Judas Strike. James Axler
tails arched into view from behind the crab and thrust for his face.
Throwing the mutie off, Ryan saw it land on its back, legs and twin scorpion tails thrashing madly about in the air as the creature fought to get upright again. This close, Ryan could see that the hooked barbs at the tips of the tails glistened with some sort of oily residue. Most likely poison.
Rolling to his feet, Ryan staggered a moment, trying to get his balance, and was surprised to find himself feeling so weak. How long had he been unconscious? It might have been days since he’d last eaten. Now that he was awake, his stomach felt like a rad crater, hot and empty. Swallowing saliva, he ignored the stomach cramps and started hacking at the sticky bonds once more. More than once Ryan slipped and cut himself, but he didn’t care. Reaching the blaster was all that mattered.
Glancing around, Ryan saw he was in a vast field of low weeds, a warm breeze from the sea ruffling his long hair and clothing. Gulls circled high in the polluted sky, waiting to feed upon the loser of the battle. He wondered where the rest of his friends were. Could it be that he was only survivor of the bridge explosion? If so, then he had a major score to settle with Kinnison and his pretty-boy lieutenant. But first he had to reach his blaster.
Catching a root in its mandibles, the crab managed to flip itself over and immediately started to circle its prey. Still working on the goop, Ryan turned slowly to keep the creature directly in front. Warily, the huge crab moved forward only to retreat as Ryan clumsily brandished the blade. It knew what the knife could do, and it respected the danger, but there was no fear in its movements. Constantly bobbing behind the crab, the two barbed tails poised expectantly in the air, occasionally thrusting at Ryan in a feint. No dumb brute this.
The panga was making progress, but not fast enough. The goo on his chest was still tacky, and Ryan had to cut carefully to keep the blade from becoming stuck. The crab darted forward, and Ryan kicked sand in its face. It retreated, but not very far. As he strained against his bonds, a section of the material parted with a ripping sound and his right arm came free from the elbow down. Grimly, the one-eyed man clawed for the blaster at his side, a fingertip brushing against the checkered grip of the predark weapon and the crab charged again.
Waiting until the last moment, Ryan dived forward, going over the mutie, landing painfully on his shoulder and rolling to his feet. But now the panga was gone, dropped in the desperate maneuver.
Stingers waving, mandibles snapping, the crab tried to get behind the man, but Ryan spun on his heel and put his combat boot into its face with all of his strength. The impact jarred him to the bone, and the mutie scuttled away, its left eye completely gone, the orb crushed into fibrous pulp.
As the crab scurried back, on the offensive, Ryan kicked dirt into its face and shouted. It darted away in surprise, but came right back even faster than before. Ryan dodged, and they circled each other again. He tried for the blaster again, but simply couldn’t get a satisfactory grip. Clear fluid dribbling from the ruin of its face, the crab shuffled around trying for a snap, always darting out of the way of the steel-toed boot.
Then Ryan spotted the panga in the muddled weeds and threw himself on the knife, fumbling in the sand for the handle. Sensing weakness, the crab rushed forward. Ryan reared back both boots and launched a double kick to its body. But the crab dodged, and the boots only struck one of its many legs. With a crack, the limb broke clean off and fresh blood flowed from the yawning pit in its shell.
Galvanized with the pain, the crab whipped both stingers around in a defensive pattern just as Ryan found the knife. Struggling to his knees, he hacked at the weakened goop on his right arm. Come on, almost there…
Suddenly, the crab charged and slashed out with both tails. Twisting out of the way, Ryan avoided one, but the other hit his thigh and searing pain exploded like electric fire. Gasping for breath, he sliced down with the panga and cut off the tip of the tail embedded in his thigh. Oily fluid pumped from the sheared stump, and the crab darted into the weeds.
Gritting his teeth, Ryan dropped the knife and recklessly plucked the slippery barb from his skin, throwing it away. But a numbness was starting to spread in the limb, and the one-eyed man knew he had only seconds before he was on the last train west. He was barely able to hold off the mutie; with a wound he wouldn’t stand a chance.
Grimly, the Deathlands warrior put everything he had into forcing his right arm downward. A fingertip brushed cool metal, but that was all. Ryan ignored the growing lack of feeling in his left leg and raged against the cloying bonds. Tendons swelled and the remaining goo stretched a little. Gritting his teeth, he redoubled the effort, the predark shirt ripping slightly from the strain. Ryan gained an inch, his fingers almost going around the grip of the blaster. Minutes passed in the silent struggle, but the numbness in his leg was getting worse, and his breathing was labored, his physical resources depleted from starvation. Sweat was stinging the old cut on his palm, and it made his fingers slippery. Refusing to quit, Ryan snarled in defiance and rammed his arm down one last time, gaining another inch, but the blaster still eluded his grasp. Then the cuff button of his shirt snapped off, his arm came free and he had the weapon.
Only Ryan found that he still couldn’t get it out of the holster. There still wasn’t enough room to pull the blaster free. The crab scuttled from the weeds, and he turned to keep it in view. The creature was going to attack again, and Ryan couldn’t chance another strike from its tail.
Having no choice, Ryan fell on his back and started to pull the trigger of the blaster, shooting through the bottom of the old leather holster. Caught in the open, the crab paused at the gentle cough of the silenced weapon, then jumped as it was hit by a 9 mm Parabellum round. The soft lead slug punched completely through the shell, shattering the chitin and exposing the pulsating organs inside. But instead of running, the mutie actually charged, the undamaged stinger lashing about insanely.
Firing nonstop, Ryan swung his legs after the side walker, tracking as best he could. The first couple of shots only scored furrows in its hard shell, but then a round slammed into the gaping shoulder wound. Organs burst apart as the slug plowed through the mutie. The barbed tail went instantly limp, the crab shuddered violently, then toppled over and went very still.
Keeping a close watch on the creature, a grunting Ryan reclaimed his knife and without any further interruptions was soon free from the imprisoning white goo.
“Tough bastard,” he growled, pocketing the spent clip and sliding in one of his few remaining reloads. There was more ammo in his backpack, wherever the hell that was. It had to have fallen into the sea along with everybody else. He could only hope the others had also washed up on the same shore that he had. But he knew the backpack and the extra ammo were long gone. He had to save every round he could.
Then his oddly numb knee buckled, and the man got busy cutting away a section of his pants until the stab wound was exposed. The skin was white and puckered at the center, a bright red all around and very tender to the touch. Not good.
Wiping the blade clean on his shirt, Ryan played the flame of a predark butane lighter along the blade to sterilize it. Then he carefully sliced open the skin and a clear oily fluid oozed out. Good, the poison was still in the wound, not in his blood yet. He had a chance. Squeezing the area hard, Ryan kneaded the numb flesh until more transparent fluid came out, then some yellow pus and finally red blood.
Some feeling was returning, and the man braced himself for the next part. This was going to be bad, but without anybody to suck out any remaining poison he had no choice. Jacking the slide on his blaster, Ryan ejected a few rounds, cut off the wads of lead and poured the silvery powder directly into the raw wound. The nitro stung slightly, then he flicked the butane lighter into life and ignited the powder.
There was a sharp flash without smoke, and Ryan heard or saw nothing for several minutes as he rode out the explosion of pain. Slowly, the throbbing waves of hot torture ebbed, leaving his leg wrapped in throbbing anguish. Wiping the sweat off his face, Ryan inspected the wound. All of the hair was burned off his thigh, and the flesh around the puncture was puckered with white ridges. Gently touching it, he found the area hurt like hell, but that only meant he had moved fast enough. The poison appeared to be gone.
Reaching for his