The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [50]
“Well, ’course they do,” said Frey. “If they hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here to talk about it.”
Grist chewed over the logic of that. “You want to live forever or somethin’?”
“I told you. Yes.”
“Sirs,” said Hodd, breaking into their debate. “Might I make a suggestion?”
“What is it?” Frey asked impatiently. But he lost all interest in a response the moment he saw a shaggy figure running up the passageway behind Hodd, a spear raised in its hand.
He reacted instinctively, lunging toward Hodd and shoving him out of the way, aiming with his other hand. He squeezed the trigger too late to stop the beast-man from releasing the spear, but he saw it coming and pulled his shoulder back in time to avoid being impaled. The spear flew past them all and clattered harmlessly down the passageway. The beast-man staggered, dropped to one knee, and keeled over.
Lucky shot, thought Frey. Lucky dodge. Lucky all round, really.
Hodd was staring at him with awe. “You saved my—”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyone see any more coming?” He ducked as an arrow from outside flew in through the breach and bounced off the metal wall.
“Can’t see any right now,” Malvery replied.
“I hear them,” said Jez. She’d taken on that trancelike, distant look that she got more and more lately. Or it might have been the shock of getting an arrow pulled out of her hand. “A dozen or so. They’re inside the craft.”
Frey turned to Grist and saw the captain staring intently at Jez, a frown on his face. “She’s got good ears,” he said quickly. “Seems like you were right. There is another way in. We can’t stay here.”
Grist stuck a fresh cigar in his mouth and lit it with a match. “Death or glory, then?”
Frey sighed. “I suppose so.”
They spilled from the breach in a disorganized mass, guns pointing everywhere, firing randomly and shouting insults. The rainforest hid their assailants. Arrows thumped into the ground at their feet or hissed through the air, coming from nowhere. They ran headlong toward the enemy, racing for the low ridge that was the only way out of the trap. It was just visible through the trees, a craggy wall three or four times the height of a man. They’d have to climb it while those bloody beast-men were doing their level best to kill them.
Frey was terrified. Full-frontal assaults were among his least favorite ways to spend a day.
Two revolvers, he thought. Five chambers each. That’s ten bullets. One of them is in that hairy bastard back in the dreadnought. That leaves nine.
Something moved at the periphery of his vision. He saw a red-furred creature squatting on a tree branch overhead, aiming a bow down at them. It was flat-faced and heavy-browed, with hardly any nose to speak of. It wore a tangle of bone jewelry and a crudely patterned smock. He shot it and it flew backward off the branch, the arrow going wide.
Eight.
“Hey!”
He glanced over his shoulder. The cry had come from Tarworth, the crewman Pinn had shot in the leg. He was limping after them with his rifle as a crutch, but he was unable to keep up. Frey didn’t have the slightest intention of slowing down for him, but he thought Grist and Crattle might have spared a moment to consider their crewman. Apparently not. That wasn’t how it worked under Grist’s command.
“Hey, wait for me!” Tarworth called, fear giving his voice a touch of hysteria. Two arrows hit him almost simultaneously. One in the chest, one in the eye. His crutch slipped under him and he went down in a clumsy tumble.
Frey looked away. No time to give a damn. Men died all the time. His concern was protecting his own.
The beast-men came out of the foliage, rushing in with their carved wooden clubs, ready to crack skulls. Frey was crushed amid a chaotic mêlée. Shotguns roared at close range. Hot blood spattered his face. He saw Silo, pistol in one hand, machete in the other. He swung and split the jaw of a beast-man. Malvery fired wildly and blew off one of their assailant’s legs at the knee.
Suddenly the group of defenders surged and Frey found himself out on the edge. One of the creatures was coming at him, a thing out of a nightmare,