Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [149]
The man groaned, a patch of moonlight draping his torso, the dark stain of blood slowly spreading downward from his shoulder. “I’m hit,” he groaned. “I need help.”
“It’s not fatal,” said Hayward. Her own wound was throbbing, her leg felt like a piece of lead. She hoped she wasn’t bleeding to death. Because she was half immersed in water, the shooter didn’t know she’d been shot. She could feel the slither and bump of things against her wounded leg—probably fish, attracted to the blood.
More shots rang out behind her, the massive sound of Pendergast’s .45 interspersed with the sharper crack of the second shooter’s rifle. The firing became sporadic, and then there was silence. A long silence.
“What’s your name?” Hayward asked.
“Ventura,” the man said. “Mike—”
A single crack. The man named Ventura jerked backward and, with a single grunt, collapsed heavily into the bottom of the boat, twitched, and was still.
Hayward, in sudden panic, dropped down low into the water, clinging to the gunwale with one hand. Vile water creatures were worrying at her wound, and she could feel the wriggling of countless leeches.
She heard a splash, swung around with the gun—only to see Pendergast moving toward her through the water, low and slow. He gestured at her to remain silent, then grasped the gunwale, looked around intently for a moment, and in one swift movement swung himself into the boat. She heard him moving about, then he was back over the side, sinking back into the water next to her.
“You all right?” he whispered.
“No. I’m hit.”
“Where?”
“Leg.”
“We’ve got to get you out of the water.” The agent grasped her arm and began to tow her to shore. The silence was profound; the shooting had frightened all life in the swamp into a standstill. There were no splashes, no croaks or chirps and rustlings.
She felt a faint current, and then something hard and scaly brushed her underwater. She stifled a scream. The surface of the water dimpled in the moonlight, and two reptilian eyes rose, along with a pair of scaly nostrils. With a terrifying explosion of water it lunged at her; Pendergast simultaneously fired his gun; she felt something sharp and massive and inexorable clamp down on her injured leg and she was yanked underwater, the pain spiking excruciatingly.
Struggling, Pendergast still gripping her arm, she tried to twist away, but the huge alligator was pulling her down into the mud at the bed of the channel. She tried to scream, her mouth filling with stagnant water. She heard the thud of his shots above the surface. She twisted again, jammed the handgun into the thing gripping her leg, and fired.
A huge report; the concussion of the shot and the violent, spastic reaction of the alligator combining into a single huge explosion. The terrible biting pressure was released and she clawed her way out of the muck, gasping.
With an almost violent motion Pendergast hauled her to shore, pulling her into the shallow water and onto a bed of ferns. She felt him tear up her pant leg, rinse the wounds as best he could, and bind them with the strips of cloth.
“The other shooter,” she said, feeling dizzy. “Did you get him?”
“No. It’s possible I winged him—I routed him from his hiding place and saw his shadow flitting back into the swamp.”
“Why hasn’t he started shooting again?”
“He may be looking for a new spot from which to improve his fire discipline. The fellow in the boat was killed by a .30-30 round. Not one of ours.”
“An accident?” she gasped, trying to keep her mind off the pain.
“Probably not.”
He slung her arm around his shoulders and hauled her to her feet. “There’s only one thing we can do—get you to Spanish Island. Now.”
“But the other shooter. He’s still out there, somewhere.”
“I know.” Pendergast nodded at her leg. “But that wound can’t wait.”
71
HER ARM AROUND PENDERGAST’S NECK, HAYWARD stumbled through the sucking mud, slipping constantly, at times almost dragging him into the muck with her. With