Age of Monsters by John Schneider (books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📗

breath.  “You'd really like my wife.”

With that, Lucas squatted down next to where Leroy still sat holding his shoulder.  He quickly and efficiently rifled any remaining weapons or shells from the wounded man's pockets, and then pulled him up off the ground and sat him on a flat slab of concrete.

“Doctor Holland,” he said, “would you please look at this man's arm?”

As he gave the order – and it felt very much like an 'order' – particularly since Rosa promptly obeyed – Lucas moved back up the slope, resuming his vantage over the surrounding blocks.

He nodded urgently to Rosa.  “Just a quick look please,” he said.  “He ought to be able to walk.  That's why I didn't shoot him in the leg.”

And then with a little slap in the air, as if he were swatting her tush, “And can we hurry, please?”

Pursing her lips, Rosa knelt down beside Leroy, who was looking doubtfully up at Lucas.

With her best professional smile, she asked, “So, Leroy, what are your friend's names?”

Leroy shrugged, turning to his companions.  The tall one, who had hit Jeremy with the rifle butt waved nervously.

“Uh, I'm Daryl,” he said.

“Bob,” said the other.

Rosa pulled the shirt away from Leroy's wound – noting the precision of the shot – almost straight through the muscle.  No doubt a second shot would have been just as precise through the eye.

Which, of course, as Rosa now knew, would be another broken rule – you were supposed to aim for center of mass.

Using the torn shirt, Rosa begin to clean the wound, prompting a squawk from Leroy.

Lucas was tapping his watch.  “Uh, Doctor Holland.  Can we put on make-up later?  I just want to make sure he's not going to bleed to death in the next hour.  So can you save the bed-side manner?”

Rosa stared back angrily.  “Lieutenant Walker, you have just shot this man.”

“I'll shoot him again if it'll get us moving.  It's not a good idea to linger.”

Rosa turned to where Leroy was trying to rise.

“I can walk,” he said.

Rosa put her hands on his shoulders, pushing him to sit.

Leroy's eyes were wide.  “That guy ain't gonna kill me, is he?”

Standing on the crest, Lucas sighed.

“No.  But THEY might.”

On the far side of the lot – just over the rise of wreckage opposite the hospital – sniffing at the rubble, following their noses – a pack of sickle-claws had appeared – big ones, leopard-sized or better.

Focused on the scent – they hadn't spotted them yet.

Lucas' voice was low and flat.  “I found a rig,” he said.  “It's just down the way.”

He nodded down the path behind them, where the rubble spilled into the street.

“Quietly,” he said.  “Everybody move.”

He held back, waving everybody on.  He had taken up Leroy's confiscated AR.

Rosa glanced back after him.

As she did so, her foot kicked up a rock.

On the ridge, one of the creatures turned.

And in the manner of an excited monkey, it began to hop up and down, hooting excitedly.

The other sickle-claws all turned.  And as a flock, they came darting down the pilings, claws flexing back, coiling to leap.

Lucas let out a slow sigh, sparing Rosa a raised eyebrow, before putting his rifle to his shoulder and picking off the front row of the charging pack.

More of them, however, were poking their heads over the ridge.  Lucas barked over his shoulder.  “Go!”

But even as he turned, he saw that route was now cut off as well – the spindly creatures had flanked them, and they seemed to be materializing from the cracks in all directions.

Rosa knew it was undoubtedly their gunfire that had attracted the attention, but she couldn't help see the image – they were like packs of attack-dogs in brutal ancient wars – rooting out survivors – primitive and barbaric search-and-destroy missions.

She knew that was silly, of course – anthropomorphic projection – they were simply predators eating carrion and targeting easy prey.

Although, she thought, that was a distinction without a practical difference.

Either way, they were trapped.

Lucas cursed, stopping to pop a new clip into his rifle, glancing back at the others.

“Mr. Adams?” he said, “Jeremy?  Would you please give me a hand shooting these goddamn things?”

And with that, he opened fire, picking off the advancing sickle-claws methodically, one at a time.  He was joined by Bud, and then, after a moment of fiddling with his rifle, by Jeremy.

After the first barrage of gunfire, the advancing pack broke to either side of the street, moving into stalk mode, even as more of them continued to materialize out of the surrounding rubble.

Lucas placed his shots patiently, letting the near-random fire of the other two men keep the creatures scattered and off-balance.

In-between shots, he called over to Daryl and Bob.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “would you two be so kind as to pull up that manhole?”

The two exchanged glances, hesitating – something that, in the heat of the moment, Lucas was not prepared to tolerate.

“Let's go!” he barked.  “Right now, Goddamnit!  Or I'll shoot you!”

In a single motion, the both of them reached down and started straining at the round metal plate.  There was the loud scraping of iron on pavement, and a clattering as they tossed the heavy lid aside.

“Go!” Lucas shouted.  “You two first – make sure it's clear.”  And then, when they again hesitated, “I swear, I will cap you both!”

Clearly not doubting him, Bob clambered down into the dark hole, followed quickly by Daryl.

Without waiting, Lucas motioned the others to follow.  Looking fretful, Jamie nevertheless, slid herself down into the tunnel.  Julie followed after.

Rosa, however, was helping Leroy with his injured arm.  Looking impatient, Allison moved to help.

The sickle-claws, however, had discovered a new avenue of attack – a