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I had seen “wild” Reapers in action before—on the other side of the river from Little Rock, during the siege of Big Rock Hill. Our enemies dropped them as a disruptive and sapping force during a larger attack. The death of a Kurian would also, I understand, turn its Reapers loose.
It would break through someone’s bedroom window and snatch a child, or slaughter a whole family down to the last bird dog. To see such a menace running around loose and not do anything about it would be a dreadful betrayal of what I believed. The lesser sins I’d committed for my own survival as Maynes’s bodyguard I felt I could answer for, but to leave this thing wandering the hills—
I checked the heavy old revolver in its holster and followed.
I lost sight of it frequently, but could still track it with my ears. It made enough noise in its frantic flight—so frantic that it frequently struck trees with a thwack.
The ground rose more steeply and I had to choose my path carefully. The Reaper seemed to be choosing an easier, longer route up the ridgeline. I saw my chance.
Using all fours, I swarmed up the steeper hillside at the fastest pace I could manage, the famous Grog charge-gallop that’s so often depicted in paintings of skirmishes in the late Liberation.
Though I evidently beat it to the limestone-scarred, wooded top, I lost sight and sound of it. After a few moments of looking and waiting, I made my best guess of the path it was taking and descended. Though the woods on the slope were dense, there was a fair amount of moonlight, and I should have been able to pick out a light-colored figure.
Had it found a cave or hollow tree to crawl into?
I unholstered the heavy revolver and descended carefully, searching for a hiding spot, eyes following the front sight of the pistol.
I had an answer delivered to my neck and shoulder. It had been hiding in one of the trees—I hadn’t looked high enough, I suppose, and Reapers are nothing if not slender—and leaped down upon me like a hunting cat.
The wrestling match was short and furious. I had a painful tearing sensation to my shoulder and felt hot blood upon me. I tried to pin the beast with one hand, but it was like wrestling with a fire escape that had fallen atop me. Feeling a sharp stab at my hairline, I instinctively reached up as you might to swat a biting fly. I found myself with a handful of tongue and yanked, hard.
The Reaper came loose with its tongue, and I swung it against a tree trunk hard enough to make it rain acorns as I felt around for the pistol with my hurting arm. It staggered, stunned. I managed to pick up the gun, found the trigger, and emptied three chambers into it at negligible range.
The impact of the bullets knocked it into the tree three times. I managed to get my fingers locked around its throat, braced its stomach with my leg, and yanked hard enough to haul in one of the Gulf marlins we used to fish for off the well deck of the old Thunderbolt. Its neck popped and I shook it, lashing it against rocks and listening to cartilage and bones snapping.
Finally, it lay still.
I had wrecked both the young Reaper and my chances for escape. My shoulder hurt every time I moved my arm, and I had blood running from wounds around my neck. I did my best to stanch the flow, but because of their position, I couldn’t get a good look at the wounds to do much about them other than apply pressure with my good arm.
Baying hounds sounded in the distance and I saw the flicker of a flashlight between the trees.
Dogs, and I was dribbling blood. They’d find me eventually.
I let loose with my loudest call. I waved my arms. I capered and kicked up leaves and groundfall, which served to mess up the area and hide where I placed my escape gear and supplies. The commotion drove a pair of bitterns from the fen. The two boomed out their anger as they left.
The dogs looked a good deal happier to see me than the men, identified by the badges and hats as local constabulary. They did a good deal of pointing and pantomime until I convinced them that I wasn’t just using words in the manner of a parrot.
I did my best to act cheerfully when they sat me in the back of the van and told me to ride, as if I were a lost dog glad to leap into the family car.
They drove me back to the White Palace. The summer sun striking the brilliant white glared so brightly, it hurt my eyes to look. I tried not to become too relieved; this might be the soothing moment of relief before the shock of a surprise interrogation.
As it turned out, I retraced my original steps through the staff entrance.
The presence of the vet made me nervous. I supposed at the time I might be euthanized like a horse, but I steeled myself to take a few of them with me—sparing the vet, who’d been nothing but kind each time he’d attended to me.
I had a deep puncture from the Reaper’s tongue, tooth marks that had to be closed with surgical staples, a separated shoulder, some minor scrapes and contusions. All were taken care of with cleanliness and efficiency by the vet and his assistant. They were both uneasy and snapped at each other as they worked. Changes in the power structure often brought that out from those in the middle of the Kurian/human hierarchy.
The staff director came in and muttered something about the big Grog being back. He scratched at his chin, pulling a phantom goatee. I’d never thought of it until that moment, but all the staff members at the White Palace were clean-shaven. Requirement? Tradition?
“Well, Groggie, your charge won’t be needing you anymore.” Satisfaction with the assessment poured out of him like syrup.
“Mr. Maynes is dead?”
“Might as well be. His brain isn’t up to much except keeping his heart beating and lungs working. Docs say it’s a deep coma and he’ll deteriorate. They might as well prop him up in the topiary between the palms.”
“I see him soon?”
“Fix that broken badminton net with him, for all I care.”
