Excerpt from WILD CARDS XX: SUICIDE KINGS, coming from Tor in December.
Copyright © 2009 by the Wild Card Trust, all rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, reposting, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission of the author.
Copyright © 2009 by the Wild Card Trust, all rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, reposting, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission of the author.
Excerpt from WILD CARDS XX: SUICIDE KINGS, coming from Tor in December.
Copyright © 2009 by the Wild Card Trust, all rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, reposting, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission of the author.
Copyright © 2009 by the Wild Card Trust, all rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, reposting, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission of the author.
On the Lualaba River, Congo
People's Paradise of Africa
People's Paradise of Africa
The Lukuga River jagged sharply to the north just before joining the Lualaba. Wally studied a map in his guidebook. The Lualaba was itself a tributary of the famous Congo river.
He passed a village nestled where the two rivers met. Kongolo, according to the guidebook. He slowed down, so that the villagers could get a clear look at the metal man driving a PPA boat. Most fled. But a few folks saw him, and pointed. He sped up again when Kongolo was behind him.
A barge floated somewhere on this tangle of waterways. Wally kept reminding himself to leave a few survivors when he finally found the barge. Survivors who could report his whereabouts. After taking care of the barge, he'd go as far upriver as he could, then strike out over land toward Bunia.
Wally was so preoccupied with the map, glancing up only occasionally to keep the boat on course, that he didn't notice when the river widened and slowed. Thud. The boat ran aground a sandbar at the edge of a marshy stretch of river. The impact jarred the guidebook from Wally's hands; the pilot's chair creaked under his shifting weight.
"Awww, heck." Wally slammed the throttle into reverse, but the boat didn't budge. Its sleek prow had sliced into the sand like a knife, but now it was wedged in there good and snug. "Nuts." He killed the throttle and climbed out. Muck squelched underfoot. It oozed up to his ankles. "Well, that's just great."
The marsh was an expanse of chest-high river grass dotted with a smattering of wispy, droopy trees. Here and there, rivulets of brackish water cut channels through the stands of grass. Wally thought about this. The barge had to come through here on the way to and from Nyunzu; he'd traveled the entire length of the Lukuga river without seeing it. So there had to be a way through.
Twenty minutes of searching revealed a circuitous channel just wide enough for a barge. It was almost invisible until he was right on top of it, hidden by the river grass. But entering the channel at its outlet would have meant turning around, heading back up the river, and searching for the entrance. That would take a couple of hours. On the other hand, it wasn't all that far from his boat to the channel. Wally decided to portage.
The important part was getting a good grip. He lifted the prow out of the muck, then walked his way under the boat, hands overhead, until he reached the center of balance. Another heave freed the stern. He sank to his knees, but he managed to heft the boat overhead. So much for my bandages, he thought.
As strong as Wally was, carrying a boat through a swamp took a lot of work, even for him. Each step was a struggle to free his legs of the sucking mud without losing his balance. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face. Water and marsh slime pattered from the hull onto Wally's pith helmet. The occasional portage during canoe trips up in the boundary waters had never been this tough. But slowly, carefully, he made his way.
Wally gave one final heave. The patrol boat splashed back into the navigable portion of the river, ready to resume its pursuit of the barge.
He hunkered down for a breather at the water's edge, panting like he'd just run a marathon. This was the river, all right. The water rippled where the current picked up again. He unwrapped a granola bar.
Something launched out of the water, clamped on his leg, and yanked him into the river.
The next thing Wally knew, he was face down on the river bottom with what felt like a hydraulic press squeezing the heck out of his leg. It flipped him over. Wally caught a glimpse of green amidst the bubbles and froth in the murky brown water.
His lungs ached. He couldn't see. Something rough smacked him in the face.
Wally aimed a fist, blindly, at the crushing pressure just below his knee. He poured everything he had into it. The blow landed on something scaly with a muffled crunch. The dazed crocodile loosened its grip.
Wally pulled free. He flailed for the surface, desperate to pull air into his burning lungs, but he wasn't much of a swimmer. The iron skin didn't do much for his buoyancy. His field of view receded into a narrow tunnel.
His fingers brushed a bundle of tree roots. Wally wrapped both hands around the roots and pulled for all he was worth. His head broke the surface. His chest creaked like old bedsprings as he sucked down a lungful of air.
The croc grabbed his leg and pulled him under again.
"Crip-" Splash.
They hit bottom again. It felt like the lousy thing was biting right through the iron. He'd have dents for sure. The croc outweighed him; using its tail for leverage, it flipped Wally like a pancake. His hip erupted in wrenching pain.
The death roll. That's what Jerusha had called it.
Wally doubled over when the croc rolled under him. He reached the jaws clamped around his shin. Wally grabbed the croc's snout, one hand on each jaw, and pulled.
Wally felt a tremor as he pried apart the croc's jaws. But it fought him for every inch. Judas priest, this thing is strong.
