He heard himself screaming inside the mask as those jaws opened to envelop him, far closer this time. He braced himself for the searing pain of dozens of sharp, jagged teeth tearing into his flesh as he saw Lulah and Amber flash before his eyes.
That was it? That was all that had ever mattered in his whole damned life??
The bright flash of light in the manhole was at first perceived by him as possibly what he needed to walk toward on his final journey. Wow! It must have bitten him in half! And he never even felt it! Must’ve been the shock! At least it was quick!
But then the gator’s head exploded. Blood, brains and teeth flew in every direction. The mammoth lizard tumbled backward into the water, with only a smoking stub above his front legs. The carcass sank quickly into the black water, a grisly red slick rising to the surface, populated with floating bits of charred flesh.
Tiger turned to look to the sky above him and saw an angel. An angel with the face of Dee Ridley. The pulse rifle he still had aimed down the manhole told the whole story. He’d saved Tiger’s ass … literally and figuratively.
Tiger ripped the mask off and dropped it back down into the hole. “Fuck me! That was close!” he screamed out at the top of his lungs, not knowing now whether to laugh or cry, so he did a weird combination of both for a moment, a cackle of relief choked off by a body-racking sob.
“You ok?” Dee called down to him.
“No, I’m not ok! I almost got ate by a goddamn living purse factory!” Tiger looked up at him as if he had three heads. “Would you be ok?”
“I guess you gotta point,” Dee shrugged. “Well, you gonna stay down there and wait for the next one, or you gonna join me topside?”
“I’m coming!” Tiger yelled back up. “But you might wanna step back. I think I may’ve shit myself.”
***
Skeeter was halfway back to the marina when the spotlight hit him from above, stabbing out of the darkness and illuminating his boat in a harsh circle of white, blinding light. The source of the light flew straight over him and then dropped down in front of his bow, staying about thirty meters ahead. Red and blue lights flashed in an unmistakable signal for Skeeter to stop. With a shake of his head and a resigned sigh, he killed the engine.
“Attention! You in the boat! Prepare to be boarded by Space Authority personnel!” Whoever the dick was on the loudspeaker, he was shouting unnecessarily into the mic. Either he was hopped up on adrenaline, or one of those jackasses who didn’t trust the concept of amplification. More than likely, it was the latter, a walking prick with ears who had a little authority and liked to hear himself. He’d seen his type many times over.
The gunship came down to rest gently on the water, the spotlight never leaving Skeeter. Although blinded by the searing beam, he was familiar enough with the craft. The Dragoon was a standard two-person gunship. The cockpit was a long, polyglass-enclosed compartment located fully forward. It featured large windows that allowed an almost unobstructed view for the pilot in all directions. Even the cockpit floor was transparent. Behind and above the cockpit sat a rotating turret that housed the Dragoon’s main armament, a twin-barreled pulse cannon. The rest of the vehicle was, for all intents and purposes, nothing but beefy, oversized, vectoring pulse-drive engines.
Unlike most gunship weapons this century, the unique thing about the Dragoon’s pulse cannon was that it wasn’t remote-controlled. A trooper, protected by a clear polyglass bubble, operated it in much the same principle as a ball turret gunner on a World War II bomber back in the twentieth century. And this one was operated by a dick with an attitude. Skeeter knew he was probably looking for any excuse to smoke him. He knew it probably wouldn’t be wise to make any sudden moves. The slightest squeeze of the trigger on that double-barreled bad boy would blast him into bits of bone and ash in mere seconds. He’d been through too much shit to be an “accident.” He waited patiently while the amphibious aerocraft maneuvered slowly to him using bursts of its steering rockets.
“No sudden moves!” The voice again. This time, there was no loudspeaker. They were close enough the prick didn’t need it.
“I ain’t movin’,” Skeeter replied calmly. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”
“Mind shuttin’ up!” The reply came back harsh, just as he expected. This one had a real superiority complex. He was used to ordering people around. No, that wasn’t it. He was used to bullying people. Most likely, he’d done a stint on Mars. The Guard there had developed a reputation for brutality as the unrest had increased.
Another light hit him now from behind. He’d been wondering when it’d happen. S.O.P. Wait for backup. Preferably airborne. At least one of the two in the ‘Goon knew what he was doing.
The gunship pulled up alongside, the PolyRmor hull gently bumping against Skeeter’s boat. Skeeter instantly knew this wasn’t the asshole on the loudspeaker. If it had, he wouldn’t have been so considerate. He would’ve made sure to put a crack or two in the trimaran’s fiberglass … then smarmily apologized.
The driver opened the canopy and slid it back. “Afternoon, sir,” Chief Petty Officer Grabowski hailed. “Mind if I come aboard?”
“Don’t see why not,” Skeeter shrugged. “Watch your step.”
A hatch in the side of the Dragoon’s turret opened, and Roddy appeared, pulse rifle at combat-ready. “Don’t worry. I got your back, Chief.
“As you were, Ensign,” Grabowski told him gruffly. He stood up, climbed out of the cockpit and stepped over.
“I need to look your boat over, sir,” he told Skeeter. “If you have a problem with it, you have the right to request the Zone Patrol be present,
