THIRTY-THREE

THE SHOTS FIRED by Somi rang in Bishop’s ears as he charged up the tunnel with Rook at his heels. Neither man was a fast runner. Both relied on superior firepower, accurate aim, and brute strength in combat. Speedy retreats didn’t sit well with either of them. But they’d been caught with their pants down in a subterranean necropolis by a horde of superhuman she-things. Running like hell made perfect sense.

As the green glow of the bioluminescent fungi–laden chamber faded, darkness returned with a vengeance and slowed their progress as they began moving by penlight. The one thing that gave them hope and allowed them to keep charging at near top speed was that the tunnel, which was wide enough and tall enough for them to run upright, side by side, also stretched onward and upward at a blessedly straight and steady grade. The question nagging both of them: Could they outrun the savage she-tribe?

A wet hooting rolled up the tunnel, issued from below.

“I swear I can smell their shit-eating breath all the way up here,” Rook said as he ran with one hand against the smooth tunnel wall and the other stretched out straight in front of him. “Back off, you nasty bitches!”

His shout echoed down the tunnel and before it had fully faded was interrupted by a voice somehow deeper than his own, yet feminine. It roared, “Big man, rude!” followed by, “Big man, mine!”

“Holy . . .” Rook took his hand off the wall and willed his feet to tread faster. He could barely make out Bishop in front of him, but could tell he’d picked up the pace, too. They’d both be doubled over in a minute, or knocked out cold from running into a dead end, if they didn’t find a way out soon. But letting those things catch them in the tunnel . . . that just couldn’t happen.

Thirty seconds later, Rook felt as though he would collapse. His legs were heavy. His head pounded from exertion. Though he still moved like a runner, a speed-walking soccer mom could have passed him without effort. Bishop fared better. He was winded, but his regenerative body kept the strain to a minimum. Both men paused, sucking in breath. While the creatures behind them had stopped hooting, their furious footfalls and heaving breath filled the tunnel behind them.

“How many rounds?” Rook asked.

Bishop ejected the Desert Eagle’s magazine and frowned. “One.” He handed the gun to Rook. “I can stay.”

“What is this, a Martyr Gras parade?”

“I’ll survive.”

“And be turned into a mindless killing machine. I don’t think so.”

Bishop nodded. They would fight together.

“Good, now shut up and get ready for a fight.” Rook turned to face the mass of beast-women charging like 1950s schoolgirls after the Beatles.

“Rook,” Bishop said. “Your flashlight.”

Rook looked at the light in his hand. It was out. Dead.

“I can still see you,” Bishop said.

Both men turned. Weak light poured into the tunnel from not far away. It was dim—filtered—but promised daylight and escape. They ran despite the pain in their lungs, hoping that clear sight might improve their odds of survival.

Of course, it seemed more likely they’d simply get the pleasure of seeing each other die.

The grade flattened out and both men sped up. The source of the light, a large exit overgrown with vines and brush, loomed before them. Afraid the overgrowth might take time to hack or climb through, both men surged at the wall, leaping into it like cannonballs.

Vines snapped. Brush exploded. The two men shot from the exit as though birthed from the mountain. Week and disoriented, they rolled down the mountainside, cushioned by leaf litter. Thirty feet below the exit, they slid to a stop.

Bishop stood quickly and pulled Rook to his feet. “Run!”

Rook complied immediately.

The beasts descended the mountainside after them. Rook pictured Knight in this same scenario, running from the creatures. If he hadn’t been too small to make the cut he could have been the fastest running back in the NFL. The man was living lightning. And these things had caught him. Rook began to holler as he ran, keenly aware that the creatures were at his back. He could hear their breathing. He could see the trees moving around him as they gave chase above. For a moment he felt a small sense of respect for the highly effective hunting party. Then he heard a deep and steady roar over the sound of his own shout. Looking ahead he saw the jungle drop away—a cliff lay ahead. The unmistakable sound of flowing water rose up from the widening gorge.

A river. But they couldn’t see it. It could be a one-hundred-foot drop into raging white water. There was no way to tell. It didn’t matter. Anything was preferable to being eaten alive or torn apart. Without a word shared between them, Rook and Bishop leaped from the precipice and soared out into the open air.

The river, fifty feet below, looked deep and fairly placid. They would survive the fall. But would the creatures give chase? Rook turned as he fell and saw the beasts line up along the cliff’s edge. The biggest of the bunch, the one with red-rimmed eyes, pounded her chest with each syllable. “Big man, mine!”

Rook extended his middle finger toward her just before crashing into the river.

Bishop came to the surface, gasping for air. Rook’s limp body surfaced a few feet away, facedown in the water. Bishop swam to him, looped an arm around his chest, and pulled him back. Rook thrashed and then coughed before collecting himself and treading water under his own power.

“Think I hit the bottom,” Rook said, rubbing the back of his head.

Bishop nodded. He had felt the river bottom graze past him, but he’d curved his body upon entering the water feet first. His entry into the river had been controlled. Rook landed nearly headfirst and struck like a mortar round.

Bishop motioned to the boulder-covered shoreline opposite the cliff they’d jumped from. It would make for excellent cover while they rested, and if they were lucky would provide a natural barrier between them and the creatures, who seemed afraid of the water. They might be smart enough to speak, Rook thought, but there was no YMCA around to teach them how to swim. That was for damn sure.

They crawled onto the bank and worked their way deeper into the tall boulders. Hidden from view, they felt safe enough to stop, but not just to catch their breath. That was the least of their concerns. Rook summed up their situation. “Okay, we’ve got a pack of crazed beast-women after us. Somi is a turncoat, and K.I.A. Knight is M.I.A. The VPLA took Pawn. We have no way to contact King and Queen. And to top this all off, I dropped my magnum in the river.”

Bishop took his shirt off, revealing his sculpted body, and laid it on a rock to dry.

“Did I miss anything?” Rook asked.

A woman’s voice hollered in response. Both men tensed. It didn’t sound like one of the creatures chasing them . . . but it didn’t sound quite right, either.

She shouted again.

Crouching, they crept through the rocks toward the sound of the eerie voice.

The next vocal blast made them both jump.

The voice was feminine for sure, but carried an inhuman volume to it—enough to make it clearly audible, even over the roar of the river, which picked up speed as they moved along its shore.

The woman’s high-pitched voice came again, and then became a deep pulsing sound. Was she being tortured? Or giving birth? Either way, she sounded in need of help. Rook prepared to bolt clear of the rocks and rescue the damsel in distress, but Bishop’s strong hand on his shoulder stopped his valiant charge.

Bishop pointed at his eyes with his index and middle fingers, and then pointed to a space in the rocks where a long boulder had long ago come to rest atop two others, forming a small window. As the woman’s shrieks ebbed and flowed over the rocks, they became even louder and more frantic. Rook fought the urge to safeguard those in need and peeked through the small portal.

“What the . . .” Rook watched, mesmerized by the surreal sight. Slowly, he reached into his pant leg pocket and found his small binoculars. He raised them to his eyes, ignoring the spots of water in his vision, and took a close-up look at one of the oddest sights he’d seen in his life. He looked away from the binoculars, eyes wide, and handed them to Bishop. “Bishop, what the hell?”