Its forelegs scrabbled at his chest. The massive tail hammered at his arms and legs.
Wally pulled his leg free, then launched himself back to the surface with a kick to the croc's gut. The croc surfaced a split second after he did. Gasping for air, he finally got a good look at the thing. It had to be twelve feet long.
The croc lunged again. For something so large, it was surprisingly fast. Wally clamped his hands around the tip of its snout again. This time, he squeezed until he could lace his fingers together. The croc couldn't open its mouth.
But it could still use its tail to pound at Wally. Which it did. Furiously.
Wally raised his arms overhead, pulling the croc's head and forelegs clear of the water. It thrashed, sending Wally toppling over backwards. But as the croc landed on him, he threw his legs around its midriff and his arms around its throat. He squeezed.
They went under again, wrestling at the bottom of the river. The croc writhed in his grasp. It couldn't twist around far enough to bite him; Wally's shoulder was pressed into its throat. It tried to smash him, using its weight to pin Wally to the mud. The blow expelled the remainder of the breath Wally had been holding. That loosened his grip just enough for the croc to spin around until Wally held it from behind, but he didn't release it. The ridges along its back scratched his chest. Wally's field of view receded into the tunnel again. He locked his ankles together, squeezing until he felt the creak of reptile bones.
The croc coiled its free half like a spring, then launched them both with one colossal thrashing of its tail. They broke the surface, Wally's arms and legs still clamped around the croc. They crashed on the riverbank. Pain shot up and down Wally's back.
Crack. Something snapped under his grip. Then another, and another.
Ribs.
Crimson froth issued from the corners of the crocodile's mouth. It struggled, weakly, to free itself. Wally let go. It dove back in the river.
Wally staggered back, shaking. His entire body trembled with the last vestiges of adrenaline and the first twinges of, Holy cow, that thing could have killed me.
He slumped against a tree. Part of him knew he had to dig out a towel and start drying himself, as quickly as possible. But he couldn't catch his breath. His arms and legs throbbed with bruises from the battering they'd received. It felt like every joint in his body had been stretched apart, especially his hip. His ribs burned.
Slowly, the panicky feeling ebbed, leaving only aches and pains in its place. He watched the retreating crocodile. The post-adrenaline crash left him giddy.
Well, gosh, get a load of that, he thought. Just like Tarzan!
Wally pounded his chest with both fists. The jungle echoed with his best imitation of Johnny Weissmueller.
But the post-adrenaline crash hit him hard. Almost before the last echoes of his triumphant yell had faded away, his eyelids became too heavy for him to lift. Heavier than the boat, heavier even than the crocodile. The need for sleep defeated him before he could towel off.
Something bumped his neck. A loud clink snapped him out of a deep nap some time later. The ghostly little girl stood over him, a ten-inch knife clutched in her tiny fist.
#
He passed a village nestled where the two rivers met. Kongolo, according to the guidebook. He slowed down, so that the villagers could get a clear look at the metal man driving a PPA boat. Most fled. But a few folks saw him, and pointed. He sped up again when Kongolo was behind him.
A barge floated somewhere on this tangle of waterways. Wally kept reminding himself to leave a few survivors when he finally found the barge. Survivors who could report his whereabouts. After taking care of the barge, he'd go as far upriver as he could, then strike out over land toward Bunia.
Wally was so preoccupied with the map, glancing up only occasionally to keep the boat on course, that he didn't notice when the river widened and slowed. Thud. The boat ran aground a sandbar at the edge of a marshy stretch of river. The impact jarred the guidebook from Wally's hands; the pilot's chair creaked under his shifting weight.
"Awww, heck." Wally slammed the throttle into reverse, but the boat didn't budge. Its sleek prow had sliced into the sand like a knife, but now it was wedged in there good and snug. "Nuts." He killed the throttle and climbed out. Muck squelched underfoot. It oozed up to his ankles. "Well, that's just great."
The marsh was an expanse of chest-high river grass dotted with a smattering of wispy, droopy trees. Here and there, rivulets of brackish water cut channels through the stands of grass. Wally thought about this. The barge had to come through here on the way to and from Nyunzu; he'd traveled the entire length of the Lukuga river without seeing it. So there had to be a way through.
Twenty minutes of searching revealed a circuitous channel just wide enough for a barge. It was almost invisible until he was right on top of it, hidden by the river grass. But entering the channel at its outlet would have meant turning around, heading back up the river, and searching for the entrance. That would take a couple of hours. On the other hand, it wasn't all that far from his boat to the channel. Wally decided to portage.
The important part was getting a good grip. He lifted the prow out of the muck, then walked his way under the boat, hands overhead, until he reached the center of balance. Another heave freed the stern. He sank to his knees, but he managed to heft the boat overhead. So much for my bandages, he thought.
