Adrenaline flushed warmly through Buccari' s body, but the back of her neck went cold. She pivoted, simultaneously raising the assault rifle. Two fanged horrors crouched, coiled to spring. Buccari locked the sights into line with the leftmost animal's nose and squeezed the trigger—just as the animal lunged. She staggered, her booted foot disturbing the fire. The predator jerked in midleap, a large caliber bullet ripping its throat, and fell from the air, thudding to the snow at the mouth of their cave. The other nightmare vanished.

The sleeping bag zipper sang like a buzz saw. MacArthur bolted from the cave, firing his pistol and kicking viciously at the twitching carcass as he leapt over it, twisting and turning. Buccari stepped back and allowed the Marine to discharge his pent-up fright. He came to a trembling halt, lowered the smoking pistol, and slowly erected himself from the stooping, bunched-muscle crouch into which he had contorted himself. He looked at Buccari and then down at the inert animal. He kicked it again—hard.

"Nice shot," MacArthur said, shaking his head. "Thanks for the warning." He blinked at his watch, having difficulty focusing his eyes.

"Believe me," she laughed, wondering that she could laugh and be petrified at the same time. "If I had had time to kick you, I would have . . . with pleasure."

"Hmmph." He yawned, looking down at the nightmare. Grunting, he bent over, lifted the limp carcass, and heaved it from the crater. He looked at his watch. "I got an hour. That's enough."

"No!" she insisted. "It's still my watch!"

He yawned again and crawled into the cave. "Put more wood on the fire, Lieutenant." He pulled the top of the bag around his head, but he left it unzipped this time.

Buccari rubbed her bruised shoulder. She looked at the dead animal and acknowledged an atavistic gratification. She wanted more. If it was kill or be killed, then she was ready to play.

The night was long, but in the dim light of predawn, Buccari and MacArthur climbed from the carcass-littered crater and continued their slow trek to the cliffs. Not long after sunrise, a patrol of hunters made rendezvous.

* * *

Toon offered his respects and requested a moment of Bool' s time. The older steam user lifted his snout and aimed it at his underling. Toon' s request no doubt concerned the long-legs; that seemed to be the only subject for which Toon cared anymore. While Toon was doing an excellent liaison job—the elders commended Bool on his choice—many of Toon' s important duties had gone wanting, and Bool was personally required to fill the void. His work groups were behind on corrosion inspections and link replacements for the lifts, in addition to the never-ending requirement to clear sediment from the accumulator channels.

"Steam user Toon," Bool replied superciliously. "What dost thee require?"

"To presume on thy time, master. A matter of the long-legs."

"Short-one-who-leads returned to our caves this morning, did she not? Art thy communication efforts progressing in a satisfactory manner."

"Most superbly satisfactory, master," Toon replied, his tone and choice of words obsequious and supplicating. Bool's interest was piqued.

"State thy business, steam user," he ordered.

"The long-legs have requested succor. They ask to be taken under our roof," Toon responded directly, taking his cue from Bool's abruptness.

"Impossible!" sputtered the older dweller. "We cannot support twenty long-legs. They are huge! They eat so much, and constantly!"

"Nineteen, master," Toon replied. "One has died. Another is injured."

"Dead!" Bool exclaimed. "Oh, no! May its soul rest. Tragic! Oh, my!"

"Master Bool," Toon said with unusual intensity. "The elders must be informed. I apprise thee before word reaches the elders."

"Thy loyalty is commendable, steam user Toon, and thou art correct. We must inform the elders immediately. I shall request an audience."

* * *

The biting wind was a two-edged sword; it had blown the snow from the plateau, but the temperatures were cruel, the bright sun providing light without heat. The return hike from the cliffs had been punishing. They trudged on the ice-armored lake below the camp; Buccari feared frost-bite in her extremities. She peeked forward into the rasping gusts; her watering eyes detected someone hurrying to meet them.

"Shannon and—Hudson," MacArthur shouted, his head next to hers.

"Hope everything's okay," she screamed. The blurry apparitions gave Buccari a sense of foreboding. They met in the lee of the island, the wind blunted by trees and rocks.

"You're in command, sir. Commander Quinn died last night," Shannon shouted, his face hidden behind a ragged muffler. "Fever took him away. Lee did what she could, but he went fast. Just gave up and died."

Buccari momentarily forgot the cold. Commander Quinn, the senior officer, was dead. The decisions were now hers to make. She was responsible; she was speechless. She stared at her feet.

"Tatum' s the one we need to worry about, Lieutenant," Shannon yelled against the wind thrashing through the trees. "He's in bad shape—infection, maybe blood poisoning. Lee says it's only a matter of time before gangrene takes over."

"We need to get him to the cliff dweller colony," Buccari said, shaking off her thoughts. "At first light tomorrow we're heading for the cliffs. The cliff dwellers have given us permission to stay there."

"Aye," Shannon said, looking up. "Best news in a long time."

"We'll have the wind at our back," Hudson shouted.

