• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

For one squad of hunting soldiers, it appeared as if the smoke- and noise-filled environment was not going to present a barrier to success. Having spotted the stolen clothing the prisoner was reported likely to be wearing, two of them managed to jump the jacketed figure while the others stood back and took careful aim, just in case.

The immobilized individual struggled hard but was unable to throw off the determined fighters. Rolled onto its back with the two husky soldiers pinning its arms to its sides, it smiled up at them.

Right jacket, wrong wearer.

A sergeant glared down at the prone, pinned shape.

“Where is he?”

Williams pondered the question, stalling for time until one of the glowering fighters pointedly chambered a round in his weapon and aimed it at her.

“Oh yeah,” she declared, as if just remembering something. “Said he had to run.”

***

The intention of the soldier on the motorcycle that was speeding along the single narrow path was to locate the escaped prisoner and deal with the creature himself. He got his chance, though not exactly in the way he intended. Bursting out of the trees, Wright struck the rider in full stride, knocking him clean off the bike’s seat. The two figures went one way, the errant cycle the other.

Rising, Wright hurried toward where the bike was lying on its side, its wheels still spinning. It appeared to have survived the crash with only cosmetic damage. This did not trouble the escaped prisoner. He had no intention of taking it on parade.

Its dismounted rider had other ideas. Rolling from the impact and rising to his feet almost as quickly as Wright, Barnes pulled his pistol and began firing steadily. Marksman or not, taking potshots at a stationary target suspended in good lighting was not quite the same as trying to hit something fast and powerful that was weaving its way toward you in the depths of night. What shots did hit home bounced without harm, as they had previously, off Wright’s increasingly exposed hybrid body.

An increasingly panicky Barnes tried to steady his aim long enough to get off a shot at Wright’s eyes, but by then the other figure was on top of him. Wrenching the weapon away, the former captive threw the lieutenant to the ground and aimed the powerful handgun. Faced with imminent death, Barnes raised a hand in futile defense and half closed his eyes. Wright’s finger tightened on the trigger—and relaxed. Waiting for the shot that didn’t come, the lieutenant finally opened his eyes again.

Wright was standing directly over him, the gun still clutched in his right hand. Reflexively, Barnes’s eyes dropped to the pistol as he considered his options.

***

With a single backhanded slap that bordered on the contemptuous, Wright knocked him out.

He didn’t even marvel that he was able to lift and straighten the heavy motorcycle with one hand. Throwing his right leg over the seat, he straddled the big bike and gave the ignition a try. To his relief it started right up. Not every machine, he reflected, was the enemy. That thought reminded him that he might be the enemy, and he quickly put it out of his mind.

Shots rang out and slugs began to rip into the ground around him.

What he wanted as much as anything else was time to examine himself, and time seemed to be the one thing he was not going to be allowed. With soldiers advancing behind him and still dynamic minefields remaining off to his left and right, the only possible escape route lay directly ahead.

That meant jumping a high berm that stood between his present location and the far side of the river. Gunning the cycle’s engine, he spewed dirt in his wake as he roared toward the high hillock. Tires dug into the soil as the bike accelerated, hit the take-off point he had chosen, and soared into the air.

He almost made it.

The resultant wipe-out would have killed an ordinary human. It would have mangled most man-sized machines. Marcus Wright, however, was neither. Rising from where he had stopped bouncing, he started toward where