The Damn Disciples (3 page)

Seeing that the dog was taking care of business down below, Stone turned his attention to their forward escape route, their
only
escape route. And it’d better be fast, he could see as he did a quick 180-degree scan without breaking his uneven half-run,
for within twenty or thirty seconds the main bulk of the rat army would be upon them—and that, no matter how wildly they fought,
would be that.

He aimed the shotgun again, holding it down as low as he could, as if he were reaching for the ground, and pulled the trigger.
The reason he had grabbed this particular blunderbuss over other, higher-quality, firepower was just for the autoeject and
instant refire mode. It meant he could keep pulling at the damn thing with just one hand. The second shell sent out a hailstorm
of pellets from the smoking muzzle. And another forty or so rats who thought they were about to be in culinary heaven were
suddenly nothing more that flopping dead meat, their dark pelts saturated with red, their own brothers and sisters already
chewing on their still-feeling flesh.

Suddenly Stone sensed a shape coming up at him from the left and turned his head just in time to see the biggest goddamn rat
he had ever laid eyes on—a good two feet plus—launch itself and come toward him, its jaws fully extended like something Cape
Kennedy might have once launched to scare the shit out of the rest of the universe. Somehow Stone twisted his whole body and
ripped the shotgun up trying to get a bead on the thing, which was closing in on his very eyeballs. He could count the whiskers
on the ugly one-eyed face. He pulled the trigger and shifted the crutch around fast to stop himself from going down from the
recoil.

The rat took the full load of shot from a distance of two feet. The creature disintegrated in the air, like a balloon that
had popped, a balloon filled with blood and slime that filled the air around Stone with a slick red spray that lingered like
a mist. But he wasn’t counting the drops. Swinging the shotgun around, he let off two more blasts and then got to full, stumbling
gallop in seconds. Another wave of little flesheaters went flying off like rag dolls painted red, and Stone and the dog waded
right through and over the twitching bodies, nearly falling and slipping in the pools of wet fur, the puddles of hot blood.

Still, for all the heroics and sound and fury, Stone knew they needed a miracle. As he scouted ahead, looking around desperately
for he didn’t know what, he saw a chasm in the earth—a fissure, glacially created. It formed a long jagged crack in the earth
a good six feet wide and nearly a quarter-mile long. If miracles were needed, this was looking like it might be in the right
department. Excaliber saw it too, and he barked hard at Stone twice, signaling him to make sure the Chow Boy had seen it.
The canine knew that the human could get a little fog-headed at times.

Stone fired twice more and then, when he fired a third time, felt a click. Empty. He had more shells in the pack on his back,
but somehow he didn’t think the rodent army was going to allow him to take a look. The last two volleys of death-dealing lead
carved out a pathway through the rats right to the edge of the rock fissure. Stone and the pit bull tore through the bloody
debris of violently shaking corpses. Excaliber got up to full running speed and took off without looking down. In an instant
the animal had soared over the fissure and landed on the far side. He turned and, seeing that Stone wasn’t there, looked back
across the gap and let out with a long howl, throwing his head back, as if to say, “Oh shit, man, you in trouble again?”

Stone’s crutch caught at the last instant, just before he was about to send himself flying into space. He nearly fell into
the deep fissure, seeing its jagged rock walls disappear below into darkness. The damn thing went all the fucking way to the
center of the earth, for all he knew. But he caught himself at the last instant with his hands and knees, having to pull back
with all his strength to stop himself from shooting over the side.

But out of the frying pan and into the fucking fire. For the rats were closing in as if he’d just said something very bad
about their mothers—death in every snarling snout, every beady eye. He scrambled to his feet, stepped back about two yards
from the edge, and, knowing he wouldn’t have time for much of a start, launched himself forward. Stone had time to take two
steps and then leap up with his good leg. At the same instant he pushed down hard with both arms against the crutch with everything
he had, trying to use it as an instant pole vault stick to get some leverage.

It half worked. He went shooting off the edge just as a dozen rats launched themselves straight at his departing body, not
wanting the meal to get away. The force of the takeoff had enough momentum—but it also twisted him around sideways so that
as he flew over the dark chasm Stone was looking almost upside down at the thing. And even as he soared he could feel that
he had taken along some visitors for the ride—gnawing little teeth began stabbing into him here and there. He’d worry about
them later—if there was a later.

