Tiger - Jeff Stone [19]
Occasionally, Ying would drift off to sleep in the tunnel. When he failed to show up for a meal or training session, someone would have to go down there and wake him. Ying hated to be woken and would lash out immediately at whoever disturbed him. So none of the monks liked to go near him when he slept. None of the monks, that is, except Fu, who seemed to derive a special pleasure from irritating Ying. Fu would eagerly volunteer every time Ying needed to be woken, especially down in the dark tunnel, where no one was watching. Fu would use his eerily efficient low-light vision to stalk Ying slowly— silently—before waking him with a powerful punch or kick.
And so a special relationship had formed between Ying and Fu. Ying would torment Fu during the day, and Fu would strike back while Ying slept. Ying's feelings toward Fu were a big part of the reason he needed to have some alone time right now. He was upset that the scrolls had been taken, but he was especially upset that Fu had been the one to do it. As he lay there, Ying dreamed he was out on the trail, searching for Fu. Ying loved the thrill of the hunt, and it pained him that he could hunt no more. It was now his responsibility to direct the efforts of others. All he could do was sit back and watch.
Ying felt something brush against his nose and woke instantly, lashing out. But there was no one there. Small rocks and bits of dirt were raining down on his head, a steady stream that quickly turned into a rushing river. Ying managed to roll off to one side and curl into a ball as the river became a tidal wave of debris, and the sky opened above him.
Commander Woo leaned his squat, powerful body over and stared down into the huge hole. The soldier who had been helping him dig lay on the floor of the escape tunnel, atop a mound of earth. The soldier pushed aside his broken shovel and stared up at Commander Woo framed in the early-morning light.
“Are you all right down there?” Commander Woo asked the soldier.
“Yeah, yeah,” the man replied, groaning. “I told you we shouldn't have dug in this spot! I had a feeling the tunnel was—”
“Shhh!” Commander Woo urged in a harsh whisper. “Not so loud! Major Ying is probably still down there somewhere. I don't want him to hear us.”
“Relax,” the soldier said. “If Major Ying was—”
A section of the mound next to the soldier's head suddenly exploded, giving way to a perfectly formed eagle-claw fist. The fist clamped down on the man's throat. Four long fingernails sank deep along one side of his larynx. A razor-sharp thumbnail sank in on the opposite side. The fist squeezed until sound no longer came from the soldier's mouth. Then the claw abruptly released. The soldier scrambled off the mound, trying desperately to cry out for help. He was unsuccessful.
The entire mound shifted, and Major Ying rose from the rubble like a dirty phoenix. He leaped onto the highest point of the mound, then leaped again and soared up through the hole, his arms spread wide. He landed in front of Commander Woo, who took several steps back.
“What do you think you are doing?” Ying asked, shaking his head violently. Dirt flew in every direction.
Commander Woo cleared his throat. “Digging a hole, sir.”
“I can see that, you imbecile. Why are you digging?”
“We need to bury the dead, sir.”
“Bury the dead?” Ying said, leaning toward Commander Woo.
“Yes, sir,” Commander Woo replied. “We should bury our fallen soldiers. We should bury the monks, too. We need to respect the dead.”
“And when do you think you will have time for this?” Ying asked.
“We have already begun, sir.”
“I can see that! It will take you and the men days to dig enough holes.”
“We know, sir,” Commander Woo