Discount Armageddon
Page 41
“Hey!” I yelped, from anger as much as from surprise. That baton was a gift from my brother. I didn’t appreciate having it taken away by a crazy cryptid with territory issues.
Since I was already staggering, I let myself hit the ground in a runner’s crouch, pulling the throwing knives from the holster strapped around my left ankle. It was difficult to tell exactly where the lizard-men were—the distortion from the cave walls made it almost impossible to know what was the original noise, and what was just a decoy—but Dominic’s breathing was distinct enough from theirs that I could tell where it wasn’t safe to aim. Whipping myself around to face the attackers coming up behind me, I half rose and snapped my wrists forward in the throwing motion Antimony and I spent three summers studying with the local circus.
We may have driven the Incredible Christopher crazy with how long it took us to learn the fine art of knife throwing, but he would have been proud of me in that moment, assuming he could get past the part where I was applying his lessons to an underground battle with an unidentified race of lizard-men. The knives flew straight and true toward their targets, one burying itself in the throat of a third lizard-man, while the other caught the fourth in the shoulder. The one I’d hit in the throat went down like a sack of potatoes. The other remained standing, but squealed, losing his hold on the larger of his two knives.
A severed head went flying overhead from Dominic’s direction, signaling that at least one of his opponents was no longer an issue. I was liking the odds better all the time.
My allotment of lizard-men was starting to advance again, faster this time, their tails waving wildly. Their hissing had acquired a distinctly pissed-off note, distinguishable from their earlier hissing only because it came with a healthy dose of snarling and exposed teeth.
“Dominic?” I shouted, barely ducking a blow from a lead pipe clutched in a scaly tail. “What’s the situation on your end?”
He answered with a grunt of exertion before calling, “Somewhat busy!”
“I know!” I dodged another blow, pulling a stiletto from my sleeve and stabbing the lizard-man’s tail before he could pull it away. He shrieked as he yanked his tail back, taking my stiletto with it. Fighting in quarters this cramped was resulting in a surprisingly large number of lost weapons. “How many do you have left?”
“Three! You?”
“Two and a half!” One of the downed lizard-men staggered to his feet, and I amended, “Three and a half!” The nearest lizard-man lunged for me. I jumped clear, barely, jamming a hand into the waistband of my jeans as my left shoulder slammed into the wall. I hit stone, not concealed lizard-man; that was one possible complication down the drain.
“We need to retreat!”
“I know!” Yanking the .32 from my hip holster, I released the safety and opened fire.
Here’s the thing about friendly fire: it isn’t. Once Mr. Bullet has left Mr. Gun, he is no longer your friend. Shooting a firearm in an enclosed space is a dangerous proposition at best, because the closer the walls are, the more likely you are to set off a ricochet. Even if your bullets don’t come bouncing back at you, there’s a good chance that pieces of the wall will. Stone chips hurt when they’re traveling at that sort of speed.
I fired first at my two most intact lizard-men, catching one in the forehead and the other in the throat. They went down hard. I put two more bullets into a third lizard-man, the reports leaving my ears ringing until I could barely hear the shrieks echoing through the sewers.
The lizard-men must have been even more sensitive to sound than humans. They stopped attacking, all of them turning to me as they hissed and bared their teeth.
Mouseguns are intended for self-defense and designed to be easily concealed in street clothes, not to hold enormous numbers of bullets. I kept my .32 raised, trying to look cool and unruffled, despite the blood I could feel trickling down my cheek from a cut near my hairline. I was going to be sore in the morning, assuming we lived through the night.
“I know you understand English,” I said, focusing on the lizard-man with the hacksaw. He was still standing, and he was my best guess for the leader. “Let’s see if you can understand this: back off and let us leave, or I start shooting again.” If they knew firearms, they’d know I was bluffing. If they knew firearms, they’d probably have brought some.
Slowly, the lizard-men began to back up. They weren’t backing away, exactly—the tunnel was too narrow for that—but they were clearing the necessary space for Dominic to move to my side, his short sword still at the ready, and a long, curving dagger in his off hand. That explained how he’d managed to keep the lizard-men from gutting him while he was chopping off their limbs; he had something to stab with, even when he was blocking.
“Now what?” he muttered.
“Now you’re going to lead me out of here, so I don’t have to take my eyes off our new buddies,” I said, keeping the gun aimed, unwavering, at the lizard-leader’s forehead.
“Right,” said Dominic. He stepped out of my field of vision. I felt his hand on my shoulder a moment later, tugging me back the way we’d come.
Even with Dominic making sure I didn’t collide with anything solid, walking was a chore. The previously-dry floor was slippery with blood, and chunks of lizard-man kept getting underfoot, threatening to knock me on my ass. I was glad to be wearing sensible shoes for a change, and doubly glad that I’d wrapped my ankles before we started pounding the pavement.
The lizard-men stayed where they were as we moved away, their tongues flicking, snakelike, to sample the air. Once we reached the first turn in the tunnel, I stepped back, lowered my gun, and looked to Dominic.
“This is where we run,” I said.
He nodded firm assent, grabbed my free hand, and booked it back up the incline toward the place where we’d entered.
The sound of clawed feet striking stone followed us all the way back to the ladder leading to the surface. The lizard-men started out at least twenty feet behind, and only gained slightly. Panic is a great motivator when it comes to sprinting. At the bottom of the ladder, I stopped and shoved Dominic forward, shouting, “Go! I’ll be right behind you!”
“Verity—”
“Don’t be a chivalrous idiot! I’m the one with the gun!”
He went.
Light flooded the tunnel as he shoved the manhole cover off to one side. I heard squeals of reptilian anguish coming from the direction of our pursuers. Looked like our subterranean Sleestak knockoffs couldn’t stand the sunlight. I drew my gun and fired once into the darkness, just to keep them from getting any funny ideas, and followed Dominic up, into the light.
