Its mouth opened and the Watcher screamed. The creature’s rotting breath rippled Felon’s hair and his ears were pushed to a pitch where all sound turned to a buzz. A heavy hand grabbed Felon’s right wrist, pushed it aside with ease. The assassin slid his left knee under the Watcher’s chin, forced it back as far as he could. He flipped the empty. 9 mm from his right hand and snagged the. 44 out of its holster with his left. He pressed its mouth against the creature’s forearm and fired once. The thing shrieked as bone and flesh dissolved and it leapt back with a beat of its wings.
Felon glanced at Passport and would have shot him but the Watcher attacked again. One powerful beat of its wings knocked the assassin into the oil drums before he could gain his feet. The Watcher kicked out, and Felon’s left leg went numb. Blood sprayed across the boat. The assassin reached up to his belt, yanked on the big buckle, and pulled a short stabbing knife free in time to deflect the Watcher’s bite with a slash under its chin. It shrieked again, but Felon pressed, managed a shallow cut along its throat. It turned quickly, smashing the assassin across the hips with its tail, throwing him into the short rail that ran around the top of the gunnels. Felon dropped to the deck, raised his. 44 and fired a shot at its face. A chunk of scales came off the thick bone on its forehead.
Felon howled at the creature, slashed with his knife. He fired the . 44 again but was swept into the drums by the Watcher’s tail. Before he could get to his feet its claws sunk into his waist and tore into his shoulder. It shrieked, and pulled him off the deck.
Growling for escape, Felon was lifted between tall brick walls that formed the channel. The boat dropped away. Constricted as he was, Felon gritted his teeth against the pain, cursed as his knife fell out of his hand. He jammed the. 44’s barrel into the Watcher’s groin and fired it empty. The Watcher screamed, raked its jaws at Felon-but its abdomen was torn and spilling a hot deluge on its prey. The Watcher threw its head back, jaws working, throat constricted around a scream. It struck at the assassin like a snake-to sink its fangs into Felon’s throat and face.
Felon ducked-but his temple struck against bone. Electric shock jumped over his vision as they fell. The assassin saw the crowd of Swimmers bloated, white against the black water now-arms reaching upward. Hundreds crowded the trawler as the water came up hard. It was like a wall of ice when he hit.
74 – The Dream
Updike was dreaming. Lying on a bed of flowers he exulted-the aroma of nature penetrated every pore of him. The yellow sun blazed down. Its rays warmed his face with prickly heat. High, high above, clouds scuttled by in long straight lines of haze-Stratus Nimbus clouds-he thought-or was it Nimbus Stratus? The clouds swept by bound for distant lands. He smiled. It had been so long that his bunching cheek muscles felt alien-unnatural. He took a deep breath, tasted the musty, damp pollen on the breeze. Alive. He rolled on his side giggling. A valley swept away from him for many miles, the vista of flowers and grass alive with color shimmered in the heat. Daisies waggled their windswept manes-bluebells grew in the grass like sapphire stars. His body buzzed with sensation. Oh God! He ran his hands over his skin.
Then Updike turned with a start, forced himself up on his hands and knees. What was that? A voice? No, there was something else-a distant thump or bang-a noise like something heavy had fallen and an echo when it hit the ground. Perhaps a crane had dropped a chunk of iron or steel. But there were no engine noises, so-and there it was again. Slightly louder, and being ready for it-he concentrated on the sound. No, not metallic at all. A thump, like a tree would make after a lumberjack cried: timber! There it was again, a thump.
A strange anxiety crept into his peaceful state-slowly, subtly. It first showed itself in the unclenching of his jaws, and the disappearance of his smile. He looked to where he had lain in the grass-a strip of green was parted and flattened. But, as he watched, as if by magic the grass thinned and dirt began to show through-black dirt turning to mud that oozed between the blades. Again the thump.
It startled him-his eyes flashed up-left-right-the distance had closed in with a wall of gray-like fog or cloud. What now? No valley. A cool wind blew about him-he struggled a moment, pulled his coat tight. Thump! His brow knitted, his lips pushed forward in a frown.
A gust blew across the flowers-their faces dull like faded paint. Updike looked skyward, but the sun had gone. Thump. Heavy gray clouds covered all. He looked down-the grass was withering, brown appeared at its edges and ate its way to the center. Thump. A heavy scent of rot reached his nose, he sniffled, saw the black earth had extruded great leaves of darkness like dung. White worms wiggled through its surface. Thump. Thump. Twice now the sound. What’s this?
The flowers had changed. The bluebells had turned to hardened ebony orbs, the daisies to white lacquered balls. Thump. Thump. Thump! Before his eyes the blossoms changed-cheekbones appeared-black eye sockets-grinning brown teeth. Thump! Thump! The miniature skulls bobbed on their thin white necks-their mouths moved.
“Eavesdropper!” they hissed like adders. “Eavesdropper!”
Thump. Pressure grew. Thump. His ears felt like molten plastic. Thump!
“Updike!” An itching as hot and urgent as a stroke ran through his brain. He looked at his hands. They were black and crawling with maggots. Yellow finger bones ripped through the rotting flesh like lily shoots.
“Jack!” His name pulled him from sleep. His pain was waiting to throttle the scream in his throat. Moaning, he clutched his forehead with both hands, kicked his blankets away.
“Jack?” The voice was Oliver’s.
“No.” Updike could say nothing more. Pain hammered a hot nail into his eye. He was lying on his back. His bed was moving, bouncing. A thin pillow did not help him. It felt like his skull was shattering. He was in a transport. Where were they going?
“It’s me Jack!” Oliver knelt over him.
“Yes.” Updike searched, found the proper answer and repeated it again. “Yes.”
“It’s a dream. A bad dream.” Oliver pulled a bottle of painkillers from Updike’s pack and fidgeted with a canteen. Water spilled on the preacher’s chest. “How many have you-oh Jack!”
“No! Don’t be ridiculous!” His voice was brittle. “I’m sorry, Oliver. You’re right. I’ve been pushing myself too hard!” He kept one hand pressed against his left eye, levered himself into a sitting position with the other. Yes, he was in his transport. He’d climbed in when General Bolton ordered the transports and mechanized units to take as many soldiers toward the plains as possible. City Defenders were falling back-likely to other poorly prepared defenses.
Bolton wanted to take the momentum forward. The rest of the infantry could make their best time and arrive in a second wave over the next few hours. General Carstair’s force would be in position by sunrise. Lorenzo had managed to rally his people and would arrive the following day with 110,000 infantry.
“Jack.” Oliver whispered, the transport lurched and he steadied himself against the bed. “You’re not getting any better.”
“I’ll be fine.” He picked up a bottle, quickly read the label. “Damn things give me nightmares.” He saw that his statement did nothing to reassure so he changed the topic. “Almost there?”
“I’ve got bad news.” Oliver’s dead face held vital sadness.
“What?” His friend’s urgency was a silent shout.
“Able is missing.” Moisture clouded the dead man’s eyes.