James Axler Page 10

  “You bastard!” the Fomorian spit. “You fucking bastard!”

  Kane stepped away from his blinded foe. With one hand clamped over the gory remnants in its socket, the Fomorian crawled to his knees, swinging his remaining limb around. Kane knew that he needed a weapon to deal with the blinded cyclops’s brother, and that meant he had to take the Fomorian’s remaining hatchet. Of course, even blind, the hunter had too much strength to simply knock out and disarm. Kane lunged, snaking one arm under the Fomorian’s chin, the fingers of his other hand sinking into the monstrosity’s scalp.

  The Fomorian released his bloody eye socket, gore-stained fingers reaching for Kane as he tightened the headlock. The hunter was unable to gain a solid grasp on the Cerberus warrior, but the Fomorian’s other hand locked around Kane’s forearm. It was now or never, he thought, and he jammed both of his knees between the blinded creature’s shoulder blades. Before the Fomorian could pry Kane’s forearm from his throat, Kane threw all of his might into a savage twist. Tendons popped like gunshots, but Kane didn’t relax the pressure on the hunter’s neck. Now that the sinews of the creature’s neck had burst, it was the turn of neck bone to grind, crunch and finally shift violently. Vertebrae scissored against each other, slicing through the Fomorian’s spinal cord like a guillotine blade.

  The six-and-a-half-foot corpse sagged in Kane’s arms, and he released it. He was out of breath and feeling spent, and there was still another attacker up the slope, finishing its battle with the black bear, his knobby fists smeared dark crimson from beating a six-hundred-pound carnivore to death with his bare hands.

  “Brother!” the Fomorian shrieked. “You killed him!”

  Kane hurled himself at the corpse, drawing the hatchet from its belt.

  At least now, Kane was no longer outnumbered and unarmed.

  Not that it mattered to the screaming cyclops who flew down the slope, blood drenched fingers slicing the air like claws.

  Chapter 10

  Kane knew that the Fomorian pouncing upon him in a rage was over 250 pounds of predatory fury who had just beaten six hundred pounds of black bear to death. As worn down as he was from killing the other Fomorian, Kane knew that he couldn’t rely on his reflexes to grant him the grace and speed to divert the path of the tackling beast. Standing up to take the hit would also be suicidal given the kind of strength and rage his enemy possessed. The only thing Kane could do was to fall flat on his back, six and a half feet of muscled monstrosity slicing through the air over his prone form. With a roll, Kane pushed himself to all fours, seeing the creature tumble out of control down the slope. Only his years of experience had been able to turn minutes of cool, collected analysis into a split second of decision on the cusp of a deadly attack.

  Kane watched the Fomorian’s out-of-control body skip down the mountainside, and he would have considered the situation comical if it hadn’t been so deadly serious. The minute the Fomorian recovered his balance, he would come after Kane with blood in his eyes and murder in his heart. Kane had a hatchet, but his muscles were screaming for respite. While he wasn’t helpless, he was still at a drastic disadvantage. Legs burning with the effort, he scrambled up to the bear, looking around in futile hope that he could locate any equipment that the first hunter might have dropped. A spear would be good, or any length of branch that would keep the Fomorian from closing to within grappling range. If those corded, muscular arms wrapped around Kane’s torso, his spine and ribs would be crushed.

  Gunfire crackled in the distance, and Kane paused momentarily.

  Was it Grant and Brigid, defying the Appalachians’ rules of engagement and coming to his rescue, or was it the false Kane, the thing sent by Thrush to infiltrate Cerberus? He cursed himself, realizing that each moment he wasted in battling the superhuman mutation on his heels was one step that Thrush’s doppelganger closed with his friends back at the redoubt. And he knew full well why the cybernetic being was going to Cerberus—to locate and launch a deadly strike against Enlil. While Kane wouldn’t mourn the loss of the lord of the Annunaki, he realized that such a conflict with the mad god and whatever resources he’d assembled would result in brutal losses on both sides. Thrush’s lackey had no concern for Kane’s partners, so any strategy formulated would be too brash, too vicious to entail anything other than grievous slaughter.