Since I was already staggering, I let myself hit the ground in a runner’s crouch, pulling the throwing knives from the holster strapped around my left ankle. It was difficult to tell exactly where the lizard-men were—the distortion from the cave walls made it almost impossible to know what was the original noise, and what was just a decoy—but Dominic’s breathing was distinct enough from theirs that I could tell where it wasn’t safe to aim. Whipping myself around to face the attackers coming up behind me, I half rose and snapped my wrists forward in the throwing motion Antimony and I spent three summers studying with the local circus.
We may have driven the Incredible Christopher crazy with how long it took us to learn the fine art of knife throwing, but he would have been proud of me in that moment, assuming he could get past the part where I was applying his lessons to an underground battle with an unidentified race of lizard-men. The knives flew straight and true toward their targets, one burying itself in the throat of a third lizard-man, while the other caught the fourth in the shoulder. The one I’d hit in the throat went down like a sack of potatoes. The other remained standing, but squealed, losing his hold on the larger of his two knives.
A severed head went flying overhead from Dominic’s direction, signaling that at least one of his opponents was no longer an issue. I was liking the odds better all the time.
My allotment of lizard-men was starting to advance again, faster this time, their tails waving wildly. Their hissing had acquired a distinctly pissed-off note, distinguishable from their earlier hissing only because it came with a healthy dose of snarling and exposed teeth.
“Dominic?” I shouted, barely ducking a blow from a lead pipe clutched in a scaly tail. “What’s the situation on your end?”
He answered with a grunt of exertion before calling, “Somewhat busy!”
“I know!” I dodged another blow, pulling a stiletto from my sleeve and stabbing the lizard-man’s tail before he could pull it away. He shrieked as he yanked his tail back, taking my stiletto with it. Fighting in quarters this cramped was resulting in a surprisingly large number of lost weapons. “How many do you have left?”
“Three! You?”
“Two and a half!” One of the downed lizard-men staggered to his feet, and I amended, “Three and a half!” The nearest lizard-man lunged for me. I jumped clear, barely, jamming a hand into the waistband of my jeans as my left shoulder slammed into the wall. I hit stone, not concealed lizard-man; that was one possible complication down the drain.
“We need to retreat!”
“I know!” Yanking the .32 from my hip holster, I released the safety and opened fire.
Here’s the thing about friendly fire: it isn’t. Once Mr. Bullet has left Mr. Gun, he is no longer your friend. Shooting a firearm in an enclosed space is a dangerous proposition at best, because the closer the walls are, the more likely you are to set off a ricochet. Even if your bullets don’t come bouncing back at you, there’s a good chance that pieces of the wall will. Stone chips hurt when they’re traveling at that sort of speed.
I fired first at my two most intact lizard-men, catching one in the forehead and the other in the throat. They went down hard. I put two more bullets into a third lizard-man, the reports leaving my ears ringing until I could barely hear the shrieks echoing through the sewers.
The lizard-men must have been even more sensitive to sound than humans. They stopped attacking, all of them turning to me as they hissed and bared their teeth.
Mouseguns are intended for self-defense and designed to be easily concealed in street clothes, not to hold enormous numbers of bullets. I kept my .32 raised, trying to look cool and unruffled, despite the blood I could feel trickling down my cheek from a cut near my hairline. I was going to be sore in the morning, assuming we lived through the night.
“I know you understand English,” I said, focusing on the lizard-man with the hacksaw. He was still standing, and he was my best guess for the leader. “Let’s see if you can understand this: back off and let us leave, or I start shooting again.” If they knew firearms, they’d know I was bluffing. If they knew firearms, they’d probably have brought some.
Slowly, the lizard-men began to back up. They weren’t backing away, exactly—the tunnel was too narrow for that—but they were clearing the necessary space for Dominic to move to my side, his short sword still at the ready, and a long, curving dagger in his off hand. That explained how he’d managed to keep the lizard-men from gutting him while he was chopping off their limbs; he had something to stab with, even when he was blocking.
“Now what?” he muttered.
“Now you’re going to lead me out of here, so I don’t have to take my eyes off our new buddies,” I said, keeping the gun aimed, unwavering, at the lizard-leader’s forehead.
“Right,” said Dominic. He stepped out of my field of vision. I felt his hand on my shoulder a moment later, tugging me back the way we’d come.
Even with Dominic making sure I didn’t collide with anything solid, walking was a chore. The previously-dry floor was slippery with blood, and chunks of lizard-man kept getting underfoot, threatening to knock me on my ass. I was glad to be wearing sensible shoes for a change, and doubly glad that I’d wrapped my ankles before we started pounding the pavement.
The lizard-men stayed where they were as we moved away, their tongues flicking, snakelike, to sample the air. Once we reached the first turn in the tunnel, I stepped back, lowered my gun, and looked to Dominic.
“This is where we run,” I said.
He nodded firm assent, grabbed my free hand, and booked it back up the incline toward the place where we’d entered.
The sound of clawed feet striking stone followed us all the way back to the ladder leading to the surface. The lizard-men started out at least twenty feet behind, and only gained slightly. Panic is a great motivator when it comes to sprinting. At the bottom of the ladder, I stopped and shoved Dominic forward, shouting, “Go! I’ll be right behind you!”
“Verity—”
“Don’t be a chivalrous idiot! I’m the one with the gun!”
He went.
Light flooded the tunnel as he shoved the manhole cover off to one side. I heard squeals of reptilian anguish coming from the direction of our pursuers. Looked like our subterranean Sleestak knockoffs couldn’t stand the sunlight. I drew my gun and fired once into the darkness, just to keep them from getting any funny ideas, and followed Dominic up, into the light.
