Clifford Simak - Dusty Zebra - And Other Stories

Tracers ripped across the sand and tore into the soldiers standing at the tail of the truck. The group seemed to explode into dozens of screaming men. Others did not run, but lay still where the gun had chopped them down.

Coldly, precisely, Mason picked off the running groups. A rifle cracked and a bullet clicked against a rock nearby and went whining into space. Another rifle spat out of the shadows and Mason heard the bullet drone overhead.

The men had disappeared. More rifles were beginning to talk, bullets spatted close. The ammo belt ran clear. Mason jerked up another, slammed it home, pointed the gun at the loaded truck and let drive. He heard the 50 calibres spanging into the drums and suddenly the truck exploded in a gush of blue and yellow flame that paled out the moonlight and lighted beach and jungle with a garish glow.

More men were running now and Mason picked them off. Several had leaped from under the truck when the first bullets drove into the drums, but the sheet of flame had reached out, caught them before they could get away.

The burning gasoline snaked steadily into the sky now, lighting every boulder and tree upon the beach. But the Japs had disappeared.

With the last of his belt, Mason sprayed the beach, then leaped from the rocks and turned to run. But as he wheeled about he almost collided with three charging Japs. With a shout, he heaved the empty gun at the first one. It caught the little yellow man full in the stomach and bowled him over.

The second Jap was bearing down, however, bayonet gleaming.

Snatching free his .45, Mason shot from the hip and brought him down. The third man halted momentarily, lifting his rifle. The pistol barked angrily and the Jap collapsed, clutching his stomach, making choking noises.

Mason ran, ran with all the power that drove his legs, diving for the shadows. And as he reached them, a figure rose from behind a boulder, smashed a rifle butt down upon his head.

“This way,” said N’Goni. “Leave ocean now. Take to hills.”

Foster nodded wearily. “How much farther?” he asked.

“Not so much,” the native said, and Foster suspected he was lying.

“Let’s rest a minute,” the pilot suggested.

N’Goni squatted on the sand and Foster sat down.

“Guns,” N’Goni said calmly.

“What do you mean? Guns?”

“Guns,” insisted the native, sweeping a hand the way they had come.

Foster tried to still the roaring in his head, strained his ears.

But it was several seconds before he heard the far-off chatter of a machine gun and the less frequent popping of rifles.

Walking softly, still straining his ears, he stared back down the beach. The faint chatter of the guns was muffled by a thudding roar and the distant sky was lighted with a sudden puff of brilliance.

“They found Hank!” Foster yelled at N’Goni. “They found him and he blew up the ship.”

He was running and marveled that he had it in him.

“N’Goni,” he yelled, but there was no answer. Stopping, he looked back. The native had disappeared.

The guns were still going, but he lost the sound of them as he resumed his run. The run dwindled to a trot, the trot to a determined slog. When next he stopped to listen, there were no guns, although a flickering brilliance still glowed ahead.

“They got him,” he told himself. “They got Hank!”

And the thought became a drum that beat through his brain, a marching song that kept his feet moving down the sand.

He cursed himself that he had left Hank behind. He should have insisted on the gunner coming with him. They should have destroyed the ship in the first place. That really was what they were supposed to do.

It was near dawn as he drew near the point where they had left the Avenger and from there on he moved cautiously. The moon had sunk several hours before, but the beach still was lighted by the wash of stars that spangled the tropic sky.

The Avenger, he saw with a start, still was there, half hidden in the clump of palms. The explosion, then, hadn’t been the ship, but something else.

Hope welled within him as he lay stretched flat in a jungle thicket and watched. Hank might still be there, out there watching the plane. The explosion might have been something else, maybe miles away. It would have been hard to estimate distances out there on the beach last night.

A figure moved near the plane and Foster caught his breath, half raised himself, a shout welling in his throat. But the shout died and he hugged the earth again. The figure wore a battle helmet and carried a rifle on its shoulder.

In the half light of the waning stars, he saw the first figure meet a second one, saw the two wheel about and continue their patrol. There was no question now. The Japanese had found the ship and were guarding it.

That meant that Hank was dead.

Tired, baffled rage shook Foster as he lay there, watching. Finally he moved, crawling and running at a crouch, stalking. One fact drummed in his brain. The Japs must never keep that ship!

He reached the palm thicket, slid belly-flat through the scanty undergrowth, stopping and lying like one dead when the Jap sentry was in sight, moving swiftly, but cautiously when the opportunity presented itself.

Crouching in a thicket, he waited. One of the Japs was coming. Foster listened to the steady tramp, the methodical drill-field tread. The Jap was opposite him now, was moving on.

The American pilot was a silent wraith that rose out of the bushes almost at the Jap’s side, the hands that moved to the Jap’s throat were death itself.

The guard opened his mouth to cry out, but the sound died in his throat and he was lifted from his feet and iron-like fingers bit into his neck. He dropped his rifle and it thudded on the damp ground, but that was the only sound. He kicked his feet and thrashed his arms, but the fingers did not relax. When Foster laid him down, the Jap was dead.

Back in his bushes, Foster waited.

The second guard ended his beat, stopped uncertainly when he did not meet the first one. Half turning to resume his march, he hesitated, moved softly, almost like a cat, down the side of the ship where his missing companion should have been.

Rigid, Foster kept his eyes on him, saw him stop when he sighted the limp figure on the ground.

For a long time the Jap stood there, staring, rifle at the ready, occasionally glancing about, sharp, quick glances as if he might surprise someone.

He came closer, thought better of it. Plainly he was afraid of a trap, afraid that what had struck down his companion might strike him down as well.

Foster could have shot him as he stood there, but that would have meant the sound of a shot; would have aroused any enemy within earshot.

Quickly, as if he made a swift decision, the Jap turned about and started to run. Foster rose silently, gripping his revolver by its barrel. He threw it with all his might and it glittered in the fading starlight as it tumbled toward the Jap, twirling end over end. It caught the little man in the small of the back, knocked him sprawling.

With a rush, Foster was on him, pinning him to earth, crushing his face to the ground to prevent an outcry. But the man twisted under him like a greased eel and thick-fingered hands clawed at the American.

Foster chopped at the man’s chin with an awkward right, for there was no room to swing. The Jap’s fingers found the pilot’s throat, failed to get a grip, clawed viciously at his face, leaving painful gashes on the cheek.

A knee came up viciously, slugged into Foster’s stomach, knocking the wind half from him.

In a blind haze of rage, the American reached the Jap’s throat with one hand, dragged him forward. His other clutching hand closed on a leg. Slowly, fighting with all this strength, Foster rose to his knees, struggled to his feet, lifted the squirming Jap above his head. Lifted him and threw him, with all his strength, against the Avenger’s metal side.