hard.
Okay, this was bad. This was so very, very bad.
Pablo’s panicked cries continued, but Rachael couldn’t look at him, so instead her eyes fixed on the next body that lunged at her. Her eyes tracked the bodies, trying to figure out the best way to clear them without backing herself into a corner she couldn’t get out of.
There wasn’t time to try to retrieve her sword so instead she turned to face the next Orc in a half crouch, jumping to the side as it tried to lunge at her, turning in midair to drive the knife into the back of the head at the base of the skull. There were only three left coming, and she backed up a few steps, trying to judge which to take first. One came at her from the side and she dodged it, shoving its shoulder and using its stumble to grab onto the shirt and drive the blade between the eyes. Using a well-placed kick to the chest to knock the next one to the ground, she dispatched it with a quick stab. The last one’s hands tried to grab hold of her, clumsy fingers attaching to a loop on her armor and pulling her towards its teeth.
With a cry she switched hands on the knife, driving it hard into the side of the Orc’s forehead.
Her chest was heaving, ribs sending sharp warning pains as she moved. She ached everywhere already, but there was no time to wait.
Pablo had fallen silent, and Rachael didn’t want to look. She couldn’t look, she would have been able to handle it if she did. Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she swallowed down her emotions.
Heroes couldn’t cry. Not when there were people to save.
Another gunshot rang out across the road, followed by the agonized screaming that Rachael had come to associate with death. Her heart sunk, and, using her foot as leverage, she pulled the sword out of the Orc’s neck from where it had lodged, ignoring the protests in her side. Sprinting forward, she sliced through the back of the head of an Orc that had turned to follow the screaming, and kept going. She couldn’t see anything from this side of the bus, and she ducked around the back of the bus, hoping that most of the dead would be on the other end.
Slicing her sword through the side of the head of another Orc, she rushed towards the man that was laying at the foot of the door of the bus, still screaming as two Orcs dug their teeth and nails into him. The blood was everywhere. Rachael felt nauseous, but she swallowed it down, driving her dagger into the heads of the Orcs one by one, shoving their bodies to the side.
The man wouldn’t stop screaming, clawing at the bites on his neck, and Rachael knew what she had to do.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, before driving the knife up through the side of his skull.
Then it was silent.
Rachael had the unnerving feeling tickling on the back of her neck that she was being watched.
~12~
Dez Fox
Dez had spent a lot of time hunting the forests of western Pennsylvania and northern Maryland. She understood the woods as well as any experienced hunter. She’d also hunted men in Afghanistan during the war. Being a soldier, a hunter and a cop had taught her a lot about how to read what the land wanted to share. In a police academy forensics class she’d also learned that contact always leaves a mark. Tracking, then, was looking for marks. Mankind itself made marks on the world—roads, buildings, cultivated fields, and more. These impositions on the land were mostly overgrown and eventually would fade, but that created a different kind of pattern, a different kind of trail. Where weeds and new growth grew it spoke to a lack of use, and in some places it was crystal clear to Dez that no foot—living or dead—had come this way in months. Elsewhere the weeds were bent and broken, or pushed aside. The passage of random passage suggested a single person using that route infrequently. Crushed foliage told a story of heavier and more frequent use.
Dez could read the stories of each. A careful living person,
Okay, this was bad. This was so very, very bad.
Pablo’s panicked cries continued, but Rachael couldn’t look at him, so instead her eyes fixed on the next body that lunged at her. Her eyes tracked the bodies, trying to figure out the best way to clear them without backing herself into a corner she couldn’t get out of.
There wasn’t time to try to retrieve her sword so instead she turned to face the next Orc in a half crouch, jumping to the side as it tried to lunge at her, turning in midair to drive the knife into the back of the head at the base of the skull. There were only three left coming, and she backed up a few steps, trying to judge which to take first. One came at her from the side and she dodged it, shoving its shoulder and using its stumble to grab onto the shirt and drive the blade between the eyes. Using a well-placed kick to the chest to knock the next one to the ground, she dispatched it with a quick stab. The last one’s hands tried to grab hold of her, clumsy fingers attaching to a loop on her armor and pulling her towards its teeth.
With a cry she switched hands on the knife, driving it hard into the side of the Orc’s forehead.
Her chest was heaving, ribs sending sharp warning pains as she moved. She ached everywhere already, but there was no time to wait.
Pablo had fallen silent, and Rachael didn’t want to look. She couldn’t look, she would have been able to handle it if she did. Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she swallowed down her emotions.
Heroes couldn’t cry. Not when there were people to save.
Another gunshot rang out across the road, followed by the agonized screaming that Rachael had come to associate with death. Her heart sunk, and, using her foot as leverage, she pulled the sword out of the Orc’s neck from where it had lodged, ignoring the protests in her side. Sprinting forward, she sliced through the back of the head of an Orc that had turned to follow the screaming, and kept going. She couldn’t see anything from this side of the bus, and she ducked around the back of the bus, hoping that most of the dead would be on the other end.
Slicing her sword through the side of the head of another Orc, she rushed towards the man that was laying at the foot of the door of the bus, still screaming as two Orcs dug their teeth and nails into him. The blood was everywhere. Rachael felt nauseous, but she swallowed it down, driving her dagger into the heads of the Orcs one by one, shoving their bodies to the side.
The man wouldn’t stop screaming, clawing at the bites on his neck, and Rachael knew what she had to do.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, before driving the knife up through the side of his skull.
Then it was silent.
Rachael had the unnerving feeling tickling on the back of her neck that she was being watched.
~12~
Dez Fox
Dez had spent a lot of time hunting the forests of western Pennsylvania and northern Maryland. She understood the woods as well as any experienced hunter. She’d also hunted men in Afghanistan during the war. Being a soldier, a hunter and a cop had taught her a lot about how to read what the land wanted to share. In a police academy forensics class she’d also learned that contact always leaves a mark. Tracking, then, was looking for marks. Mankind itself made marks on the world—roads, buildings, cultivated fields, and more. These impositions on the land were mostly overgrown and eventually would fade, but that created a different kind of pattern, a different kind of trail. Where weeds and new growth grew it spoke to a lack of use, and in some places it was crystal clear to Dez that no foot—living or dead—had come this way in months. Elsewhere the weeds were bent and broken, or pushed aside. The passage of random passage suggested a single person using that route infrequently. Crushed foliage told a story of heavier and more frequent use.
Dez could read the stories of each. A careful living person,
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