James Axler - Hive Invasion

“I’ve got to clear a path for them to get up here,” he said as he shrugged off his bandolier of magazines and set it beside him, then snugged the butt of the Steyr Scout longblaster to his shoulder and put his lone eye to the scope. “I need you to spot and reload mags if necessary. Keep an eye on the bugs and let me know if any of them get close to our people.”

After giving those instructions, Ryan went to work. Methodically he began picking off the muties coming out of the south area of the ring around J.B., Mildred, Doc and the rest. With his 7.62 mm bullets punching holes through the backs of the attackers, it took all of two seconds for J.B. to see what was going on and immediately organize a fighting retreat toward Ryan’s position.

Aided by Ryan picking off the vanguard of the muties with his longblaster, Jak and Ricky led the way, clearing a path with sustained fire. Doc and Mildred came next, the stocky black woman and reedy old man backing up the two teens and also watching their own respective sides. Last came J.B., fighting a rear-guard action that put him in harm’s way more than once if not for the timely intervention of Ryan and his Steyr. At one point the one-eyed man shot the head of a burrow-bug off its thorax just as its mandibles were about to close on J.B.’s leg. The bullet shattered the bug’s face, and its quivering body was quickly overwhelmed by its brethren, who didn’t seem to care that they were carving up one of their own.

The group was making slow but steady time toward the rock plateau that would be their salvation when a high shout echoed off the steep walls of the makeshift ravine.

Ryan was already shifting his longblaster toward the source even as Krysty told him what was going on.

“Doc’s down!”

But Ryan could already see that. Doc was sprawled on the ground, his right leg vanished into the soft earth from the knee down. Several sprays of dirt around him signaled the worst was happening.

The creatures had sprung a second ambush—and they’d caught Doc.

Chapter Three

Each member of the group had his or her own quirks and foibles, which sometimes drew teasing from the rest. In J.B.’s case, it was often said that if he wasn’t concerned or worried about something, he wasn’t happy.

As usual, the phlegmatic Armorer would counter that by saying there was plenty to worry about in the Deathlands every day—he just concentrated on whatever looked most urgent and figured the rest of the group would handle the other, less-pressing matters.

And right now they were in a hell of a mess. There was no helping the ambush—after the past few days here, everyone had gotten used to the minor tremors shaking the ground at all hours, so when the latest one had started, no one had thought anything of it until the bugs had starting bursting out of the ground.

J.B. had seen his share of massed swarm tactics before and knew how to handle that. It usually involved pit traps, a moat and a good, solid, high palisade wall, preferably with sharpened spikes pointing toward the enemy.

But since they didn’t have access to such barriers, he’d been forced to improvise. Everything had been going reasonably well—their blastershots had brought Ryan and Krysty back to find out what was going on, and as he’d figured, Ryan had begun creating an escape route, which they were fighting their way through. So far, so good.

Assuming their ammo held out.

J.B. was also often compared to a walking computer, particularly when it came to logistics and supplies. Again, he said that knowing what people had on them was often the difference between life and death every day. He kept a running tally of every bullet each person in the group carried, often knowing more accurately how many an individual had than he or she did. And right now, his computerlike mind was running through the calculations of how many shells they’d expended fighting their way out of this trap, and he wasn’t liking what he was coming up with.

It would have been a different story if these burrow-bugs had the common sense to retreat when faced with overwhelming firepower. Unfortunately, they didn’t seem to have the brains to understand when they should have been running away instead of forward to the slaughter.

But again, that worked only if their ammo held out.

And right now, there didn’t seem to be any end to the insect army coming after them. No matter how he figured it, if they didn’t reach the safety of that rock ledge, this fight would have only one possible outcome—J.B. and the rest of the group were going to be dinner. Of course, the Armorer had no intention of going down that way. He’d eat the barrel of his Mini-Uzi before things got that bad. Right now, he was busy making sure none of the chittering, scuttling, eight-foot-long insects got the drop on any of his friends. You want dinner that bad, he thought, you’re going to have to work for it.

But when Doc shouted in surprise as his foot broke through the ground and he sank awkwardly up to his knee, J.B. had had to give the bugs a grudging bit of respect. After all, they didn’t need to get the drop on their next meal—not when they could make it drop in on them.

He lunged forward, grabbing under the shoulders of Doc’s ancient frock coat with one arm. He heaved back, but he might as well have been trying to pull the old man out of concrete. J.B. also had to watch his footing, since it was hard to tell where the pit trap began, and if he wasn’t careful, he could end up stuck in there with the old man.

Doc’s shout had also attracted Mildred’s attention, and she’d turned back to help, as well. “Get to the others!” J.B. shouted.

Her answer was to fire a shot that whizzed past his head. J.B. didn’t need to turn and check to know a dead bug would be lying on the ground behind him. “Not till you get him out and moving!”

J.B. would have argued, but there was no time. By now, Doc had slipped into the dirt up to his waist. Instead of panicking, he was watching the moving earth below him intently. “I say, John Barrymore, would you be so kind as to hold this for me?” he asked, holding out his LeMat.

“Doc...how in the hell am I supposed to hold that and hold you up at the same time?” the Armorer asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, you are not going to like my answer,” Doc began as a booming crack echoed across the hills, and J.B. felt something brush his back as it fell.

“Just spit it out, Doc!”

The old man turned to look back at him, his gaze and voice crystal clear. “You are going to let me go.”

“If I do, you’re dead!”

“Not quite, John Barrymore.” Doc held up his other hand, which still held his sword. “I will dispatch the villain attempting to carry me away, and then return—”

Another, closer shot rang out, and this time one of the bugs fell against J.B. as it died. “Whatever you two are going to do, do it fast!” Mildred snapped.

“All right!” Snatching the LeMat out of Doc’s hand, J.B. let him go and turned to take out two bugs that had been charging at him from the rear. He heard a shout from Doc—something about eating cold steel—then the man disappeared completely from sight.

“Doc? Doc!” J.B. dropped to his knees at the edge of the collapsed six-foot-deep pit and looked for any sign of the old man.

“Come on, John! These bastards aren’t going to stay away forever!” Mildred said as she shot another one through the eye.

“Hang on!” he shouted back, although he knew it was growing more hopeless by the moment. More seconds passed, bullets flying around him, but J.B. kept looking. He was just about to give up hope when he still saw nothing below, but then a wrinkled hand burst up from the dirt, looking for something to latch on to. J.B. leaned down, grabbed it and hauled upward with all his strength.