Chris Wooding - The Black Lung Captain

Grist stuck a fresh cigar in his mouth and lit it with a match. 'Death or glory, then?'

Frey sighed. 'I suppose so.'

They spilled from the breach in a disorganised mass, guns pointing everywhere, firing randomly and shouting insults. The rainforest hid their assailants. Arrows thumped into the ground at their feet or hissed through the air, coming from nowhere. They ran headlong towards the enemy, racing for the low ridge which was the only way out of the trap. It was just visible through the trees, a craggy wall three or four times the height of a man. They'd have to climb it, while those bloody beast-men were doing their level best to kill them.

Frey was terrified. Full-frontal assaults were among his least favourite ways to spend a day.

Two revolvers, he thought. Five chambers each. That's ten bullets. One of them is in that hairy bastard back in the dreadnought. That leaves nine.

Something moved at the periphery of his vision. He saw a red-furred creature squatting on a tree branch overhead, aiming a bow down at them. It was flat-faced and heavy-browed, with hardly any nose to speak of. It wore a tangle of bone jewellery and a crudely patterned smock. He shot it and it flew backwards off the branch, the arrow going wide.

Eight.

'Hey!'

He glanced over his shoulder. The cry had come from Tarworth, the crewman Pinn had shot in the leg. He was limping after them with his rifle as a crutch, but he was unable to keep up. Frey didn't have the slightest intention of slowing down for him, but he thought Grist and Crattle might have spared a moment to consider their crewman. Apparently not. That wasn't how it worked under Grist's command.

'Hey, wait for me!' Tarworth called, fear giving his voice a touch of hysteria. Two arrows hit him, almost simultaneously. One in the chest, one in the eye. His crutch slipped under him and he went down in a clumsy tumble.

Frey looked away. No time to give a damn. Men died all the time. His concern was protecting his own.

The beast-men came out of the foliage, rushing in with their carved wooden clubs, ready to crack skulls. Frey was crushed amid a chaotic melee. Shotguns roared at close range. Hot blood spattered his face. He saw Silo, pistol in one hand, machete in the other. He swung and split the jaw of a beast-man. Malvery fired wildly and blew off one of their assailant's legs at the knee.

Suddenly the group of defenders surged and Frey found himself out on the edge. One of the creatures was coming at him, a thing out of nightmare, a monstrous pile of muscle, lips skinned back, yellowed teeth like tombstones. Nobody to hide behind now. Frey stuck out both revolvers and fired. The savage crumpled, but its momentum carried it forward into him, knocking him to the ground. He struggled frantically under its weight, its rank stink filling his nostrils. Feet stamped all around, threatening to trample him. With a huge effort, he shoved the dead thing aside, scooped up his revolvers and got to his feet.

Six bullets left.

'Come on, you ugly sons of whores!' Grist cried, sphere tucked under one arm, revolver levelled. Crake was stuffing bullets into the drum of his own weapon, having no doubt wasted the previous five. The daemonist's lack of accuracy was legendary. An arrow whisked past Frey's head and thumped, quivering, into a tree trunk. He ducked, long after it would have done any good.

Seconds passed, and no new attack. A break in the assault. Frey took the initiative before any more arrows came.

'Get going! To the ridge!'

That spurred them. They ran onwards. The beast-men rustied and moved with them, always staying out of sight. Impossible to tell their numbers. Ten? Fifty? Frey saw Malvery empty his shotgun into the foliage in a cloud of shredded leaves and blood.

What have I got us into? Frey thought, not for the first time.

'They're coming up behind us!' Crattle yelled. He was pointing to where the hull of the dreadnought rose over them, partially obscured by the trees. Beast-men were shambling out of the breach. Some of them had taken up the chase, others were investigating the abandoned packs piled at the entrance. Only Silo and Crake were encumbered now, carrying the daemonist's equipment; the rest had left their gear behind in favour of speed.

Frey pushed on towards the rock wall that was their only way out. A red-furred female popped up on top of it, pointing a bow down at them. Even the smaller females were almost two metres tall. They were breastiess, and only differed outwardly from the males in the colour of their fur and their slighter build. It snarled and aimed, feral intelligence glittering in its small eyes.

There was a volley of gunshots from behind Frey. The beast-woman jerked and keeled over, arrow tangling in her fingers, unfired.

'Cover me!' Frey cried. 'I'm going up!'

He thrust his pistols into his belt and began to climb. It was only halfway up that he began to consider what in damnation he was doing. There were plenty of other people who could have gone up first. Why did he volunteer?

A rush of blood to the head. Swept up in the moment. The kind of stupid bravery that got people killed. But it was too late to back out now.

He got his arms over the top of the ridge and pulled his head and shoulders up. Two beast-men were running along the ridge towards him, clubs in their hands. Faced with a leg-breaking drop if he let go, he chose to go on, straining to lift himself over the edge. If he could get his feet under him in time, if he could get a revolver out—

There was a crackle of gunfire below him. One of the beast-men tumbled. The other came on, unhurt. Frey was still scrambling desperately on to the ridge when the beast-man reached him. He got his knee over and rolled aside just as the club smashed into the ground, centimetres from his head.

He sprang to his feet, but the beast-man was quick. With its other hand, it snatched him up by the throat, lifting him off the ground with effortless strength. Frey choked as rough fingers cut off his air. He kicked uselessly, one hand clawing at the beast-man's hairy wrist. The savage raised its club, ready to smash his skull like an egg.

Two gunshots. The beast-man's face changed from fury to puzzlement. A disturbingly human expression. Then the fingers around Frey's neck loosened, and the beast-man fell. Frey staggered back, one hand going to his throat, the other still holding the revolver he'd pulled from his belt.

Four.

His companions had started climbing up from below, one by one, while the rest held off the beast-men. Frey hid behind a tree near the lip of the ridge. He scanned the undergrowth, ready to defend his position until reinforcements could arrive. He rather hoped that the three savages who lay dead nearby would be all he had to deal with, but, as usual, he was disappointed. A thrashing of leaves warned him as two more males came running out of the forest, bare feet pounding the ground, beads and hide armour flapping around them.

Frey was ready for them this time. He calmly aimed and shot one of them in the head.

Three bullets left.

He shifted his aim to the other, sighted, and pulled the trigger again.

The revolver clicked as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

There was a moment of cold realisation as the flaw in Frey's maths revealed itself. He had ten bullets in two revolvers, but he hadn't been firing them equally. He'd been favouring the one in his right hand. And now it was out of bullets.

He raised the gun in his left hand but the beast-man was too close. It swung its club down at him. He half-dodged at the last moment and caught a glancing blow on his outstretched forearm, hard enough to numb his hand. His revolver fired uselessly into the ground - two left - and dropped from his nerveless fingers.