It was incredible; the thing had traveled the entire expanse of the twenty-acre pool in fifteen seconds, effortlessly bypassing a thirty-man platoon securing the center, to launch an attack on troops searching the south end.
"God help us," Taylor whispered. It seemed incredible that they had survived it in the mountains — unless it was becoming stronger, more cunning, and more powerful as it continued to mutate.
Broken rifle fire over a hundred yards behind them erupted, as if they couldn't acquire the target and were simply firing into the darkness. Then the truck, a ten-ton rig with a twenty-foot wooden bed suddenly tilted toward the hood — silence, staring, not moving, staring — and with lionish velocity and grace the massive manlike shape sailed over Taylor's hidden form, landing fully ten feet from the fender, hurling itself forward as it struck the ground.
Almost before Taylor could rise to his knee and fire, it had struck the first man in the listening post, a sweeping blow from a taloned hand that finished the scream. But the second man managed a quick shot that went wide before the same hand struck his chest, smashing through the Kevlar vest like straw and—
Taylor pulled the trigger.
The blast was blinding. Taylor leaped from the truck to see it leaning back against the door, holding a hand to its shoulder. It gazed at him in anger, but without pain, and opened a fanged mouth, unleashing a roar that felt like a hand pressing against Taylor's armored chest.
Taylor roared and pulled the trigger again, only dimly aware of distant shots that told him backup was coming fast. But not fast enough.
As the bestial image of death rushed forward on horrible bowed legs, arms outstretched beneath glaring red eyes, Taylor pulled the trigger again and again, focusing all his skill, all his will, all his training and experience to make certain each of the twelve rounds hit solid. He sensed rather than saw Takakura's leaping shape as he emerged from behind a Humvee and dropped to a knee, instantly sighting and firing. Then the creature was upon him.
Taylor fired his last round.
He saw a depthless wall of gray might that blocked out the night and sky and stars and light; taller, inhumanly massive and indestructible with awful glee glaring from the purest bestial fury. Then it seemed to angle left, its right arm raised high, and Taylor leaped into it, roaring in rage as he reached for his Bowie knife to—
"NO!" Takakura shouted as Taylor, standing for a strange moment, fell back before the beast. In the shadows Takakura saw that a wide portion of the commando's chest had been torn cleanly away, leaving half a man falling backward to the ground. The creature tossed a black mass to the side, and turned its grotesque face toward Takakura.
Fangs parted in a menacing smile.
Takakura saw the other soldiers converging on the site — twenty seconds — and dropped to a knee, firing all that remained in the thirty-round clip at the creature as it strode slowly forward. So contemptuous was it of the Japanese and the rifle that it did not rush at all, but came with thundering, remorseless strides that closed the distance in horrible certainty.
Somewhere in the last few rounds Takakura understood its inhuman pleasure at a slow kill and spaced the bullets, firing the last one — it was still moving slowly — when it was five feet away. It opened its fanged mouth in an explosive roar.
Gambling that it would expect him to react as the others had reacted at its horrific image and approach, Takakura lifted the rifle in a frightened stance, feigning shock. Gloating, growling, it raised its right hand high, fangs wide with a hellish smile.
Takakura moved.
With the speed and skill perfected from a lifetime of kendo he dropped the rifle and quick-drew the long katana, angling the sword through a cross-body cut with all the strength of his back and arms and wrists. The entire movement, from the time his hands left the gun until the momentum of his cut carried him to the side, had lasted less than a second.
A normal man would have been cut cleanly in half through the hips. But the thing staggered forward a space, glaring down at the deep gash torn in its chest, blood already descending in dark rivulets. Then it turned slowly in a tight half-circle, staring at itself, then at Takakura with an odd mixture of shock and anger.
Takakura knew he would not be so lucky next time. He had deceived it with its own pride. But now it knew it could be injured by the katana. It would not make the same mistake twice.
The other platoons now reached the site and opened fire. Takakura ducked away as they unleashed hundreds of rounds at the creature. Glaring back in the deafening smoke-choked atmosphere Takakura could see the lead impacting against the thick skin, bouncing or flattening and utterly failing to penetrate.
Yet its rage ran deep, for despite the concentrated attack it came for Takakura again, who stood sword in hand. Takakura knew it would kill him this time; if his first masterful blow had not been enough to finish it, then he could not kill it at all. And although the Japanese moved as quickly as he could, far quicker than most men, it was on top of him as he hit the ground, rolling under a thirty-ton Dooley.
Charging at the last, it struck the gigantic transport vehicle in the door with its shoulder — a thunderous impact that shattered glass and half-lifted the Dooley from the ground — and a split second later Takakura saw the wide steel door ripped away and hurled into shadow.
It reached beneath the cab to snatch him and Takakura scampered to the far side, narrowly avoiding the reach of that colossal arm and rending talons.
But he knew he couldn't keep up the game; sooner or later it would get him. Then the entire night was a wall of rifle fire, illuminating everything — the Dooley, tires, vehicles, lights, the fence, and the creature, screaming and roaring in the apocalyptic night. And with a hideous bellow it charged fully through a line of soldiers, hesitating only a heartbeat to kill anyone in reach, and was lost.
Stunned, breathless, and shocked, Takakura rolled onto his back, feeling his chest, checking for injury. As caught up as he was in battle, he knew he could be hit in half a dozen places and not notice. After a moment, as scattered fighting continued to rage — the creature continuing to play its game of devastating guerrilla attacks — he rolled out from beneath the truck and wearily gained his footing.
He searched for his rifle, saw a dozen slaughtered troops in the smoking opening. Then he staggered forward as an invisible fist whistled in from the darkness — a rocket he did not see but sensed — and an unseen baseball bat hit him hard in the chest, fully flattening him back against the ground.
Groaning, rolling, fighting violently for breath, Takakura knew what it was: a stray .223 round had found him. He had not been the target, but so many rounds fired in so small a place would eventually find friendly casualties.
Breathless, dazed, and nauseated, he managed to detach the bulky load-bearing vest, dropping it to the ground. Then, eyes blurring, he ripped away two of the Velcro straps securing the bulletproof vest, feeling his sweat-slicked chest beneath.
He groaned, too tired to feel relief.
No, it hadn't penetrated.
As he struggled to rise, he felt the night whiter, lighter, warm, and hazy. He took one staggering step… two…
Blackness rushed up.
Hunter heard Brick hurl the elephant rifle violently across a desk and began to rise when, on impulse, Hunter whirled, swiping with the speed of a leopard with the Bowie. The butt of the hilt caught Hamilton, also attempting to rise, square on the cluster of nerves located midway up the neck, and the physician fell limp to the tiles.
Reorienting, Hunter saw the second guard's rifle lying close but still too far to reach without exposing himself. So he risked a quick glance and saw that the other four had opened up on Brick's position with fully automatic fire, apparently forgetting him in the presence of an armed and obviously very dangerous intruder firing upon them.