Read Online Halfhead by Stuart B. MacBride - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart B. MacBride
Tags: Fiction
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Dragonfly’s engines went to full power. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Will.’
Struggling along the gloomy, waterlogged corridor Will hoped so too.
He was almost at the flat’s front door when a hard crack sounded behind him. A plume of water danced at his feet. Another shot and the bag on his back jumped, throwing him forward. Will just managed to stay on his feet as more bullets tore into the walls around him, sending out puffs of paint and shredded plasticboard.
He scrambled into the flat and slammed the door shut.
‘We’ve got company!’ He heaved the bag of heads into the middle of the room. ‘Get Stein ready to move. Beaton, clip his bodyharness to yours, I don’t want him bashing his brains out on the window frame. Cameron,’ he pointed at the broad strips of black plastic blocking out the world, ‘tear that crap down.’
She grabbed a corner and tugged. Light flooded into the room.
Will turned Stein’s burnt Field Zapper over in his hands. The battery lights were still winking away merrily to themselves: with any luck it wouldn’t short out and electrocute him.
‘Where the hell’s that damn Dragonfly?’
Right on cue the sunlight disappeared again. The flat’s windows rattled in their frames as Lieutenant Brand’s gunship twisted in the air, dipping its nose down to expose the double drop bay doors in its belly.
A single bullet thudded into the apartment door, ripping a hole straight through it and into the tiny hall. And then another one. And another.
‘That’s as close as you get!’
Will pulled up his Whomper and thumbed the trigger. The assault rifle kicked in his hands—its bark deafening in the confines of the filthy lounge—and the front door tore itself apart. One moment it was there, and the next it was a hail of sizzling plastic, pattering down on the threadbare carpet. He slung the Whomper over his shoulder and powered up Stein’s Field Zapper. The weapon’s lights flickered then died.
‘Fuck.’ He thumped it against the wall. Shook it. Tried again.
A tatty, ginger-haired figure leapt into the gap where the door used to be.
She was big-boned rather than fat, dressed in the same eclectic, colourful rags they’d seen this morning. Tribal scars twisted across her pale skin, pulling at the corners of her ice-green eyes. She was carrying an old F24, virtually an antique, and as she brought it up, a smile split her face. Teeth filed to points.
Will shot her.
The arc from Stein’s Field Zapper caught her in the chest, throwing her back into the sodden corridor. Stepping forward, Will pointed the weapon at the waterlogged carpet and held the trigger down.
A chorus of shrieks and squeals erupted in the hall as the blue lightning danced down the corridor. Then there was the sound of bodies hitting the floor. And then silence. Will didn’t risk sticking his head out to check the results: someone might have been wearing insulated boots.
DS Cameron forced the lounge window open. Debris leapt into the air, dancing and spinning in the hot backwash from the Dragonfly’s engines, like angry, paper seagulls.
Sergeant Nairn dropped from the ship’s belly, a cluster of body wires reeling out behind him. He grabbed at the open window with both hands and DS Cameron lunged forwards, dragging him into the room. Before his feet could even touch the carpet, gunfire was clanging off the ship’s hull: a Network Dragonfly made a big and inviting target.
Something bellowed from the floor above and the whole craft lurched.
‘Come on people, get a move on: we can’t hang around here all bloody afternoon!’
Will helped Nairn clip on Stein and Beaton’s bodywires while DS Cameron wrapped another set of wires through the handles on the scanning canister, finishing them off with a huge, in elegant knot. The bag of heads went into the cargo net.
That just left Will and the Detective Sergeant.
As they struggled into their harnesses a tubular canister bounced in through the door
Struggling along the gloomy, waterlogged corridor Will hoped so too.
He was almost at the flat’s front door when a hard crack sounded behind him. A plume of water danced at his feet. Another shot and the bag on his back jumped, throwing him forward. Will just managed to stay on his feet as more bullets tore into the walls around him, sending out puffs of paint and shredded plasticboard.
He scrambled into the flat and slammed the door shut.
‘We’ve got company!’ He heaved the bag of heads into the middle of the room. ‘Get Stein ready to move. Beaton, clip his bodyharness to yours, I don’t want him bashing his brains out on the window frame. Cameron,’ he pointed at the broad strips of black plastic blocking out the world, ‘tear that crap down.’
She grabbed a corner and tugged. Light flooded into the room.
Will turned Stein’s burnt Field Zapper over in his hands. The battery lights were still winking away merrily to themselves: with any luck it wouldn’t short out and electrocute him.
‘Where the hell’s that damn Dragonfly?’
Right on cue the sunlight disappeared again. The flat’s windows rattled in their frames as Lieutenant Brand’s gunship twisted in the air, dipping its nose down to expose the double drop bay doors in its belly.
A single bullet thudded into the apartment door, ripping a hole straight through it and into the tiny hall. And then another one. And another.
‘That’s as close as you get!’
Will pulled up his Whomper and thumbed the trigger. The assault rifle kicked in his hands—its bark deafening in the confines of the filthy lounge—and the front door tore itself apart. One moment it was there, and the next it was a hail of sizzling plastic, pattering down on the threadbare carpet. He slung the Whomper over his shoulder and powered up Stein’s Field Zapper. The weapon’s lights flickered then died.
‘Fuck.’ He thumped it against the wall. Shook it. Tried again.
A tatty, ginger-haired figure leapt into the gap where the door used to be.
She was big-boned rather than fat, dressed in the same eclectic, colourful rags they’d seen this morning. Tribal scars twisted across her pale skin, pulling at the corners of her ice-green eyes. She was carrying an old F24, virtually an antique, and as she brought it up, a smile split her face. Teeth filed to points.
Will shot her.
The arc from Stein’s Field Zapper caught her in the chest, throwing her back into the sodden corridor. Stepping forward, Will pointed the weapon at the waterlogged carpet and held the trigger down.
A chorus of shrieks and squeals erupted in the hall as the blue lightning danced down the corridor. Then there was the sound of bodies hitting the floor. And then silence. Will didn’t risk sticking his head out to check the results: someone might have been wearing insulated boots.
DS Cameron forced the lounge window open. Debris leapt into the air, dancing and spinning in the hot backwash from the Dragonfly’s engines, like angry, paper seagulls.
Sergeant Nairn dropped from the ship’s belly, a cluster of body wires reeling out behind him. He grabbed at the open window with both hands and DS Cameron lunged forwards, dragging him into the room. Before his feet could even touch the carpet, gunfire was clanging off the ship’s hull: a Network Dragonfly made a big and inviting target.
Something bellowed from the floor above and the whole craft lurched.
‘Come on people, get a move on: we can’t hang around here all bloody afternoon!’
Will helped Nairn clip on Stein and Beaton’s bodywires while DS Cameron wrapped another set of wires through the handles on the scanning canister, finishing them off with a huge, in elegant knot. The bag of heads went into the cargo net.
That just left Will and the Detective Sergeant.
As they struggled into their harnesses a tubular canister bounced in through the door
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