  The attacking Fomorian popped up in Kane’s peripheral vision, and with a savage twist, Kane hurled himself behind a tree trunk as a swinging fist sliced the air at him. The hunter was as swift as he was stealthy, and when the knobby knuckles of the man-beast struck the pine’s trunk, Kane could hear the crack of wood. The tree groaned under its own weight, weakened by a blow that knocked the Fomorian’s fingers out of alignment. The one-eyed mutation grimaced, clutching his pulverized fist.

  Now, with a shred of advantage over the enemy, Kane launched himself, swinging the hand ax with all of his might. The wedge-shaped edge slashed down hard, aimed right at the bulbous, freakish orb in the center of the creature’s face, but the Fomorian’s wrist swung up. Steel bit into skin as tough as cured leather, then stopped as it struck the mutant’s forearm bone. The creature let out a strangled gurgle of agony, wrenching his arm away from Kane. The hatchet’s handle was ripped from Kane’s grasp, but he wasn’t going to waste energy fighting for control of the weapon. The broken-knuckled paw rose to seize Kane’s tank top, but the Cerberus warrior pivoted, putting all of his weight into an elbow strike to the clawing mitt. Broken fingers released an ugly crunch as Kane connected, and reflexively, the Fomorian withdrew his hand, releasing a yowl of pain.

  “Bastard!” the hunter snarled, swinging his arm, the ax still lodged in the bone, to smash the human that dared to defy him. Kane dropped to one knee and kicked his attacker’s shin. The spear kick knocked the creature off balance, already dodgy thanks to the force of his swipe at Kane. The Fomorian toppled to the ground again, but this time, his momentum was lateral, not downhill. He wouldn’t repeat the escapade of errors that had sent him sliding down the slope again.

  Kane leaped, pouncing like a great cat, both hands latching around the ax handle jutting from the Fomorian’s wrist. The leap and Kane’s weight combined to pry loose the ax blade in the creature’s bone. The Fomorian howled with pain. With one hand mangled and the other forearm sporting a savage laceration and a fractured ulnar bone, the Fomorian’s single eye had gone red with rage. His maw opened, but instead of another cry of pain, a bellow of fury split the air. Rotted, malformed teeth formed raggedy, yellow picket fences in the Fomorian’s mouth, and his breath stank of spoiled meat. The hunter lashed out with his mangled hand again, no longer conscious of any pain. Madness had taken control of the enemy man-beast, and Kane had only barely twisted out of the path of the falling blow. The impact sounded like a drum beat against the ground, and Kane knew that had he been a moment slower, his broken ribs would have speared through his chest muscles and he would be coughing up the gory remnants of his crushed lungs.

  Kane chopped the ax toward the hunter’s face, but the steel edge wasn’t on target. Rather than pulverizing the Fomorian’s face bones, the blade deflected off his cheek and merely carved off an ear, along with a ragged flap of flesh. The Fomorian reached for Kane’s throat with his good hand, ignoring the banner of slashed flesh fluttering on the side of his skull. Long, powerful fingers clawed for Kane’s windpipe, but he swung both of his legs into the mutant’s chest and kicked out hard. The massive hunter seemed to resist being lifted off Kane for a moment, but the laws of physics and leverage were in Kane’s favor. The Fomorian toppled backward as he was launched into the air, snarling in frustration at being thwarted yet again by his human prey.

  “Damn you,” the Fomorian spit, his livid eye locked on Kane. “Why won’t you die?”

  “Today’s not good for me,” Kane answered, crawling back to his feet, hefting his hatchet. “Can I pencil you in for next millennium?”

  The Fomorian reached out, talonlike fingers wrapping around a rock the size of
Kane’s head. “No. It’s now or never.”

  Kane braced himself as the monstrosity hefted the stone. He was going to have to rely on every ounce of his point man’s instinct, the near supernatural edge of his razor-sharp perceptions. He’d need perfect timing to avoid the fifteen-pound missile that his opponent was preparing to throw. If he reacted too soon, he’d be off balance if the Fomorian changed his aim. An instant too late, and the rock would become a permanent part of his skull, evicting his brain with bone-shattering force. His eyes stung from where blood and sweat had dripped into them, but his bloodstream was so charged with adrenaline, he wasn’t feeling that discomfort. His limbs felt wooden, however, genuine exhaustion threatening to overtake him once he survived this fight.

