"Couldn't stop her, Gunner," Shannon said. "Didn't want to. We can't just hide in our shelters. Those things aren't going to go away."
"You could've sent a couple more men," Wilson admonished.
"Those two can move as fast as anyone," Shannon responded. "Sending more men would only have slowed them down. The nightmares won't be a problem as long as the visibility's good. They've got plenty of ammo."
Ammunition.
Shannon thought grimly about the limited supply. He worried as he turned and scanned the softly mounded terrain. The blanket of snow eradicated the sharp edges of their rock-tumbled world, and it worked to soothe his anxieties. His vision slipped outward, over the muted ridges and foothills to the awesome and lofty granite giants; the snows could not dampen the sharpness of those spires. Low rays from the rising sun gave the alpine vista a wash of colors from soft gold to brilliant alabaster, presenting the hard lines of precipitous terrain in emphatic relief. Shannon felt a reverence, a sense of awe.
"What did Commander Quinn say?" Wilson persisted.
"He's out of his head," the sergeant replied. "For dinner, if you cook up any of those furry devils, don't grab Rennault by mistake."
"Not funny," Wilson retorted. The men stomped their booted feet for warmth. Both carried rifles.
"Let's check out the lake," Shannon said. "Maybe we can still fish."
"How's Tatum?" Wilson asked, content to trudge in Shannon's wake.
"The dumb grunt doesn't know how to complain," Shannon replied. "How's Goldberg?"
"Real good," Wilson said. "I thought Tatum going down would do her in, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. She's gotten tougher."
"She's going to have be damn tough to bring a baby into this world."
"So's the baby," Wilson sighed.
They struggled through the snow for several minutes without speaking.
"Nance is pregnant, too," Shannon said at last.
Wilson looked at him. "You ever have kids before, Sarge?" "Hell, I never even owned a goddam dog."
"Think they'll take us in, Lieutenant?" MacArthur gasped.
"Don't plan on giving them a choice," Buccari huffed, adjusting the ride of her pack. The backpacks were loaded heavily with firewood. It had grown dark, and the long day's hike over loose snow had taken its toll. Buccari trudged in MacArthur's wake, ungainly in her crude snowshoes. It was painfully cold, too cold to talk.
Something moved in the gray distance.
MacArthur stopped and peered into the gloaming. The large moon, a crescent settling behind the mountains, offered little assistance.
"I saw it," she whispered, checking their rear.
"Good," MacArthur replied. "I wasn't sure how to break the news."
"Stick to the plan?" she asked.
"Yeah. Soon as it gets too dark to see we'll build a fire." "Pretty dark now," Buccari said, unshouldering the carbine. "Careful with that," MacArthur said. "You're a little too anxious."
"I am not anxious," she sniffed. "I qualified 'Expert' at the Academy."
"You ever shoot anything that moves? Or bleeds?" MacArthur asked.
She shook her head.
"Crap, it's cold," he said, turning his head.
The false light revealed only the texture of snow, and their own footprints trailing into the distance. Stars, subdued by an icy overcast, twinkled feebly overhead.
"I'll shoot first," MacArthur continued, head still turned to the rear. "This assault rifle will do a lot of damage, and there's no sense in wasting bullets. If you have to shoot, make sure you're aiming at the target. Don't just point—"
"Mac!" Buccari shouted. Yellow-fanged, mustard-eyed nightmares pounded out of the darkness, their growls rising in pitch like an approaching locomotive. MacArthur threw up his arms and ducked sideways. The first beast struck his shoulder and knocked him into the snow, unholy jaws snapping for purchase and finding nothing but backpack and wood. Buccari had no time to think—a second snarling creature was leaping straight for the bare whiteness of MacArthur' s face. Her carbine barked and the nightmare twistedin midtrajectory, landing in a convulsing, screaming pile. Other creatures scattered into the dusk.
She swung her weapon to bear on the violence at her feet. The nightmare, straddling the fallen man, ripped and tore at MacArthur's bedroll. MacArthur's rifle was still slung over his shoulder. The Marine, trying to protect his face, struggled to sit. Buccari staggered to find a safe line of fire. With explosive abruptness muzzle flashes lit up the dusk as three gut-muffled reports from MacArthur's pistol rent the air. The animal jerked violently and slumped to the snow, its whiplike tail slapping a pattern in the snow. And then it was still.
MacArthur shed his pack and crawled, trembling, to a crouch, assault rifle in one hand, a smoking pistol in the other. He pounced on Buccari's still thrashing nightmare, slamming his rifle butt on its skull. Bloodcurdling growls whimpered to silence.
"You okay?" she panted, wrenching her eyes from the saber-toothed monster at her feet. It was dark. All she could see was his silhouette.
"Yeah. Just.. some scratches. Time to build that fire."
"Sentries have heard the sound of long-legs' death sticks," Craag reported.
Braan nodded thoughtfully. The two warriors stood in the outermost chamber of the hunter leader's residence. Brappa-theyoung-warrior, grown taller and backlit by the hearth's golden glow, stood in the tunnel passage leading to the main living area, listening to the news. Soft noises of mother and child came from within.
"What dost thou make of it, my friend?" Braan asked.
"Growlers are about. 'Tis likely a patrol of long-legs makes their way to us, and they have been beset by hungry beasts," Craag answered.
"Can we not help?" Brappa asked impetuously, and insubordinately.
Braan excused himself and turned gently to his son.
"Brappa-the-young-warrior," Braan said. "Dost thou not have enough to think about with thy wedding on the morrow? Spare thy courage for the ultimate test. Leave this trivial matter to old hunters."
"Eeyah! Young warrior!" Craag added. "Gliss, thy mistress to be, my young sister, is fair and strong. Growlers are as playthings by comparison. Thou must save thine energy and wiles if thou art to be the master of thy residence. Marriage and mortal combat are as first cousins."
A derisive hoot emanated from the direction of the fire's glow where Ki-the-mother sat by the hearth. It was a time of felicity in the house of Braan and universally for all hunters of the cliff colony. Winter was for marriage and mating. The ferocity of cold storms kept the tough animals near home. The young hunters, the sentries, still posted the cliff edges, ever vigilant for encroaching enemies, but the mature hunters found themselves idle. With the scars and injuries of the summer campaigns behind them, well fed and of welling energies, the experienced warriors directed their attentions inwardly, to their families. It was a time for training, for teaching, for telling, and for touching.
"Apologies, my father, and my brother-to-be," returned the chagrined young cliff dweller. "I have intruded where I belong not. I apologize for the directness but not for the essence of my question. The long-legs took care of me in my need. Is there not something we can do to help?"
"A fair question, and from the heart, but for now we must wait. It is too cold. We cannot fight in the open under these conditions. Permit us to finish our discussion."