As strong as Wally was, carrying a boat through a swamp took a lot of work, even for him. Each step was a struggle to free his legs of the sucking mud without losing his balance. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face. Water and marsh slime pattered from the hull onto Wally's pith helmet. The occasional portage during canoe trips up in the boundary waters had never been this tough. But slowly, carefully, he made his way.
Wally gave one final heave. The patrol boat splashed back into the navigable portion of the river, ready to resume its pursuit of the barge.
He hunkered down for a breather at the water's edge, panting like he'd just run a marathon. This was the river, all right. The water rippled where the current picked up again. He unwrapped a granola bar.
Something launched out of the water, clamped on his leg, and yanked him into the river.
The next thing Wally knew, he was face down on the river bottom with what felt like a hydraulic press squeezing the heck out of his leg. It flipped him over. Wally caught a glimpse of green amidst the bubbles and froth in the murky brown water.
His lungs ached. He couldn't see. Something rough smacked him in the face.
Wally aimed a fist, blindly, at the crushing pressure just below his knee. He poured everything he had into it. The blow landed on something scaly with a muffled crunch. The dazed crocodile loosened its grip.
Wally pulled free. He flailed for the surface, desperate to pull air into his burning lungs, but he wasn't much of a swimmer. The iron skin didn't do much for his buoyancy. His field of view receded into a narrow tunnel.His fingers brushed a bundle of tree roots. Wally wrapped both hands around the roots and pulled for all he was worth. His head broke the surface. His chest creaked like old bedsprings as he sucked down a lungful of air.
The croc grabbed his leg and pulled him under again.
"Crip-" Splash.
They hit bottom again. It felt like the lousy thing was biting right through the iron. He'd have dents for sure. The croc outweighed him; using its tail for leverage, it flipped Wally like a pancake. His hip erupted in wrenching pain.
The death roll. That's what Jerusha had called it.
Wally doubled over when the croc rolled under him. He reached the jaws clamped around his shin. Wally grabbed the croc's snout, one hand on each jaw, and pulled.
Wally felt a tremor as he pried apart the croc's jaws. But it fought him for every inch. Judas priest, this thing is strong.
Its forelegs scrabbled at his chest. The massive tail hammered at his arms and legs.
Wally pulled his leg free, then launched himself back to the surface with a kick to the croc's gut. The croc surfaced a split second after he did. Gasping for air, he finally got a good look at the thing. It had to be twelve feet long.
The croc lunged again. For something so large, it was surprisingly fast. Wally clamped his hands around the tip of its snout again. This time, he squeezed until he could lace his fingers together. The croc couldn't open its mouth.
But it could still use its tail to pound at Wally. Which it did. Furiously.
Wally raised his arms overhead, pulling the croc's head and forelegs clear of the water. It thrashed, sending Wally toppling over backwards. But as the croc landed on him, he threw his legs around its midriff and his arms around its throat. He squeezed.
They went under again, wrestling at the bottom of the river. The croc writhed in his grasp. It couldn't twist around far enough to bite him; Wally's shoulder was pressed into its throat. It tried to smash him, using its weight to pin Wally to the mud. The blow expelled the remainder of the breath Wally had been holding. That loosened his grip just enough for the croc to spin around until Wally held it from behind, but he didn't release it. The ridges along its back scratched his chest. Wally's field of view receded into the tunnel again. He locked his ankles together, squeezing until he felt the creak of reptile bones.
The croc coiled its free half like a spring, then launched them both with one colossal thrashing of its tail. They broke the surface, Wally's arms and legs still clamped around the croc. They crashed on the riverbank. Pain shot up and down Wally's back.
Crack. Something snapped under his grip. Then another, and another.
Ribs.
Crimson froth issued from the corners of the crocodile's mouth. It struggled, weakly, to free itself. Wally let go. It dove back in the river.
Wally staggered back, shaking. His entire body trembled with the last vestiges of adrenaline and the first twinges of, Holy cow, that thing could have killed me.
He slumped against a tree. Part of him knew he had to dig out a towel and start drying himself, as quickly as possible. But he couldn't catch his breath. His arms and legs throbbed with bruises from the battering they'd received. It felt like every joint in his body had been stretched apart, especially his hip. His ribs burned.
Slowly, the panicky feeling ebbed, leaving only aches and pains in its place. He watched the retreating crocodile. The post-adrenaline crash left him giddy.
Well, gosh, get a load of that, he thought. Just like Tarzan!
Wally pounded his chest with both fists. The jungle echoed with his best imitation of Johnny Weissmueller.
But the post-adrenaline crash hit him hard. Almost before the last echoes of his triumphant yell had faded away, his eyelids became too heavy for him to lift. Heavier than the boat, heavier even than the crocodile. The need for sleep defeated him before he could towel off.
Something bumped his neck. A loud clink snapped him out of a deep nap some time later. The ghostly little girl stood over him, a ten-inch knife clutched in her tiny fist.