slits of fierce joy. Blue smoke wisped thin from the ribbed barrel of his huge .357 Magnum Colt Python handblaster.
Again operating on reflex, Ricky hauled the bolt open in an effort to clear the cartridge, which had stuck upright in the breach. His second furious attempt worked. The round spun free.
But by then a heavy inhuman hand, black-green, both webbed and cruelly clawed, had come down on Jak’s right shoulder, too late for Ricky to intervene.
* * *
M ILDRED SAW THE frog mutie’s head explode.
Then the one she was fighting with squealed. She looked back at it to see a slim length of steel withdrawing from the blood and the aqueous, fluid-spurting ruin of its left eye.
Mildred shoved her now-freed revolver’s muzzle into the other eye and fired. She saw the rubbery face inflate like a giant balloon from the sudden gas overpressure of the muzzle-blast.
For a horrifying instant, it looked almost like a mottled green mask of a human face.
Then the creature slumped back against the rail. Its arms twitched and big hind legs kicked. But it was clearly dead.
A huge boom on Mildred’s other side told her that Doc, having stabbed her attacker with his swordstick, had unleashed the shotgun tube slung under the barrel of his LeMat revolver on another mutie.
Ryan was closing in on the fallen Krysty, shooting and stabbing. Behind him, Mildred saw Alysa and her horse fighting like demons to keep their way clear. But the monsters were plentiful.
They had closed in a circle around the trapped Krysty. Mildred tried to charge them, but her mule refused to get too near. She started blasting humped backs. Her bullets seemed to have no effect.
Krysty screamed.
* * *
A HEAVY , COOL calm settled on J.B. In the heat of the firefight, the dust and noise and danger, his heart and been racing so hard it threatened to pulverize his rib cage from the inside.
Now he felt it slow as he drew in a deep breath. There was just one thing to do.
So, naturally, he did it.
Slinging his longblaster, he stood up out of the sandbag nest. “Have you gone crazy?” Marcus yelped. “Get down, you feeb!”
A spear from above flashed by in front of J.B.’s face. He didn’t flinch. His mind had already calculated it wouldn’t hit him.
He took a couple of halting steps to the front of the cargo box, leaped the palm-size gap to the roof of the cab. Fortunately the Mercedes had a flat snout, van-size, instead of a coffin hood like the truck following.
Hunkering down on the cab, dropping one palm to the sun-hot metal of the roof as the other secured the downward-slung muzzle of his SKS, J.B. hung his face down beside the driver’s window.
Unexpected motion in her peripheral vision made the driver glance over. Her brown eyes widened.
“Close up!” J.B. shouted.
The driver was conscious of her craft—Trader’s people were good at their jobs, or they didn’t have them. She kept glancing at the armor-clad mass of the vehicle just ahead, then back at the unexpected apparition of an upside-down head in her window.
J.B. let go of the SKS to make a rolling gesture at the driver with his finger extended. “Close up!” he yelled again. He made sure to mouth the words exaggeratedly.
The driver’s eyes actually got wider. Then, apparently deciding if this crazy new kid wanted a novel way to wind up with dirt hitting him in the eyes, that was his lookout, she put the pedal down. The heavy-loaded truck shuddered, then lurched so that its flat nose almost slammed the rear weapon mount of War Wag One.
The perforated barrel of the .50-caliber Browning M2 machine gun mounted there was already turning and rising slightly as its gunner found a new target. He probably didn’t even see J.B.
Marcus cried out a warning. J.B. judged the distance and leaped.
There were two possible handholds. The fifty’s barrel would be so hot from firing that it would melt the skin of J.B.’s palms.
That left the projecting top of the casemate, a sort of armor box
Again operating on reflex, Ricky hauled the bolt open in an effort to clear the cartridge, which had stuck upright in the breach. His second furious attempt worked. The round spun free.
But by then a heavy inhuman hand, black-green, both webbed and cruelly clawed, had come down on Jak’s right shoulder, too late for Ricky to intervene.
* * *
M ILDRED SAW THE frog mutie’s head explode.
Then the one she was fighting with squealed. She looked back at it to see a slim length of steel withdrawing from the blood and the aqueous, fluid-spurting ruin of its left eye.
Mildred shoved her now-freed revolver’s muzzle into the other eye and fired. She saw the rubbery face inflate like a giant balloon from the sudden gas overpressure of the muzzle-blast.
For a horrifying instant, it looked almost like a mottled green mask of a human face.
Then the creature slumped back against the rail. Its arms twitched and big hind legs kicked. But it was clearly dead.
A huge boom on Mildred’s other side told her that Doc, having stabbed her attacker with his swordstick, had unleashed the shotgun tube slung under the barrel of his LeMat revolver on another mutie.
Ryan was closing in on the fallen Krysty, shooting and stabbing. Behind him, Mildred saw Alysa and her horse fighting like demons to keep their way clear. But the monsters were plentiful.
They had closed in a circle around the trapped Krysty. Mildred tried to charge them, but her mule refused to get too near. She started blasting humped backs. Her bullets seemed to have no effect.
Krysty screamed.
* * *
A HEAVY , COOL calm settled on J.B. In the heat of the firefight, the dust and noise and danger, his heart and been racing so hard it threatened to pulverize his rib cage from the inside.
Now he felt it slow as he drew in a deep breath. There was just one thing to do.
So, naturally, he did it.
Slinging his longblaster, he stood up out of the sandbag nest. “Have you gone crazy?” Marcus yelped. “Get down, you feeb!”
A spear from above flashed by in front of J.B.’s face. He didn’t flinch. His mind had already calculated it wouldn’t hit him.
He took a couple of halting steps to the front of the cargo box, leaped the palm-size gap to the roof of the cab. Fortunately the Mercedes had a flat snout, van-size, instead of a coffin hood like the truck following.
Hunkering down on the cab, dropping one palm to the sun-hot metal of the roof as the other secured the downward-slung muzzle of his SKS, J.B. hung his face down beside the driver’s window.
Unexpected motion in her peripheral vision made the driver glance over. Her brown eyes widened.
“Close up!” J.B. shouted.
The driver was conscious of her craft—Trader’s people were good at their jobs, or they didn’t have them. She kept glancing at the armor-clad mass of the vehicle just ahead, then back at the unexpected apparition of an upside-down head in her window.
J.B. let go of the SKS to make a rolling gesture at the driver with his finger extended. “Close up!” he yelled again. He made sure to mouth the words exaggeratedly.
The driver’s eyes actually got wider. Then, apparently deciding if this crazy new kid wanted a novel way to wind up with dirt hitting him in the eyes, that was his lookout, she put the pedal down. The heavy-loaded truck shuddered, then lurched so that its flat nose almost slammed the rear weapon mount of War Wag One.
The perforated barrel of the .50-caliber Browning M2 machine gun mounted there was already turning and rising slightly as its gunner found a new target. He probably didn’t even see J.B.
Marcus cried out a warning. J.B. judged the distance and leaped.
There were two possible handholds. The fifty’s barrel would be so hot from firing that it would melt the skin of J.B.’s palms.
That left the projecting top of the casemate, a sort of armor box
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