"Don't count on it," Buccari replied. "Look at those clouds. A front's coming. Bad weather and a wind shift. Let's get moving before the storm hits."

* * *

Large downy flakes sifted gracefully from an amorphous ceiling. The snows would last until the full moon, maybe longer. Old Kuudor, wearing black otter fur, slogged between posts through the delicate shroud of snow. The guard had been doubled, and he was checking sentry stations for vigilance. The pointillistic forms of two other hunters materialized from the textured curtain of snowflakes—Craag and Braan, in white growler skins and nearly invisible.

Braan spoke first, as was fitting. "Tidings, Kuudor, captainof-the-sentry."

"Hail and well met, Braan-our-leader. Greetings, brave warrior Craag," returned the sentry commandant, using ancient forms.

"All is in order," Craag said. "Thy sentries are well-taught and serious."

The old warrior swelled with pride. "But this storm is ominous," he responded. "It will last many days."

"No, and the long-legs are not yet within hail," Braan replied. "Daylight endures but one more hour. After dark the growlers will have their way."

"Perhaps they are not coming," Craag offered. "To wait would be wise."

"Perhaps," Braan replied. "But I think not. Short-one-wholeads said they would return this day. That creature seems sure-minded."

"I am told Short-one-who-leads is a female of the race," Kuudor said.

"It would be true," Braan stated.

"Strange beings, allowing smaller and weaker females to lead," Craag ventured.

"Perhaps their females are the more intelligent, as with guilders and hunters," Braan responded.

"We would never allow a guilder to lead us into battle!" Kuudor exclaimed. "Guilders have neither the will nor the means to fight, and they lack courage."

"Evidently female long-legs have the necessary attributes," Braan answered. "I doubt not their courage."

"Most curious. You will pardon me, warriors, for I must complete my rounds," Kuudor said. He saluted and stepped away and was immediately swallowed in a white matte curtain of snow.

* * *

MacArthur checked his compass and refigured his reckoning. The snow masked all directional references. He looked about, his anxiety rising. Goldberg was done—Mendoza was bodily carrying her. Lee and Fenstermacher tried to help, but it was all they could do to help each other. Shannon had his hands full with Dawson, but at least he was keeping her moving. Tatum was the problem; too heavy to carry, he fainted with disturbing frequency. It took two men to keep him moving. MacArthur, recalling the delirium and fever of his own infected shoulder, knew how his friend felt. The dwellers would heal Tatum—if only they could get there in time.

"How's Tatum doing?" MacArthur asked. Chastain, carrying an enormous backpack, also supported Tatum' s lanky weight. Hudson attempted to help, but Tatum's sagging body and the absence of a left arm made it awkward.

"Dunno, Mac," the big man gasped. "He ain't stirring." "How're you doing, Jocko?" MacArthur asked. "You need a relief?"

"I'm okay," Chastain wheezed, plowing through the yielding whiteness.

"I'll take a break," Hudson gasped.

"Sure thing, Mr. Hudson. I'll tag O'Toole," MacArthur said. He hated to take O'Toole off guard detail; he wanted his best guns on the line. MacArthur walked toward the rear of the refugee column. The column was stringing out dangerously.

There was movement to his right! Something vague and without definable shape. MacArthur halted and stared into the downy precipitation, straining to distinguish what his peripheral vision had discerned; but he could see nothing. He shook his head to clear his tired brain, and he pulled his face protector away from his eyes, giving him a wider field of vision, but to no avail. His five senses could tell him nothing, and yet he was certain something was lurking in the drifts, only paces away. Buccari, walking on snowshoes alongside the column, came up to him.

"I don't like you staring like that," she said. "What'd you see?"

"Something...maybe," MacArthur responded. He looked at her. She looked away.

"The last time we made this trip was more fun," he said, smiling behind his scarf. "I only had you to worry about.""Thanks a bunch," she replied sarcastically, turning face him.

"Don't get me wrong," he protested. "I worried about you at first, a lot! But after the first night, I worried more for the nightmares."

"Flattery!" she said. "I accept your praise, fierce warrior." "Praise easily given, fair damsel."

They touched shoulders as they turned and walked together, trudging along the column to where Tookmanian and Schmidt, struggling under their large backpacks, kicked through the snow. Petit and Gordon followed, also heavily burdened, wallowing in the whiteness.

"How much farther?" Buccari asked.

"Can't be far. Maybe a kilometer." MacArthur glanced sideways into the falling snow. The nagging feeling would not leave.

"We're too spread out," he said. "I want the rear closed up. Let's take over the rear guard from O'Toole. I'm putting O'Toole with Chastain. Tatum's really slowing us down."

