The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [172]
Larsen said nothing. She took another step back, then turned to move down the corridor.
She stopped, jaw open, and stared. Ten steps away, Beltan and the chin-pasi stared back.
For several moments they stood this way, frozen. Then a grin crept across Beltan’s face.
Larsen lifted a hand to her chest. “Doyle.”
“You still there, Ananda?” The male doctor turned around, and his eyes went wide. “Jesus!”
He lunged toward the wall, reaching for a red button. With a screech, the chin-pasi sprang toward him. She reached the doctor just as his hand struck the button. A wailing sound pierced the air, and lights flashed. The doctor screamed as he tumbled backward, the chin-pasi on top of him.
“Ellie!” Ananda cried. “No!”
Long, black fingers tightened around the man’s neck, and the chin-pasi let out another screech as she thrust forward. The back of his head contacted the floor with a loud crack. The man went limp, and the chin-pasi looked up. There was sorrow in her brown eyes, as well as a faint, pale light.
The alarm continued to wail. The guards would be here in moments. Beltan moved to Larsen in stiff, quick steps.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please, don’t kill me.”
Beltan reached out with big hands. “I’m sorry.”
He encircled her neck with his fingers, squeezed. Her eyes bulged. She scrabbled at his hands, but she could not break his grip. He began to close his fingers—
—then froze.
What’s wrong? Are you a weakling, boy? Finish her.
The sterile corridor was gone. He was in a wintry wood, kneeling in snow stained crimson. Before him lay a young doe, sides heaving for breath. Foam bubbled around the arrow stuck in her side.
I said finish her!
She was so beautiful, so weak. He couldn’t do it.
A snort of disgust. A strong hand wrested the knife from him. His father’s hand.
I’ll do it myself, then, if you’re such a coward. Like a girl you are, not a son of my flesh.
Beldreas made one, quick slashing motion, and a river of red steamed as it gushed onto the snow.
The corridor wavered back into focus. Beltan loosened his grip. Larsen choked, drew in a shuddering breath.
He couldn’t do it. No matter what she had done to him, she did not deserve to have her blood spilled like this.
He shoved her away. She struck a wall, then sank to the ground, staring up at him. He grinned again, then pressed his finger to his lips. Quiet now.
He started forward, stepping over the body of the doctor. The man’s eyes gazed upward, dead. Beyond the opening was a flat space bounded by some kind of wire fence. Five long, black, blocky shapes were arranged in parallel, and it was from those the roaring came. Beltan thought he knew what they were. Travis had described things like this to him. These were the t’ruks the guard had spoken of. Vehicles, like wagons, for transport. He blinked against a sharp wind, then stepped through the doorway.
Behind him, a scream rose above the wailing of the siren.
“Here—he’s down here! Oh, God, help me. I think Doyle is dead.”
So Dr. Larsen had not heeded his wish for silence. The sound of booted feet echoed behind him. Beltan turned in time to see two of the guards in black pounding down the corridor. They moved past Larsen, still huddled on the floor, and leaped over the body of the fallen doctor without even glancing at it.
One of the guards was faster than the other. He reached Beltan first. The man coiled a thick arm around Beltan’s neck and planted a foot behind Beltan’s leg, obviously thinking it would be easy to take down this skinny, mostly naked man.
Beltan let out a roar that was part anger, part delight. He grabbed the man’s arm, twisted it back, then stepped across the man’s leg and braced his own behind. By Vathris, it was easy. He leaned into the guard. The man cried out—more in surprise than pain—and bent back. There was a wet popping as the man’s leg buckled. The jagged end of his thighbone thrust outward through his black pants, along with a gout of dark blood. Now the man’s cry became one of agony. He fell to the ground, writhing. Beltan looked up.
“Drop