James Rollins - The 6th Extinction

The flanking CAATs began to squeeze closer, drawing tighter in a pincer move, attempting to cut them off. Gunfire erupted. Rounds pelted the side of the cruiser and chipped the front windshield. The thick glass held — for now. The cruiser had been built for the harsh terrain of Antarctica, to withstand avalanches and icy crashes, but there were limits to its World War II — era technology.

They needed to break free of this snare. It was now or never. The hunters were as close as they dared let them get to the cruiser.

“Get ready!” Jason yelled down to Gray.

Stella pointed ahead and to the left. “Over there… that one!”

Jason nodded and hollered. “Port side! Got a big bull on the port side!”

“Do it!” Gray called back.

Kowalski leaned over the rig’s wheel. “Hold on to your asses.”

Gray had belted himself into the last seat in the cabin, facing the back of the cruiser. Harrington sat on the opposite side, equally secure in place.

The snow cruiser suddenly swung to the side, making a sharp right turn. It lifted up on two tires, rubber squealing across wet rock, teetering precariously as it still spun to the right, swinging its tail end around to the port side.

Gray held his breath, sure they would topple over — but the cruiser finally righted itself and crashed back down to all four tires.

“Now!” he yelled to Harrington.

The professor hit a large black button above his seat.

Bolts blew near the top of the back wall — and the rear door fell open, dropping away to form an exit ramp. The far edge struck the ground, and the ramp got dragged along behind the cruiser, rattling and bouncing across the cavern floor, plowing through shallow puddles or streams.

Harrington bellowed to be heard above the racket of steel on stone and the bugling of the frightened herd outside. “That must be the one!”

The professor pointed to where an exceptionally large Pachycerex came into view out the back door, thundering along, trumpeting its anger. The bull stood a third taller in the haunches than the others. Beyond its bulk, one of the small CAATs raced, still trying to compensate for the sudden maneuver by the large rig.

Gray raised his DSR rifle aiming for the rear quarter of the massive bull Pachycerex . He waited until the pursuing CAAT drew abreast of the beast — then fired.

The recoil of the electric rifle slammed his shoulder. He got enough of a backwash from the pulse to set his teeth on edge. The sonic bullet struck the flank of the bull. He could tell because its hide had been glowing a dark crimson — then suddenly flared in a splatter of blue, as if Gray had fired a paint gun into its side.

The bull roared and reared up on its hind legs, twisting away from the noise and pain. It dropped back to all fours and charged in the opposite direction — straight toward the CAAT racing along that side.

The bull took its wrath out upon this intruder in the herd. It lowered its head and struck the vehicle broadside with a ringing crash of bone on steel. The smaller CAAT got knocked off its treads, going airborne, flipping sideways. It struck the pond’s far bank, landed on its side, and skidded away in a grinding flurry of sparks.

One down .

Knowing they were outnumbered, Gray had come up with this plan to use this harsh world as a weapon, to turn it against these hunters.

Kowalski threw the rig in the direction of that crash, sending the rear end swinging around again. Gray got tossed hard against his seat’s straps, almost losing his grip on the rifle. The cruiser aimed for this new break in the closing snare, intending to burst free.

The lumbering vehicle roared past the crash site. In the distance, the larger CAAT fell back. Gray stared toward those fading headlamps, sensing his nemesis was aboard there.

Bring it on…

Dylan caught a glimpse of a shadowy shape through the dropped rear gate of the snow cruiser. The flare of his headlamps revealed a figure belted inside, holding a long rifle. Though it was too far and too brief a look, Dylan remembered the man from twenty-four hours earlier, seated atop a Sno-Cat, firing up at his Twin Otter, almost taking out the plane.

It had to be that same American.

So the bastard survived… made it to the station anyway .

A trickle of respect flared through him. He now understood why Harrington kept eluding him. The old man had help, someone skilled and competent.

Dylan’s fingers found the butt of his Howdah pistol and tightened on the antique wooden grip, readying for the challenge to come.

The CAAT’s driver slowed as they neared the crash site. The smaller vehicle lay on its side in an island of light, treads still spinning uselessly at the air. The exit ramp had torn open with the impact. Gunfire flashed from inside the cabin.

Someone was still alive, still fighting.

And with good reason.

Through that open hatch, the world of Hell’s Cape — riled and angered by the chaos — pushed into the upended cabin in a riot of flesh and acid. Shadows lurched and crawled and slithered, piling one atop the other, likely drawn by the blood of the injured inside. One man burst out against that deadly tide, stumbling and struggling. Something scabrous and spidery clung to his shoulder and neck. Long legs pierced his flesh, digging a firm hold.

It was Seward, the team leader of that squad. The man fought through the reeds toward the approaching headlights, an arm raised in a silent plea.

“Sir?” the driver asked, still slowing.

Then a huge dark shadow swept across the glowing tops of the reeds and speared the man through the ribs, lifting him off his feet and carrying him away.

Three other men had been aboard the crashed CAAT.

But by now all gunfire had ceased inside.

Nothing to be done .

Dylan turned his attention forward and pointed his arm at the retreating rear end of the cruiser. He still had a mission to complete.

“Keep going.”

Gray guarded the open rear door with his rifle. The back gate was too damaged to close. The end of the ramp bounced and sparked as it was dragged along the cavern floor behind the cruiser. Exposed to the elements, the cabin was at great risk. He fired his DSR at any shadows that came too near, but the rig’s knee-rattling pace, along with its belching fumes and roaring engines, continued to be their best defense.

Then a sharp whistle blast cut through the cacophony.

It was Kowalski, laying hard on the cruiser’s horn.

Now what?

Gray glanced over a shoulder to see Jason and Stella come flying down the ladder from the rig’s cab.

“Kowalski needs you!” Jason called out, then nodded to Stella. “We’ll guard the cabin.”

The young woman reached Harrington’s side. “You should go, too, father.”

“Wait.” The professor had found an old pair of World War II — era binoculars and stared out into the darkness. He lowered them and pointed. “Looks like Wright’s heading away from us.”

Gray turned and saw Harrington was right.

The CAAT’s headlights swung away from the rig, angling to the left, taking the vehicle farther out into the swamplands, toward the darkness at the back of the cavernous Coliseum.

Where’s he going?

Harrington motioned with his binoculars. “I saw something lashed down atop that CAAT. It looked like—”

A tremendous boom blasted away his last words, echoing throughout the cavern, momentarily silencing the screams and cries of the maddening life outside. It sounded far off.

As the thunder rolled away, Gray turned to Harrington. “Was that your bunker busters?”