James Smith - The Flock

The pines swallowed him up, as behind he heard yet another volley of shots followed by a very short scream. He wondered if that had been the wounded man he'd kicked, or the awakening Grisham. Vance doubted he'd ever know as he once more began to run as fast as he could, realizing that it probably would not be enough. He pushed on, waiting for the sound of pursuit. The birds' tread actually shook the ground when they bore down on you. He'd know when they got close.

As he continued, he kept expecting to hear the approach of the huge birds. Fifty yards, a hundred. They still were not on him. At the place where the forest met the savanna he did not turn to see what was happening, but heard yet another explosion of firearms. This time it seemed to be a pair of weapons. But by then he was determined not to look back, not to stop running. Holcomb was tired, sore, and verging on clinical dehydration. He knew that even if nothing ran him down, he was still not going to make it very far without something to drink and a moment to rest.

He was tempted to slow down, and he recalled the sight of the Scarlet rogue bearing down on him, remembered how it felt when its foot-the toes splayed as wide as his chest-crashed down on him. Vance Holcomb ran faster and did not stop until he had reached the punctured ruin of his dome where he had left his backpack and roughly a gallon of fresh water.

Crawling into the dome he found his pack amid the wreckage of his equipment. He drank his fill and, recalling his previous mistake of remaining there too long, crawled back through the tunnel. He'd left his ATV only a few miles away. It was his last, best chance.

Jogging briskly, but conserving his strength, he went toward the place where he had stashed the tough little vehicle. Along the way, he chanced a glance back now and again. He saw nothing, heard nothing. Vance Holcomb seemed to be alone again.

The first sight that greeted them at the top of the sinkhole was what remained of a pair of men. They'd had guns, very good rifles in fact, but neither of them apparently had been able to get a shot off when they'd been attacked. Each of the men seemed to have been cut neatly in half. The sight was quite hideous, and both Riggs and Niccols wanted to get past them. It was only at Mary's insistence that they paused long enough to retrieve the pair of rifles.

"I think our guns are probably full of water and mud, anyway," she'd told Ron, who quickly dropped Crane's shotgun and shed the bag of shells at her feet. "Why didn't they shoot? Got any idea?"

"I can't imagine," Ron said. "The one we saw was certainly big enough to hit without much trouble." Ron shivered. "Damn. I didn't think they would be that big. Christ."

"What do you think's going to happen, now?" There was a definite rattle in Mary's lungs, now. The hours spent crouching in the water had done her bronchitis no good.

"I honestly couldn't tell you. I do know that this place will be shut down and probably by God fenced off as soon as word gets out." They pushed through the forest. Occasionally, they would spot an enormous three-toed track in the soft earth and one or the other would point it out as if making a great discovery.

"What's going to happen to that bitch, Kate?"

"If she's still around, which I doubt, I personally want to see to it that she's put away forever." Ron didn't want to tell Mary that Kate almost had him suspecting her of complicity in Dodd's murder. She might never forgive him if he told her.

"What the hell was she up to? I mean, who did all this?"

"I'm not sure," Ron admitted. "I've got my suspicions. But basically we need to be about as careful as we can be. In fact, I suspect we should avoid the Eyesore entirely and just get the hell out of here. Make for Salutations and forget about Holcomb and his compound. Best case, it's empty and there are only a few dead bodies. Worst case, someone's going to be waiting to pop us and add us to the list."

"Screw that," Mary said.

"My sentiments, too."

Ron stood there for a moment, just looking at Mary. Her own gaze was focused on the forest, as she searched for the likeliest route out of the stand of trees in which they stood. Her face was covered in grime, her hair tacked with sticks and leaves and dots of mud. But she had saved his life. She had put herself in danger, had stayed with him every step of the way. As if suddenly seeing the sun for the first time, Ron was hit with a rush of emotion he'd never really experienced. Suddenly Mary was the most important person in the world to him. He'd realized he had been such a fool.

Without saying anything, without asking for permission, Ron dropped the rifle and grasped Mary by the shoulder. He turned her to him and planted his lips firmly on hers. He kissed her long and hard, and his heart raced as he realized that she was returning the kiss with all of the passion he now felt flooding out of him. After a few seconds, he took his mouth from hers and looked into her face.

"Mary. I've been a damned fool," he told her. "I'm sorry I treated you the way that I did. Sometimes a man doesn't realize what he has. I've been an idiot."

"Well," Mary said, "that's what I've been trying to tell you for months." She bent and retrieved the rifle he'd dropped. "Learn to respect a weapon, son. We might need it."

"Yes," Ron said. "You're right. Let's get out of here."

Mary knew that by all rights she should have stopped caring for Ron when he'd rejected her. She knew his reasons. Not fear of commitment, not afraid that they'd moved too far, too fast. He'd been a snob. But she couldn't help herself. They'd had so many things in common, similar feelings and interests. And there had been the physical attraction. You couldn't help that, sometimes. And who the hell knew what love was, or how to control it? Mary certainly didn't. She had been stuck on Ron almost as soon as she'd met him, and she remained so.

There was a moment of silence as they plodded along; both were tired beyond words. Finally, Mary brought it up. "What about Billy? We going to check on him? He can't be far away. You never said…"

"Oh, yes. He's dead. No doubt about it." He recalled the feeling of the awful exit wound as he'd placed his hand on Billy's stomach.

"Christ."

Neither spoke for a while as they continued to walk, veering southward and away from Holcomb's buildings and going wide of the spot where Crane had been shot.

"Best thing we can do for him is get some help and come back," Mary said, echoing what Ron was feeling.

Before Ron could reply, the sound of a motor began to come toward them. It grew until they felt the need to hide, concealing themselves behind a clump of Spanish bayonet. They soon recognized the sound of one of the ATVs they had seen in the Eyesore's garage. In a while, the stubby little machine appeared, and they could see that Vance Holcomb was astride it, guiding it skillfully through the forest at a respectable rate of speed. Even from the distance, they could clearly see that Holcomb was disheveled; his shirt was in tatters, open to the waist to reveal flesh a very nasty shade of black and blue.

"Think we should flag him down?" Mary asked.

"How?"

"Fire one of these guns in the air?"

"Unless I'm mistaken, he's the main target these guys were after. We were just in the way. I think that if we fired a shot he'd soil himself and find a few more rpms in that engine. I think we'd best just let him go."

"You're probably right," Mary said. And soon the gas vehicle roared past them and became a slight burr in the distance.

The sun rose in the sky, the heat began to peel the sweat from their skin. Slowly, they ticked off the yards, knowing they had miles to go.