  The Fomorian’s chest and shoulder muscles flexed, alerting Kane that the throw was in process. The Cerberus warrior kept himself physically loose, not committing to any direction until he knew that the mutant hunter had committed himself to the attack. The one-eyed creature swung the stone around, putting all of his weight into the throw, and as Kane noted the shift of weight, he dived forward, slicing the air under the path of his opponent’s toss. The rock flew like a bullet, its stony mass cracking against the thick trunk of a pine where Kane had been standing. In the meantime, Kane somersaulted, getting his feet beneath him again in order to launch his body at the Fomorian. He led the way with his hatchet, the wicked chopping edge catching his foe’s abdominal muscles in a wicked, flesh-ripping swing.

  At least it should have been a flesh-ripping swing. The dense muscle and skin of the beast did yield under the force of Kane’s chop, but Fomorian flesh was not as elastic or pliant as human tissue. The hatchet stuck, and Kane felt as if he’d dislocated his shoulder with the sudden stop. A spray of blood gushed from the monstrosity’s wound, dousing Kane’s face and chest. It was a blinding splash of gore, and Kane backpedaled away from the Fomorian. Gangly fingers clawed at Kane, and only his keen reflexes saved him from his adversary getting a firm grasp on him. Nails dug into Kane’s tank top and peeled the cloth off his body. The Fomorian snarled in frustration as he hurled away the rags.

  The man-beast’s other hand was now an insensate club, two fingers missing from when he had punched too hard into the earth trying to kill Kane. There was enough of a limb left, however, that it connected glancingly with Kane’s head. Had Kane caught the forearm dead on, he was certain the impact would have shattered his neck, but this was a palm slap up the side of his head. Even the Fomorian’s muscular wrist yielded, just enough flex to turn a fatal strike into a brain scrambling yet survivable punch. Kane let himself crash to the forest floor, further robbing the blow of its full power.

  Going prone also gave Kane one advantage he’d work to end this fight immediately. He lashed out with both legs, scissoring the ankles of the Fomorian. With all his might, he twisted, driving the hapless mutant face-first into the ground and kept rolling until he’d bent the monstrosity’s lower limbs double at the knees. With that kind of leverage, he had the Fomorian pinned and not knowing how to wrestle his way out of the grapple. It wouldn’t last long, and as soon as the Fomorian pushed with all his upper-body strength into the ground, the creature would be free.

  Before that could happen, though, Kane lunged, grabbing the waggling flap of flesh hanging off the mutant’s head. It was a wild grab, but the creature’s ear provided an excellent handle to the bloody banner of skin. With a firm hold on the sliced hunk of scalp and face, Kane straightened at the waist and pulled hard, fingers dug into the skin and ear of the man-beast. More flesh ripped in a hideous crackle, and the Fomorian let loose a wail of agony as the back of his head was stripped of skin. White skull and muscle tissue were exposed under the peeled dermis. Kane didn’t want to take pleasure in the discomfort he caused, but there was a grim manner of satisfaction when he saw the Fomorian flailing around from the cruel tactic.

  The Fomorian had at least seventy-five pounds and six inches of height on him, and his rope-cord arms made his reach much longer and deadlier than Kane’s. Coupled with the ferocity to punch a bear into a bloody mash of crushed flesh and bone, the Fomorian hunter was not something that Kane wanted to treat fairly. With his opponent distracted by the gush of blood from the peeled scalp, Kane was able to bend at the waist again. He clamped both hands into one hammer fist and brought them down on the Fomorian’s kidney. He hoped that the altered anatomy of his mutant foe was not that radically altered, and thankfully it wasn’t. Driving both fists into a kidney-smashing chop, Kane put enough force into the blow to burst the organ in a normal human.

