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Authors: Richard Ellis Preston Jr.
Tags: Science-Fiction
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floor studded with a thousand glowing orange embers, he swung around his sword and pistol to find one sabertooth, a massive brute coated with ice, its fangs at least a foot long from upper lip to tip, already creeping in under the overhang.
Buckle could hear more roars piercing the wind outside. The pack was coming, collecting, preparing for the final rush.
Buckle grabbed the survival pouch. The capped syringe, morphine vials, and Fassbinder’s jar were loose, lying on a gauze strip, and he scooped them inside the pouch as he rose, pointing the pistol at the sabertooth’s face. It paused, regarding him with its four malevolent green eyes, then slowly kept on coming.
The devil, Buckle thought. How the hell could the beastie know the pistol was not loaded? The ruse was over, and he jammed the pistol back into his belt. He reached into the pouch and grabbed one of the musket cartridges.
The sabertooth dashed forward. Buckle beat it back with a shove of the torch at its face. The hulking creature came so close he could smell the rotten-egg scent of its hot breath, shooting out of its nostrils in pumping columns of mist. The beastiescrambled back a few feet, snarling so vehemently that the walls of the room seemed to rattle.
Two more beasties appeared at the cave entrance, gliding in with an ease of anticipation that was unnerving. Buckle bit off the top of the paper musket cartridge and dumped out the ball, the lead sphere landing with a little pop on the ice and rolling away. Buckle sidled slowly to the right, back toward the inner chamber, and the sabertooth veered to cut him off.
Buckle lunged, and the big beastie lunged with him. Buckle swung the musket cartridge so that the blackbang powder spilled through the air in a wide arc between him and the sabertooth. He thrust the head of his torch into the black arch of gunpowder, which ignited with a loud, rippling flash.
The sabertooth roared, a furious baritone howl, as it jumped back, cowering under the unexpected wall of fire that had just exploded in its face.
Buckle dashed, biting the head off a second cartridge as he ran, tossing the ball and setting another crackling arc afire with a rearward swing of his torch, just as he ducked into the adjoining cave. He scrambled headlong into the chamber of numbers, and dove to the winding wheel. He yanked at the spokes, hauling the ancient iron device with its brass fittings around, hand over hand. The wheel creaked, rust spilling from the hole where its trunk pierced the wall; cogs creaked, thick and dull with mold and ice-locked oxidation, and the heavy iron door slid, closing the gap far too slowly, no matter that Buckle gave its course every ounce of strength his body could bear.
Out in the main cavern, the indignant sabertooths roared, a mass of foul voices.
Buckle snatched up the torch and tossed it out the doorway, hoping the fire would slow the beasties a bit. If he had enough time to crank the door shut, he could keep Max safe.
If only he had the time.
THE ISLAND IN THE STREAM
M AX WALKED ALONG THE FOREST path. It was sunny, the sunlight beating down through the tall trees in pale gold-white columns framed by moving shadows as the branches swung in the light breeze. She felt warm and happy. The air was full of the rich, sweet smell of grass, pine, and heather.
It was quiet. Her boots swished along the dirt trail. She was skipping. She was very young.
She heard the low rush of a stream not far ahead, and the light tinkle of wind chimes.
She was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming.
And it was quite all right.
Max lifted her chin to the sun, its brilliant white orb slipping past above the trees, stinging her eyes. The sun unbound the world, glorious in its heat, unleashing such greenness and luxurious smells.
She was dying. She knew she was dying.
And it was quite all right.
She had saved Romulus Buckle. She had placed her body in between his body and death, and gladly accepted the result. Her life for
Buckle could hear more roars piercing the wind outside. The pack was coming, collecting, preparing for the final rush.
Buckle grabbed the survival pouch. The capped syringe, morphine vials, and Fassbinder’s jar were loose, lying on a gauze strip, and he scooped them inside the pouch as he rose, pointing the pistol at the sabertooth’s face. It paused, regarding him with its four malevolent green eyes, then slowly kept on coming.
The devil, Buckle thought. How the hell could the beastie know the pistol was not loaded? The ruse was over, and he jammed the pistol back into his belt. He reached into the pouch and grabbed one of the musket cartridges.
The sabertooth dashed forward. Buckle beat it back with a shove of the torch at its face. The hulking creature came so close he could smell the rotten-egg scent of its hot breath, shooting out of its nostrils in pumping columns of mist. The beastiescrambled back a few feet, snarling so vehemently that the walls of the room seemed to rattle.
Two more beasties appeared at the cave entrance, gliding in with an ease of anticipation that was unnerving. Buckle bit off the top of the paper musket cartridge and dumped out the ball, the lead sphere landing with a little pop on the ice and rolling away. Buckle sidled slowly to the right, back toward the inner chamber, and the sabertooth veered to cut him off.
Buckle lunged, and the big beastie lunged with him. Buckle swung the musket cartridge so that the blackbang powder spilled through the air in a wide arc between him and the sabertooth. He thrust the head of his torch into the black arch of gunpowder, which ignited with a loud, rippling flash.
The sabertooth roared, a furious baritone howl, as it jumped back, cowering under the unexpected wall of fire that had just exploded in its face.
Buckle dashed, biting the head off a second cartridge as he ran, tossing the ball and setting another crackling arc afire with a rearward swing of his torch, just as he ducked into the adjoining cave. He scrambled headlong into the chamber of numbers, and dove to the winding wheel. He yanked at the spokes, hauling the ancient iron device with its brass fittings around, hand over hand. The wheel creaked, rust spilling from the hole where its trunk pierced the wall; cogs creaked, thick and dull with mold and ice-locked oxidation, and the heavy iron door slid, closing the gap far too slowly, no matter that Buckle gave its course every ounce of strength his body could bear.
Out in the main cavern, the indignant sabertooths roared, a mass of foul voices.
Buckle snatched up the torch and tossed it out the doorway, hoping the fire would slow the beasties a bit. If he had enough time to crank the door shut, he could keep Max safe.
If only he had the time.
THE ISLAND IN THE STREAM
M AX WALKED ALONG THE FOREST path. It was sunny, the sunlight beating down through the tall trees in pale gold-white columns framed by moving shadows as the branches swung in the light breeze. She felt warm and happy. The air was full of the rich, sweet smell of grass, pine, and heather.
It was quiet. Her boots swished along the dirt trail. She was skipping. She was very young.
She heard the low rush of a stream not far ahead, and the light tinkle of wind chimes.
She was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming.
And it was quite all right.
Max lifted her chin to the sun, its brilliant white orb slipping past above the trees, stinging her eyes. The sun unbound the world, glorious in its heat, unleashing such greenness and luxurious smells.
She was dying. She knew she was dying.
And it was quite all right.
She had saved Romulus Buckle. She had placed her body in between his body and death, and gladly accepted the result. Her life for
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