"Come on," John said. He started walking toward where the path turned out of sight, striding quickly. Cole followed, Leon right behind. John stopped about ten feet short of the turn and backed against the wall again, glancing at Leon.
"You want to cover, or me?" Leon asked softly.
"Me," John said. "I step out first, draw their fire.
You run, Henry, right behind him—and head down, got it? Get across, get to the door—if you can, help me out—"
John's face was solemn. "—if you can't, you can't."
Cole felt a by-now-too-familiar rush of shame.
They're protectingme,they don't even know me and I got them into this... if he could do something to return the favor, he would, although he was suddenly quite sure that he'd never be able to even things out; he owed these guys hislife,a couple times over already.
"Ready?" John asked.
"Wait—" Leon turned and jogged back to where he'd dropped the sweatshirt. The Spitter by the hatch stood as silent and immobile as a statue, watching them. Leon scooped up the shirt and hurried back, slipping a pocket knife out of his pack. He cut off the offending sleeve, letting it fall, then handed the rest to John.
"If you're gonna be standing still, keep your face covered," Leon said. "Since they don't seem to notice bullets, you won't need to see, to shoot. Once we're across, I'll give a yell. And if it's not safe, I'll—"
The rattling, peremptory calls had started up again, making Cole think of cicadas for some reason, the almost mechanicalree-ree-reesound of cicadas on a hot summer night. He swallowed hard, trying to pretend to himself that he was ready.
"Outta time," John said. "Get ready to go—"
He held up the sweatshirt, then—astoundingly— grinned at Leon. "My man, youmustinvest in a stronger deodorant; you stink like a dead dog."
Without waiting for a response, John put the shirt over his head, holding it open at the bottom so he could see the floor. He jogged out into the open, his face down, Cole and Leon both tensing—
—and there was a rapidpatpatpatpat,and the black
material over John's face was suddenly dripping with great strings of the poison red snot, and he jerked his hand at them—
—and Leon said, "Now!" and Cole ran, head down, seeing only Leon's boots sprinting in front of him, a blur of gray rock, his own thin legs as he sprinted. He heard a gurgling cry to his left and ducked down even farther, terrified—
—and there was thethumpof wood in front of him, and then he was on the bridge, flat wooden slats rippling underfoot, tied with scrawny twine. He saw the vee-shaped gorge underneath, saw that it was deep,that it had been dug into the earth beneath the Planet, forty, fifty feet—
—and then he was back on gray land, before vertigo could even occur to him. He ran, thinking of how wonderful it was that all he needed to think about was Leon's boots, his heart hammering against his breastbone.
Seconds or minutes later, he didn't know, the boots slowed, and Cole dared to look up. The wall, the wall and there was the hatch! They'd made it!
"John, go! "Leon screamed, taking a few running steps back the way they'd come, his semi up and
ready."Go!"
Cole turned, saw John rip off the black hood, saw the handful of Spitters grouped loosely in front of him, six, seven of them, calling once more. John tore through their ranks, and at least two of them spat, but John was fast, fast enough that only a tiny bit hit his shoulder, at least as far as Cole could tell. The monstrous creatures started after him in their jumping, hopping movements, not as fast but close.
Run run run!
Cole pointed the nine-millimeter in the direction of the Spitters, ready to shoot if he thought he could get a clear shot, as John hit the bridge—
—and disappeared. The bridge collapsed, and John disappeared.
SIXTEEN
JOHN FELT THE BRIDGE DROP AN INCH OR two about a half second before the ropes snapped. He instinctively put his hands out, still running, thinking he'd make it—
—and then he was falling, his knees slamming into a moving wall of wooden slats, his hands clenching the second they touched solid—
—and all he heard was awhooshsound, and then the knuckles of his right hand crashed into rock, and he was dangling over a very deep chasm, a slat of loose wood in his left hand. He'd managed to grip one of the pieces still attached to the now hanging bridge; both ties that had anchored it to the north side of the rift had snapped.
John dropped the useless slat, hearing it clatter to the bottom of the chasm along with several other pieces that had come untied. He reached up to get a better grip—
—andthwack,a gob of red mucous suddenly appeared in front of him, less than a foot to the right of his face, sliding down the chasm wall in a melting rope.
—shit on toast—
Bambambam,someone was shooting a nine-millimeter, and the rising rattle of Spitters getting ready to spit told him that he definitely needed to get out.
He reached up again, his biceps flexing, straining against the fabric of his sweatshirt as he grabbed one of the slats above and pulled himself up. Above, more shots, closer, and a shout from Leon that was cut oiF as more bullets thundered.
Kick ass, boys, I'm coming—
Hand over hand was a bitch, particularly with bleeding knuckles and an automatic rifle hanging from his neck, but he thought he was doing pretty well, reaching up for the next handhold—
—and hot wetness hit the back of his right hand, and ithurt,it was like acid, burning—
—and he let go, flinging the gelid acid away, wiping at his shirt wildly. He held on to the shuddering bridge with his left, but just barely, the pain like a fire, maddening. It was all he could do to resist his natural instinct, to clutch at the screaming wound— and with the way his fingers were starting to tingle, he thought he might not have that much longer to worry about it.
"He's right here!"
A cracked, hysterical shout from directly above.
John tilted his head back, saw Cole crouched at the lip
of the chasm, his work shirt pulled up over his nose, his gaze frantic and scared.
"John, give me your hand!" He screamed, and reached down as far as he could, flakes of concrete falling from beneath his sliding boots. If he said anything else, it was lost in another series of explosive rounds as Leon worked to hold the Spitters at bay.
It only took a split-second for John to react to Cole's command, and in that instant he understood that he was going to get out. Henry Cole stood all of five-eight and probably weighed one-fifty sopping wet. With his clothes on. What was more, he looked like some mad turtle hunkered down in the shell of his
shirt.
Too goddamn funny.Funny, and touching in an idiotic way, and although his hand still hurt like a son of a bitch, he'd actually forgotten to feel it for a second or two.
John grinned, ignoring Cole's trembling fingers, forcing himself to concentrate on pulling himself up with his injured hand. There were more rattling cries from behind him but no spit-bombs for the moment.
"Tell Leon to use the grenade," he gasped, and Cole turned, shouting over another burst from Leon's semi.
". . . says grenade! John says use a grenade!"
"Not yet!" Leon screamed back. "Get clear!"
Thwap-wap,two more globs flew across the chasm, one hitting Cole's boot, the other only inches from John's sweating face.
Put on the power, John—With a final, deeply felt grunt, John grabbed the wood at the very top and
pulled himself up, pulled and then was pushing down, bringing his knee up to climb out.
"I'm good, go!"
Cole the mad turtle needed no further incentive. He took off running as Leon continued to cover for John, as John crouch-ran toward him, jamming his injured hand into his pack and pulling out his last grenade— he'd already popped the pin when he saw that Leon had his grenade in hand.