James Axler - Judas Strike

Then Ryan spotted the panga in the muddled weeds and threw himself on the knife, fumbling in the sand for the handle. Sensing weakness, the crab rushed forward. Ryan reared back both boots and launched a double kick to its body. But the crab dodged, and the boots only struck one of its many legs. With a crack, the limb broke clean off and fresh blood flowed from the yawning pit in its shell.

Galvanized with the pain, the crab whipped both stingers around in a defensive pattern just as Ryan found the knife. Struggling to his knees, he hacked at the weakened goop on his right arm. Come on, almost there…

Suddenly, the crab charged and slashed out with both tails. Twisting out of the way, Ryan avoided one, but the other hit his thigh and searing pain exploded like electric fire. Gasping for breath, he sliced down with the panga and cut off the tip of the tail embedded in his thigh. Oily fluid pumped from the sheared stump, and the crab darted into the weeds.

Gritting his teeth, Ryan dropped the knife and recklessly plucked the slippery barb from his skin, throwing it away. But a numbness was starting to spread in the limb, and the one-eyed man knew he had only seconds before he was on the last train west. He was barely able to hold off the mutie; with a wound he wouldn’t stand a chance.

Grimly, the Deathlands warrior put everything he had into forcing his right arm downward. A fingertip brushed cool metal, but that was all. Ryan ignored the growing lack of feeling in his left leg and raged against the cloying bonds. Tendons swelled and the remaining goo stretched a little. Gritting his teeth, he redoubled the effort, the predark shirt ripping slightly from the strain. Ryan gained an inch, his fingers almost going around the grip of the blaster. Minutes passed in the silent struggle, but the numbness in his leg was getting worse, and his breathing was labored, his physical resources depleted from starvation. Sweat was stinging the old cut on his palm, and it made his fingers slippery. Refusing to quit, Ryan snarled in defiance and rammed his arm down one last time, gaining another inch, but the blaster still eluded his grasp. Then the cuff button of his shirt snapped off, his arm came free and he had the weapon.

Only Ryan found that he still couldn’t get it out of the holster. There still wasn’t enough room to pull the blaster free. The crab scuttled from the weeds, and he turned to keep it in view. The creature was going to attack again, and Ryan couldn’t chance another strike from its tail.

Having no choice, Ryan fell on his back and started to pull the trigger of the blaster, shooting through the bottom of the old leather holster. Caught in the open, the crab paused at the gentle cough of the silenced weapon, then jumped as it was hit by a 9 mm Parabellum round. The soft lead slug punched completely through the shell, shattering the chitin and exposing the pulsating organs inside. But instead of running, the mutie actually charged, the undamaged stinger lashing about insanely.

Firing nonstop, Ryan swung his legs after the side walker, tracking as best he could. The first couple of shots only scored furrows in its hard shell, but then a round slammed into the gaping shoulder wound. Organs burst apart as the slug plowed through the mutie. The barbed tail went instantly limp, the crab shuddered violently, then toppled over and went very still.

Keeping a close watch on the creature, a grunting Ryan reclaimed his knife and without any further interruptions was soon free from the imprisoning white goo.

“Tough bastard,” he growled, pocketing the spent clip and sliding in one of his few remaining reloads. There was more ammo in his backpack, wherever the hell that was. It had to have fallen into the sea along with everybody else. He could only hope the others had also washed up on the same shore that he had. But he knew the backpack and the extra ammo were long gone. He had to save every round he could.

Then his oddly numb knee buckled, and the man got busy cutting away a section of his pants until the stab wound was exposed. The skin was white and puckered at the center, a bright red all around and very tender to the touch. Not good.

Wiping the blade clean on his shirt, Ryan played the flame of a predark butane lighter along the blade to sterilize it. Then he carefully sliced open the skin and a clear oily fluid oozed out. Good, the poison was still in the wound, not in his blood yet. He had a chance. Squeezing the area hard, Ryan kneaded the numb flesh until more transparent fluid came out, then some yellow pus and finally red blood.

Some feeling was returning, and the man braced himself for the next part. This was going to be bad, but without anybody to suck out any remaining poison he had no choice. Jacking the slide on his blaster, Ryan ejected a few rounds, cut off the wads of lead and poured the silvery powder directly into the raw wound. The nitro stung slightly, then he flicked the butane lighter into life and ignited the powder.

There was a sharp flash without smoke, and Ryan heard or saw nothing for several minutes as he rode out the explosion of pain. Slowly, the throbbing waves of hot torture ebbed, leaving his leg wrapped in throbbing anguish. Wiping the sweat off his face, Ryan inspected the wound. All of the hair was burned off his thigh, and the flesh around the puncture was puckered with white ridges. Gently touching it, he found the area hurt like hell, but that only meant he had moved fast enough. The poison appeared to be gone.

Reaching for his canteen, Ryan cursed to find it missing, and made do with sucking a smooth pebble to curb his thirst. Using a clean handkerchief to bind the cauterized wound, he tried to stand and found that normal walking was impossible. The best he could do was a slow step and drag. He’d have to find a stick or something to use as a crutch if he was going to do much traveling. His longblaster would have been perfect, but that was with his backpack.

Shuffling over to the corpse of the mutie crab, Ryan saw its remaining legs were faintly twitching. A hunter since childhood, Ryan knew that lots of things moved slightly after they were chilled, but he had no intention of taking a chance on this bastard. Ruthlessly, he stomped the corpse, grinding the thing under the heel of his combat boot until there was no chance it could regenerate.

Satisfied for the moment, Ryan stood tall and glanced around. His next move was to find the others, and hopefully his backpack. But only low swells of sand with some patches of dry weeds were visible in every direction. Nothing else. Rubbing his chin, Ryan wondered how long he had been unconscious. Could the crab have eaten six other people, and he was simply the last? But checking his beard, Ryan decided it had only been a day or two. Nowhere near long enough, unless there were a hell of a lot more of these crabs.

The sounds of the ocean came from several directions, and Ryan headed for the loudest waves. That should be the closest, and the beach was a logical place to start a recce. At first, the going was slow, his wounded leg stiff and unable to carry his full weight, but the pain diminished and strength returned after only a few dozen yards.

Reaching the crest of a dune, Ryan paused as his stomach loudly announced its emptiness with a long sustained rumble. Yeah, it had to have been a while since that big meal at Cold Harbor ville. Ryan searched his pockets for anything edible and found only sand. Turning, he glanced at the dead crab and saw that it was already covered with a flock of seagulls tearing the corpse apart with their needle-sharp beaks. The man touched his blaster, then decided against it. Raw gull tasted like he imagined used underwear would. He wasn’t quite that hungry yet. Besides, he was down to the last full clip for the SIG-Sauer. Best to save every round until absolutely necessary. If he didn’t find his backpack, there might not be any more.