Doctor Who_ Combat Rock - Mick Lewis [61]
Jamie saw the scythe first, but that was just one scary detail in a whole list of scary details. The scythe was wielded by a dark-skinned man in grubby overalls with a drooping red mohawk and a swivelling gadget where his left eye should be.
The scythe was gripped by the right hand only, because the left hand was gone, and a serrated device emerged from the grimy sleeve to replace it. The man’s huge metal boots clumped loudly as he charged at Jamie, and the scythe crackled as he lifted it; the Scot could see sparks of energy flickering along the edge of the blade.
The two guerrillas were behind him, too shocked for the moment to bring their weapons to bear. Jamie reacted faster, diving under the workbench as the scythe swept through the space he had just vacated. The blade hit the leg of the bench.
A sonic frizz of energy and the bench was three-legged. Some equipment clattered to the floor. Jamie squirmed out from under the table again in time to see the torturer go for one of the guerrillas. The scythe met the rebel’s abdomen, bisected it neatly, the torso and legs falling in different directions, cauterised by the charged blade.
The remaining guerrilla was stupid enough to gape too long in horror at his friend’s grisly fate. The power scythe arced, took away the rebel’s gun arm and part of his head with it. Then he was coming at Jamie again.
Jamie was on his feet now, and met the scythe’s attack with his machete. The machete became a jagged dagger in his hand – a haft and a shard of blade. He tried to ram it at the torturer anyway, and succeeded in embedding it in his assailant’s right wrist. The scythe dropped, and the torturer locked with the Scot, grappling hand to hand.
The torturer pressed his bleeding right wrist into Jamie’s face, momentarily blinding him. The jagged attachment on his left hand ripped at the highlander’s belly, gouging viciously.
Jamie felt his shirt rip and a flash of pain, and instinctively jerked his right knee into the torturer’s groin. His kneecap didn’t connect with what he’d expected – just a hollow of flesh – and his surprise robbed him of initiative. The torturer seized the opportunity and slammed the side of his arm implement against Jamie’s temple, at the same time throwing his right leg behind Jamie’s.
The highlander went down, the torturer on top of him, the serrated instrument forcing itself closer to the young Scot’s face. He was staring up into the face of the monster, and the eye probe was buzzing as servos kicked in along with his obvious excitement. The torturer was talking now in what could have been an Indoni tongue as he locked one arm against Jamie’s throat and pushed the instrument closer with the other, Jamie felt his strength sap away in his efforts to ward it off. The voice sealed it: Jamie gave way to the surreal horror of a woman’s deep-edged tones growling from what he had assumed was a man’s throat, and he would have given up the battle for good and all, had not a bark of energy sounded from behind him.
The head leering above him was reduced to molten slop.
Jamie felt the heat of the flash burn on his own face. The torturer collapsed on top of him, ousted brains seared and fused with flesh, blood and bone into a grisly ice-cream whip sculpture. Jamie rolled free, panting.
A guerrilla stood in the doorway, pulse rifle lowered, his face twisted with disbelief. ‘Bornese Bitch-man,’ he hissed.
‘You lucky I come.’
Jamie patted him on the shoulder, and after both of them had checked to make sure every box contained only dead men and women, they left the room and all its horror and hurried back up the stairwell. At the top, Jamie offered to help carry the former prisoner, but the rebel shook his head slowly, obviously more clear-headed than the others Jamie had entered with. They couldn’t afford to carry bodies now, there wasn’t enough room in the cruiser for all of them.
As they emerged into the courtyard again, the last sniper’s body was just landing, having been propelled from