  The Fomorian’s cries of pain turned into a tight whine, his bulging cyclopean eye clenched shut against a fiery agony unlike anything he had ever felt. Though Kane wondered if his blow could penetrate the sheet of tough muscles bunched in the Fomorian’s back, he was rewarded with the sudden limpness in his enemy’s trapped legs. Untangling himself, Kane scurried to his feet. His back and shoulders burned from the Herculean effort of inflicting crippling pain against the man-beast, but Kane realized that he didn’t have long to win this fight. He ripped the hatchet out of the Fomorian’s wounded belly, and stomped one foot on the back of the monstrosity’s partially defleshed skull, driving his face into the dirt.

  One hand rose, wrapping Kane’s ankle in a grip of iron. The few moments he’d managed to buy himself were nearly gone. Kane grimaced and brought the hatchet down on the exposed spot where the muscles connected to the base of the creature’s skull. Bone caved in and flesh parted with the force of the brutal chop. The crushing fingers of the Fomorian loosened and slipped from around his ankle.

  Kane staggered away, not bothering to dislodge the ax from where it had been stuck in the dead man-beast’s neck. His only saving grace was that he had nothing left in his stomach to eject. Though he didn’t keep a record of his victories in combat, Kane knew that this had to be one of the more gut-churning battles he’d ever engaged in. Completely drained by the exertion of the battle, he wanted to curl up under a blanket and sleep for a week.

  No, Kane told himself. My body wants to recuperate, but right now, I’ve got to get back to Brigid and Grant before I have to fight any more of these things.

  With a lurch, he pulled himself to his feet again, and started his ascent when he heard the snarl of weapons. There was a gunfight going on only a hundred yards away, by the sound of things. Though it was hard to pinpoint, thanks to the echoes of gunshots bouncing off tree trunks, he could at least gauge the general direction and distance by the sheer mass of noise. The shooting had grown more intense.

  Kane grimaced. He was unarmed, even if he could stomach ripping a bloody hatchet out of the corpse of the Fomorian. Bringing an ax to a gunfight was not on his list of things to do in life, and actually was on his short list of damn fool ways to commit suicide. He was tempted to just climb, and hope he could reach the tree line where the others would likely see him.

  Kane paused and realized that climbing half-naked over the tree line would expose him to near freezing winds. Also, he had to deal with the blood loss from his clawed skull. He began going through his pockets, and realized that while these were cargo pants, they weren’t the ones he’d worn on the mission. Those trousers had pockets loaded with useful items, including a thermal blanket that he could have fashioned into a parka, and a small packet of gauze and adhesive that could have formed a compression bandage. Just to satisfy his curiosity, he looked down the waistband of the cargo pants and saw that his doppelganger had taken all of his shadow suit, leaving behind only the tank top, boxers and socks.

  Just enough clothing to protect him from the relatively temperate climate of the pine forest that clung to the side of the mountain. With a deep breath, he reached down and tore off the boxers from beneath his pants. Long strips of cloth came free, giving Kane at least something that he could bandage his bloody head with. It wasn’t going to be the most glamorous field dressing ever applied, but at least he’d be shielding himself from infection and keeping
his eyes clear. He had more than enough fabric from the underwear, so he stuffed the spare strips of cloth into one of the cargo pockets so that he could change his bandage later.

  “Head wound dealt with,” he muttered. He felt along his jawline and activated his Commtact. Kane cursed when he got no response from Cerberus. Whether his unit was damaged or there was a problem with the signal reaching Cerberus, Kane was on his own.

  More gunfire now. This time, it was the unmistakable throaty roar of Grant’s Barrett. Kane grimaced and yelled, but the range was at least three hundred yards. He scrambled, knowing that his partners would have blankets or the scouts would at least be able to provide a spare fur cloak for him. Three hundred yards, though, meant that the others might have mistaken the Thrush duplicate for Kane. Though his legs complained at the strain, he started pushing himself, fighting against the incline. He swung himself from tree trunk to tree trunk, using whatever handholds he could grasp to speed his ascent.

  That wasn’t helping the aches that were beginning to awaken along his back and shoulders. Each extension of his muscles felt as if he were pulling himself apart.

  “You get to the tree line, everything stops hurting,” he said aloud, as if he could get his body to shut up about the damage he’d done to it. There were no deals to be made with his muscles. Every step was an exercise in will as much as strength, and his battle was now with a mountain, not the monsters that stalked its slopes.