A single rifle shot sounded from the head of the column. Burping automatic fire followed, shattering the cottony stillness. MacArthur turned and lunged ahead with Buccari in his wake. Growls reverberated in the air. As he came even with Tatum, he saw five wraithlike apparitions, their paws throwing up a furious churning of snow, charging the column from the opposite side. Tatum and his attendants blocked his line of fire. MacArthur dove behind the men, plunging into the dry snow, and fired a burst into the black-rimmed maw of the closest beast. Buccari's carbine stuttered over his head. Another nightmare fell. Chastain stumbled, dropping Tatum facedown in the snow. Someone screamed! Hudson drew his pistol as two ferocious animals rammed into him, jaws snapping for flesh. MacArthur rose to a knee and fired a round into the closest beast, knocking it squealing and whimpering. Chastain stepped forward and grabbed the other growler by its thick scruff and heaved it into the air. The agile, twisting beast landed on its feet and withdrew.

The other growlers swerved at the rifle reports but maintained their attack. Snarling animals leapt for Chastain's hamstrings. A burst from Buccari's carbine hit one growler in the shoulder, knocking it down, but the remaining beast struck at Chastain's buttocks and drew blood. Chastain went to his knees. Hudson, already on the ground, put his pistol behind the growler's ear and squeezed off two rounds. The growler fell dead.

MacArthur leapt to his feet. Hudson, clothing torn and bloodied, attended to Chastain, helping the big man stagger to his feet. As Buccari rolled Tatum' s snow-covered form face up, more rifle fire exploded from the rear of the column.

* * *

Explosions of death sticks reverberated along the cliffs. Braan and Craag, bows drawn, rushed into the snow. Kuudor deployed two sections of archers and called up the next watch. With nothing further to do, he drew his bow and marched forward, confident his sentries would stand their ground.

The reports from the death sticks were louder, the frenetic explosions coming in desultory bursts and random single shots, all muffled by the deadening snowfall. Shouts and screams wafted through the flurries, the long-legs' rumbling voices growing louder and louder. Sentries gave the alert—movement had been seen. The first hulking form appeared; it was colossal, and it carried the limp form of a fallen comrade. Two others followed closely behind, their heavy bodies sinking in the snow. They were startled by the cliff dwellers. One giant shouted, signaling his own warriors not to their point death sticks at the hunters.

"Craag! Guide them!" Braan ordered. "We will help those that follow."

The next group came out of the blizzard—another injured one attended by three heavily burdened long-legs intent on keeping the hurt one moving. There was much shouting and screaming. Confused, the long-legs stumbled and fell in the deep snow. Kuudor bravely approached, grabbing one by the hand. Two of the longlegs, seeing cliff dwellers and sensing safety was near, left the injured ones and returned toward the gunfire, all the while shouting with their booming voices. Braan followed them into the unyielding whiteness.

From out of the dusk-darkened snowfall came the largest of the long-legs. He was injured, leaving a trail of blood and staggering ponderously through the powder. He also struggled with the limp form of an injured comrade. The two long-legs returning to the fray relieved him of his burden, leaving the giant standing unsteadily, looking lost. Braan was concerned he might fall, but more long-legs came out of the flurries; two grabbed the big one's arms and pushed him forward, supporting his great weight. A third one took his rifle and turned to face the rear, maintaining a guard. Another long-legs advancing from the snows appeared; they retreated together.

More shots, near! Craag was at his side, and Kuudor, bows drawn and ready. And more shots! Brilliant flashes of orange! The cliff dwellers flinched and recoiled at the barking death sticks. Growls! Snarling growlers! The hunters smelled the deadly animals despite the chemical reek of death stick magic. The scent of blood was also strong, as snowflakes drifted gently downwards, serenely oblivious to the carnage.

* * *

"Fall back, Lieutenant! Fall back!" MacArthur shouted. "O'Toole! Boats! Who else is still here? Shout your name and close up!"

No answer. It was just the four of them, formed into a tight huddle, their backs together. They knew that cliff dwellers were close by. They had made it! Almost made it—the four of them still needed to break off the engagement. They could not turn and run.

"Keep moving. O'Toole! Watch our backs and lead the way," MacArthur ordered. "Do you see anything? Any cliff dwellers?"

"Not yet. Which way do we go, Mac?" O'Toole asked helplessly.

MacArthur glanced at his compass, trying to hold it steady. Uncertain, he pointed in a general direction. They could be marching off the cliff for all he knew.

Growlers exploded from the blizzard. Buccari' s carbine and Jones' pistol barked viciously and were quickly joined by the lower-pitched and angry reports of MacArthur's and O'Toole's heavy automatics. Only two of the growlers survived to close the gap, and one of those was dispatched with MacArthur' s bayonet. The last growler fell to the ground with three arrows in its throat. The firing stopped. The humans stared at the shaft-studded growler and looked about for the unseen archers.

Fur-shrouded cliff dwellers materialized, bows drawn and arrows nocked. One of them approached and indicated with a sharp gesture they should follow.

"It's Captain!" MacArthur shouted, recognizing the dweller leader by his manner and gait. "Follow him!"

The hunters turned and ambled over the snow, their broad feet keeping their light bodies from sinking. The humans followed, struggling to keep pace, eyes scanning the snowy gloom.

Back | Next
Framed