Part 29 (1/2)

Suddenly a sound like metallic rain began to circle them-plink-plink-plink-plink!-and small holes began to appear in the truck's fenders like strange magic. ”Someone's popping caps at us!” Phil shouted. ”Get down!”

He dragged Eagle to the dirt. Christ, how many of them are there? His peripheral vision caught the white dots of muzzleflash on the far side of the house.

A fifth Creeker was running toward them, firing a pistol.

Phil ripped another burst of .45 off the MAC...

The Creeker went down with a garbled howl.

”Got him!” Eagle shouted with glee.

Then a sixth Creeker, much taller and less coordinated, turned the corner and advanced on them, too.

He was firing a pump shotgun.

”Jesus Christ!” Phil complained. ”What, did they charter a f.u.c.king bus!” And when he aimed the MAC and squeezed- ”s.h.i.+t, man!” Eagle shrieked.

-nothing happened. The bolt locked open. The clip was empty. Phil swore under his breath. A mere few seconds had expended the MACs magazine. I wish to h.e.l.l these things would shoot for as long as they do in the movies! He s.n.a.t.c.hed Eagle's revolver and, using the truck as cover, drew a bead on the advancing Creeker. Steady, steady. This would be tough. Just when he'd acquired a decent target, the next shotgun round blew out the winds.h.i.+eld. Another shot socked into the side of the truck, spraying pellets across the hood, then another tore through the pa.s.senger and driver's windows.

Phil sprang back up, aimed, fired.

The .38 caught the Creeker in the groin and dropped him, screaming, in the gra.s.s.

G.o.d, I hope that's all of them.

Getting out of here on foot would be h.e.l.l, but at least Eagle knew where they were. Phil turned. ”All right, man, now we run our a.s.ses off-”

But when Phil turned, Eagle wasn't standing there. Instead, he was lying there- ”Eagle! No!”

-gargling his own blood.

Frantic, Phil dropped to his knees. Eagle convulsed in the gra.s.s. That last shotgun round, Phil realized. It had blown through the pa.s.senger and driver's windows and caught Eagle high in the chest. Eagle reached up feebly, s.h.i.+vering. Bubbles of blood percolated at the holes in his chest as he tried to breathe.

Phil didn't know what to do. This was about the hardest type of wound to treat in the field. And moving him would be fatal. ”Hang on, man,” was all Phil could say.

”Aw, s.h.i.+t, they really f.u.c.ked me over,” Eagle's voice gurgled. He hacked up some blood, which looked like black syrup in the moonlight. ”Can't move, can't hardly breathe...”

”Just sit tight,” Phil implored. ”If I try to carry you out of here, you'll never make it. I'll be back as soon as I can with an ambulance.”

Eagle's hand shakily grabbed Phil's s.h.i.+rtsleeve. His eyes were gla.s.sing over. ”Pop me, man. I'm f.u.c.kin' dyin'.”

Phil knew he was right. Eagle would be dead in minutes, drowned in his own blood.

”You'll be all right, man. Just hang in there.”

Blood bubbled out of Eagle's mouth with the words. ”Kill me, Phil, I'm beggin'ya. Don't leave me alive...for them.”

Phil stared down. ”You're gonna be okay,” he said, knowing it was a lie. ”I got all the Creekers, so you just wait it out. I'll be back as fast as I can... But, look, Eagle, you gotta tell me something first. You gotta tell me where Natter's lab is.”

The dying eyes gazed back up. ”Natter? Lab?”

”Natter's dust lab. It's got to be out here somewhere. Tell me where it is, Eagle. Then I can pay them back for this s.h.i.+t.”

”The...lab...” was all Eagle could reply with any coherence. A high, wet whistling sound ensued as his chest heaved. He mumbled some words unintelligibly, then twitched. The hand gripping Phil's sleeve fell away...

Then Eagle died.

Phil sighed. Poor f.u.c.ker. An array of feelings collided: rage, sadness, confusion. Things like this shouldn't happen. Why did the world have to be so insane? Sure, Eagle was a penny-ante dust runner, a two-bit criminal who Phil was playing for a dupe, but he didn't deserve this. In spite of Phil's undercover role, and in spite of his unrestrained hatred of PCP, Eagle was still, in a way, Phil's friend...

”G.o.dd.a.m.n it,” he muttered.

click.

Phil's heart seemed to stop mid-beat. The click had sounded at his head. Someone c.o.c.king a pistol hammer...

Phil, still on his knees, dropped his own gun. Very slowly, his eyes turned up.

Yet another Creeker stood before him, with odd, knuckly double-jointed hands that seemed to wrap around the revolver he gripped. The right side of his skull possessed a swell large as a cantaloupe, and his entire head seemed to hang off a thin, extended neck. His nose sported but one nostril.

The hard steel tip of the pistol barrel nudged mockingly at Phil's temple...

I'm dead, Phil was able to contemplate. It was not an easy surmise to make, but Phil managed to do so with a surprising sense of calm.

But the Creeker kid paused. The scarlet eyes, which seemed twice the size of normal eyes, peered down at Eagle's corpse and the ma.s.sive, bleeding chest wound.

”Skeet-inner-to,” the kid said. ”Ona-prey-bee.”

Creeker jibberish, Phil realized. The words oozed thick in their defect. But why doesn't he just kill me now?

Then the weird red eyes moved back to Phil's face. The gun, a Smith .38, wavered.

Mannona, the word suddenly drifted from the kid. And then another word: Onnamann.

Phil's thoughts seized in a sudden static. He blinked. What eventually occurred to him was this: he hadn't heard the words in his ears-he seemed to have heard them in his head.

The kid's red eyes stared at him.

What's he waiting for? Phil thought, but he didn't think for long. He used the extra second to his advantage and quickly snapped his hands up. The disarm technique they'd taught him in the academy worked to a tee. His left hand grabbed the barrel, his right hand grabbed the Creeker's wrist, then, simultaneously, he pushed, twisting the gun right out of the kid's hand.

The kid's face went wide with astonishment-the disarm had taken less than a second.

Phil stood up, training the gun between the Creeker's crooked eyes. ”Where's Natter's lab, you ugly f.u.c.k?”

Fat lips like tumors parted. The kid blinked.

”Mannona,” he repeated. Then he lunged.