Necropolis. James Axler
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Don’t pout over it. Our job will be a little trickier, but she’s the one who asked to come with,” Kane offered. “She knows where we’re going is dangerous. We can only hope to survive with her help, just like she survives with ours.”
“All right,” Nathan answered. He sounded much less sullen. It’d take a while for him to be comfortable with the idea of having a cousin along or their journey, but, in the end, Lyta was determined to join them.
“Kane,” Grant warned over the Commtact. “I’ve got contacts. Seventy-five yards out. Three, no, five. Armed, moving low to the ground.”
“Test force?” Kane asked.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Grant said. “None of them appear wounded. They don’t seem to have any night optics, so they might not be expecting us to have the same.”
“Don’t engage unless they make the first move,” Kane returned. “Keep an eye on them.”
“Right,” Grant said.
“Baptiste, they’re early,” Kane told her.
“Already back to the group,” Brigid answered. He could hear her shouting orders for the prisoners to pack up and start moving out. In the distance, Kane could hear the low rumble of engines starting. He was glad that it was the audio sensors in the shadow suit hood. Still, he kept ready for Grant to tell him that the enemy were reacting to their vehicles powering up.
At the same time, he continued to sweep for signs of other foes in the forest. There might only have been five left uninjured after the initial assault, but Kane didn’t feel like he was that lucky. If anything, they wouldn’t put all their forces in one spot, especially not in the flanking maneuver that Grant observed.
Something else was happening. His nerves were on edge.
“Grant, status on the group moving up.”
“They appeared, but they only advanced about twenty yards,” Grant returned. “Then they hunkered down. Every so often, they look back, but that’s it. Why?”
“There’s something going on. I can’t put my finger on it, but those guys have backup on the way,” Kane explained. “I just can’t see it.”
“That void chick, Neekra?” Grant asked. “She could be oozing in?”
Kane thought about it. That’s when he began to feel the vibration. He looked down at the ground. “Grant, get out of the forest. Get back to the truck.”
“Shit,” Grant hissed, and Kane could hear his effort at running, his increased breathing, the thump of his body as he landed on the ground—all conveyed via vibration over the Commtact. Unfortunately, Grant seemed to be moving in slow motion, just as Kane was, in relation to the rising throb of forces seething beneath the earth. Kane charged through the forest.
“Baptiste!”
“Go!” Brigid shouted loud enough to make Kane’s inner ear ring. She was in full command mode, scooting two dozen noncombatants from the area. There were two trucks in the camp, enough to carry about sixteen people, tightly packed, so there were going to be people still on foot.
Running from a force that shook the ground and filled Kane’s spine with ice-water terror.
“Kane!” Grant bellowed. “The ground split ahead of me!”
“Double around!” Kane returned.
Then Kane realized Grant’s dilemma firsthand. He skidded to a halt as suddenly the ground split all around him. He threw himself down, reaching for the far edge of the ever-growing chasm, and he clawed at the ledge, but only for a moment. He hadn’t rooted himself on rock; he’d grabbed a handful of soil. It crumbled beneath his grasp, and gravity sucked him down the face of the cracking cliff.
In free fall, Kane felt absolutely helpless, but that stopped a moment later when he slammed hard against a crag. The sudden alteration of the kinetic force kept Kane from bouncing off the ledge, but even so, every inch of his body throbbed, aching from the abuse it’d just absorbed. He clung to the side of the chasm, listening as the rumble suddenly stopped.
The earth beneath Kane disappeared into inky oblivion. Kane would have used the optics on his shadow suit hood, but somewhere along the way, the seal that kept its faceplate on had failed, probably when he’d planted into the wall while tumbling in flight. He couldn’t find it anywhere, and he realized that most of his equipment was gone.
Sitting up slowly, taking deep breaths and forcing himself not to vomit, Kane brought himself back to a semblance of clearheadedness. He scanned the darkness, one hand absently digging for a flashlight. He clicked it on, and it spilled only a modicum of light. He ran his fingers over the surface. The lens had been shattered. Likely, several of the LEDs embedded in the lens had been similarly knocked out by his plummet.
Now he knew why he felt like a punching bag for the gods. He’d likely rebounded from cliff face to cliff face, spiraling down the chasm until everything in his inventory had been smashed or torn from him. Even his right arm didn’t feel right, as if it were too light. He shone his torch and saw that the hydraulic holster’s arm brace was there, but the Sin Eater was gone, torn off completely. There was no Copperhead to be seen, either, at least not on the ledge with him.
Kane dug his fingers into the cliff face, taking advantage of what light there was from his torch to mark his territory. The ledge was a long one, disappearing out of the spray of LED-emitted light at about twenty-five feet.
He also realized that there was a small lip along the ledge. Slowly it continued to rumble, rising until it stopped, a slender barrier of stone three feet in height. Kane limped over to it, examining it. Over the stone railing, the abyss continued beneath him. He glanced upward, but the night sky was gone. Invisible.
Had the earth shut again?
He checked the floor of the ledge again and noticed that it had a tile-like pattern on its surface.
Kane realized that this was not a random formation along the chasm wall. This was constructed, but he couldn’t tell by which force. He’d seen the rail rise before his eyes. He turned off the light in order to conserve its battery.
Nothing was around for him to see. Whatever had fallen off him had missed the ledge entirely.
And the way my luck goes, that’s not happenstance, Kane mused. A force must have guided me here. That bitch queen who played with my subconscious only a few days ago.
Kane sneered, then checked himself all over. He was relieved when he found that his web belt was still somewhat intact. He’d only retained two grenades and the Colt .45 he’d brought to back up the Sin Eater and the Copperhead. It had only one magazine in it.
He felt for the pouch and found the other magazines; their steel shells were bent and crushed by impacts. Kane figured he could pry shells from the damaged pair of clips to feed the one already in the gun, which meant that he was good for about eight shots before needing to retreat and spend minutes thumbing bullets into the remaining magazine. He checked the pistol for signs of damage, but the frame of the gun was thick enough not to have bent or warped under his impacts against the chasm walls. The grip was splintered on one side, though.
Luckily, Kane still had some duct tape in his kit. He wound it around the splintered wood, evening it out. He made sure the tape didn’t interfere with the magazine release or block the magazine well, but other than that, his pistol was much like himself. Battered, held together by a reliable wonder material, but still ready to fight.
He also had his knife in its leg sheath. The one part of him that felt like it hadn’t been swung at with a sledgehammer was his leg below the knee, where the fighting blade rested.
A knife. A gun. His shadow suit, sans optics. Two grenades. A flickering LED flashlight.
He touched his face. The Commtact plate must have been jarred loose when the face of his shadow suit hood had been