The shaman gestured and shoved and barked to get the warriors moving, but their gaze was fixed on their dying tribemates. They jabbered defiance at the shaman. He spat at them and threw handfuls of dirt in an effort to get them worked up.
Fred lumbered forward, swinging the war club back and forth to try and knock Dwayne’s spear aside. Dwayne kept himself between the cave opening and the growing mob of skinnies arrayed in a rough half-circle between the cave and the huts.
Jimbo was down to six arrows and wanted to plant them where they’d do the most good. He was judging the mood of the restless males to choose his next target. The shaman was working the crowd to gin them up. Whatever he was screaming at them was starting to work. Jimbo was reminded of a jump instructor at Fort Benning; a pint-sized little runt with a voice that could be heard clearly even at the top of the jump towers. You’d do whatever he said just so he’d shut the hell up.
Jimbo stood up from behind his rock shelter and pulled back on the string. The reed bow strained under the pressure. Jimbo laced the point of the arrow squarely on the shaman’s center mass. He let the shaft fly just as a jabbering skinny stepped in the path. The skinny took the arrow through the temple and crashed back into the shaman, knocking them both to the ground.
For some reason, this inspired two skinnies to bolt from the crowd to make a rush at Dwayne. Jimbo nailed one through the side just under the armpit. The skinny stumbled and dropped, awkwardly pulling at the shaft buried in his lungs. A second shaft went deep into the upper thigh of the other local hero, but it didn’t slow the guy down at all. He came on for Dwayne’s unprotected back.
Dwayne was pinned from behind by powerful arms that were trying to drag him to his knees. His arms were pressed to his side. The skinny with the arrow through his thigh was riding Dwayne in a piggyback.
Fred bounded forward with a holler and swinging the club over his head in wide circles. The blade cut through the air with a thrumming sound. Dwayne gave in to the downward pressure of his rider and crashed with his full weight on the skinny who was gripping him from behind. He drove the skinny hard to the ground and threw himself to one side.
The skinny was gasping to refill his lungs but would not loosen his hold and rode atop Dwayne’s back. He didn’t release his grip until a poorly aimed swing from Fred took the top of his skull off. The grappler let go and fell to the sand, brains slopping from the disastrous wound that opened his head from the brow line up.
Dwayne freed himself from the twitching skinny and got to his feet. He still had the spear in his hands and sprang forward as Fred drew the club back for a backhand blow. With all his weight behind the point, Dwayne rammed the spear hard into the solar plexus of the attacker. Fred made a sound like a deep cough as his forward rush impaled him on the point and drove it out his back next to his spine.
It was a mortal wound, but the war chief wasn’t ready to die yet and continued swinging for Dwayne’s head. Dwayne was staring in disbelief at the ferocious little skinny, who was actually forcing the spear deeper into his chest to get within striking distance of his enemy. With a mad glint out of his eyes and foam flying from his mouth, he kept swinging away. Before he could release the spear shaft, the flat of the ax blade took Dwayne in the side of the head. It was a glancing blow that jarred him. He stumbled and let go of the spear.
That was all the encouragement the rest of the skinnies needed, and they sprinted forward with a roar of triumph exploding from them as though from a single throat. Three spun to the sand with shafts in them, but their comrades trampled the falling bodies to race for Dwayne. The shower of stones picked up again and a fist-sized rock slammed into Dwayne’s forehead. He fell back.
He felt fists and clawing hands. Animal growls and the laughter of children filled his ears as the darkness closed.
14
Running Late
A cab marked Alamo Taxi Service pulled into the compound in a spreading cloud of dust. The rear door flew open, and Renzi ran from it even as the cab brodied to a stop. The driver burst from the cab to chase after him. Renzi could feel the frisson of static still hanging in the air.
“When did they leave?” Renzi demanded as he trotted into the Tube control room.
Tauber turned from his computer array in surprise at the sudden arrival. Renzi was wearing hospital scrubs and docksiders. He had a large patch of his hair shaved off the back of his skull and an angry line of fresh sutures visible there stained with Betadine.
“Ten minutes, a little more,” Tauber said. “Pay for the cab!” Renzi called, and ran into the cold cloud of mist falling away from the Tube and was gone. Tauber stared after him and was startled by a strange voice behind him.
A red-faced man in a guayabera shirt, Bermuda shorts and sandals stood behind Tauber looking around.
“Where’s the guy I drove up here?” the red-faced man said. “I saw him run in here.”
“Um, can I help?” Tauber said.
“He
