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back."
The scavenger ignored the projectile, letting it bounce off his chest. His
gaze remained transfixed by that of his enemy.
As much as he loathed to admit it to himself, the leech had a point. He had
lost the rest of his squad to creatures less powerful than this, and only by
luck had he survived for so long. He was all but defenseless.
The Lemyari did not even blink. A cruel smile spread over his lips. "I knew
you'd see sense. Now, give me the gun and I
may see to it that you don't suffer. Much. After all, you've been rather good
sport and I could be persuaded to dispatch you cleanly."
A tiny voice within the scavenger's grizzled soul screamed in defiance, but
between the Lemyari's assault on his ego and his own tiredness and fatigue its
struggle was in vain. His shoulders sagged, all the strength sapped from his
arms. His skin turned pale, as if the vampire had already begun to drain his
blood. Shivering, the scavenger held out the rifle, offering it to the
Lemyari, who smiled and accepted it.
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it? Don't worry: it'll all be over soon
enough. I don't think I'd try draining you anyway; I
doubt there's so much as a teaspoonful left in your veins as it is.
Stand to attention!
"
The command overwhelmed the scavenger: the very idea of disobedience seemed
unthinkable. He stood up as straight as a ramrod, chin tucked in, shoulders
pulled back, and his arms held stiffly to his sides.
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Mother Damnation [The Blessed and the Damned I]
by Janrae Frank, Phil Smith
51
"Outstanding!" exclaimed the huntsman. "Quite the soldier boy, weren't you?
Death by firing squad seems somehow appropriate." He held up the rifle like an
executioner, and with a sharp eye lined the sights up directly with the
scavenger's head. "One shot. Bang. No pretension; no sophistry: just death in
its most basic form. There's a certain stark beauty in the bullet, you know:
clinical, efficient, elegant in its simplicity. Hold your head up, soldier:
you are about to become art
."
The huntsman squeezed the trigger, only for the gun to jam. Irritated, the
huntsman moved to clear the jam. His concentration broke for a split-second.
The scavenger snapped back to his senses and took advantage of the moment his
dumb luck had given him. All his pent-up adrenaline sought an outlet. His
muscles bunched like a coiled spring: in two swift, decisive motions he lunged
out, shoving the rifle out of his way, and dived for the fallen officer's
pistol, picking it up in his off-hand. He emptied the magazine into the
Lemyari at point-blank range as rapidly as he could.
Three shots missed their mark completely.
The Lemyari reacted quickly, but not quickly enough: as he refocused his will,
the fourth round caught him square in the chest, while three more drew a
triangle of entry wounds in his face, ventilating his skull. The Lemyari fell
backwards, twitching; his dark blood steaming on the cold ground. The
scavenger, unsure if even that was enough to put a leech out of action
permanently, walked over and fired another hollow-
point into his would-be hunter at point-blank range. He knew most leeches
could survive or at least recover from multiple
Mother Damnation [The Blessed and the Damned I]
by Janrae Frank, Phil Smith
52
gunshot wounds: and wondered if that extended to four hollow-points to the
head, half-decapitating the creature. He stamped hard on what was left of the
vampire's skull just to be on the safe side, and took stock of his situation.
His rifle was almost out of ammunition, and needed clearing. He had one mag
left for his pistol, and his gun-hand needed medical attention lest the pain
become unbearable. The scavenger resolved to see to this latter problem, but
first he had to see if the leech had anything of value. Trapped out here where
even the trees could have fangs, every round of ammunition was worth ten times
its weight in gold. He felt a twinge of remorse at wasting so much on the
slurp for that reason.
The Lemyari had nothing of any immediate value: no rations since they fed on
humans; no side-arm, no ammunition; even the boots were the wrong size.
"Tight bastard," growled the scavenger, giving the corpse a spiteful kick in
the ribs. Cursing under his breath, he picked up his remaining gear and looked
for another hiding-place. He did not go far; tired and in pain, he managed a
mere two miles before settling into an earthy hollow thick with foliage.
The greens provided plenty of cover, keeping him out of easy sight. It
probably did nothing to disguise his smell, and he knew that any ticks that
came nearby would probably be on him in an instant: worse yet, he knew that at
least two were at large. He had little choice; he needed to rest now, and to
do something about his hand. If his luck continued to hold, the ticks would
find out that he had killed a leech and would run elsewhere in search of
easier prey. Ticks weren't bright,
Mother Damnation [The Blessed and the Damned I]
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by Janrae Frank, Phil Smith
53
but they would have to be pretty desperate to try taking on anything that
could kill a leech.
The scavenger examined his right hand, which throbbed uncomfortably and was
beginning to swell. He could think of nothing to do except attempt to force
his finger bones back into position; that would have to do until he could find
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