Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [111]
“How much ammo do we have?” Malvery asked.
“I got … um … twelve, thirteen bullets?” Pinn replied.
“I’m on about the same. Crake?”
Crake gave Pinn his revolver and a handful of bullets. “You take them. I wouldn’t hit anything anyway.”
“Right-o,” said the doctor, aiming his gun. “Pick your targets.”
The men of the Delirium Trigger had swelled in number now. Some held back, studying the situation, while others angrily demanded action. One or two even tried to run up the gantry but were held back by their companions. A chancy long-range shot spanged off Bess’s shoulder.
“Look at ’em,” Pinn crowed. “Bunch of pussies.”
Directed by the bosun, the crew commandeered crowbars from dockworkers and started jimmying nearby bits of machinery. The militia had caught up now—beige uniforms milled in the crowd—but having assessed the situation they seemed happy enough to let the men of the Delirium Trigger handle it. Presumably they’d claim the credit afterward. It was easier than risking any of their own.
“What are they doing out there?” Malvery murmured to himself.
Crake peered out, took one look, and went back into hiding. “They’re making a shield.”
He was right. Moments later, ten men started to advance up the gantry, holding before them a large sheet of iron pulled from the side of a crane. They crept forward nervously but with purpose, their guns bristling out around the side of the shield.
“Hmm,” said Malvery.
“What?” said Pinn. “Soon as they get close enough, we send Crake’s girl out to get ’em. She’ll squash ’em into paste.”
“Ain’t quite that easy,” said the doctor, nodding toward the hangar deck. “Look.”
Pinn looked. Five men had taken position at the edge of the deck and were lying on their bellies, aiming long-barreled rifles at them.
“Sharpshooters,” said Malvery. “If Bess moves, we lose our cover, and they kill us.” As if to punctuate his statement, a bullet ricocheted off Bess, inches from his face. He drew back a little way.
“Bugger,” said Pinn. “Why do we never come up with plans like that?”
“We did,” said Malvery. “That’s how we ended up here.”
The men of the Delirium Trigger crept steadily closer. The narrow angle along the gantry made it impossible to get a good shot at any of them. Malvery tried an experimental salvo with his pistol, but it only rattled their shield. They stopped for a moment, then continued.
Crake was sweating and muttering, calling himself all the names he could think of. He should never have gotten into this situation. He wanted to be sick, but there was nothing in his stomach: he’d been too nervous to eat before they set out on this mission.
The shield, having crossed much of the gantry, stopped. The men hunkered down behind it, becoming invisible. There was an agonizing sense of calm before the inevitable storm.
“Well,” said Malvery to Pinn. “I’d say it was nice knowing you, but …” He shrugged. “You know.”
“Likewise, you whiskery old fart.” Pinn smiled, mistaking genuine distaste for comradely affection. Then the men of the Delirium Trigger popped up out of hiding with their guns blazing, and all thought was lost in the chaos.
The assault was terrifying. They fired until their guns were empty, then ducked down to reload while the men behind them continued the barrage. Bess groaned and howled as she was peppered with bullets. They smacked into her at close range, blasting holes in the chain mail and leather at her joints, chipping her metal faceplate. She swatted at the air as if plagued by bees, cries of distress coming from deep inside her.
Crake had his hands over his ears, yelling over the tumult, a blunt shout of fear and rage and sorrow. The sound of leaden death was bad enough. The sound of Bess’s pain was worse.
Malvery managed to point his pistol around the side of Bess’s flank and fire off a shot or two, but it did no good. They crammed in behind the golem as best they could, but bullets were flying everywhere and they dared not break cover. Bess was being driven back by the cumulative impacts of the bullets, which punched at her armor, cutting into