Suddenly the other side of the fissure was upon him and Stone managed to twist his body all the way around, coming down on
his rib cage. He hit at chest level, slamming hard with all the air being forced out of him. For a second he swore he was
going to fall backward right into the hole. But he sent out a burst of strength into his arms and hands that clawed and ripped
at the dirt and rocks and somehow began pulling him up. Even as he rose up over the side, Stone felt the bites of the airborne
pals. But Excaliber was on them in a flash, barking and snarling up a storm as he saw the ugly critters. He snapped out at
Stone three times—and threw three bleeding bodies right over the side of the chasm, where they ricocheted back and forth all
the way down with wet sounds like billiard balls dipped in blood.

Stone rolled back as he heard the pit bull barking and standing in full fighting stance, its jaws wide, its eyes little slits
for protection. He saw a whole front wave of rats come flying toward the far side of the fissure and—jump. And though they
gave it a damn good try and some of them nearly
did
make it, not one did. Twenty more went hurtling down into the darkness, sending up a chorus of squeaks.

Seeing that the army, as fierce and furious as they were, couldn’t touch them, Stone and the pit bull relaxed slightly, the
dog letting his puffed-out fur come down, his head pop out from its neck a little farther from the defensive turtlelike posture
it had been in. Stone just tried to let his double-timing heart slow down a little, or he’d be looking for a pacemaker in
the ruins of the malls. Yet another wave of the bastards came tearing right at the side and another dozen or so of the bravest,
a.k.a. “stupidest,” also gave it the old rodent try. With equal nonsuccess. And more of the furry bodies went slamming all
the way down so that they left a little remembrance of themselves at each stop along the way.

But at last, even the slow-witted vermin realized that they were getting nowhere fast and were going to lose a lot more of
their dues-paying membership if this kept up. They stopped. Hundreds of them gathered just yards away from Stone and screamed
and clawed at the air, as if they were imagining in great detail what it would be like to sink their fangs into his flesh.
Those in the back ranks began eating their fallen comrades, so nicely diced up and cut into little bite-sized pieces by the
shotgun blasts. Stone and the bull terrier could hear the slurping sounds all along the death field. Not wanting to miss out
on the feast, the front battle ranks broke off pursuit and turned away from the human and the dog, who stared back with disgusted
eyes. The squealing carnivores began fighting viciously over the remains of their late relatives. They tore around the charnel
grounds, their mouths like vacuum cleaners, just fractions of an inch above the red-soaked ground, gobbling down everything
that wasn’t nailed down.

The first thousand feet up the side of the mountain atop which the bunker had been built wasn’t bad at all. Stone would ordinarily
have gone all the way around the far side of the mountain, where a winding road led all the way to the top. It was an extra
two hours by motorcycle. Only, he didn’t have a bike anymore—which meant it was an extra two
days
or more on a single leg. Stone knew he didn’t have that much time. His leg was too infected, the fever in his body rising
by the hour. Either he made it up to the 12,000-foot summit from the base of about 8,000—where he was now—or it would all
pretty much be over. He had to try. If he fell, at least it would be fast.

Still, that was all theoretical. For when he stopped and rested on an outcropping, and looked down, Stone saw that he was
already far up. Really far. He would drop thousands of feet before being slammed to bloody pulp on the rocks below. He gulped
hard and vowed not to look again. He never had been good with heights. And he saw that it was getting harder, rapidly. Whereas
he had pretty much been hopping around from ledge to ledge, now it grew steeper. To make his way up, he had to search for
handholds, small cracks, little outcroppings hardly wider than half a telephone booth.

The dog, of course, was a regular fucking mountain goat, hopping all over the damn place and barking back down, inquiring
what the hell was taking Stone so long. If showing off was a sin, then the pit bull was going straight to hell when the shit
hit the fan. Stone would vouch for that. Still, the very fact that the dog
was
able to climb up ahead of him, go up the side of what seemed like Mount Everest, at least showed him that it could be done.
And the sheer determination not to let himself be bested by a damn dog gave him some driving mental motivation as well. At
any rate, he was pulling himself up using almost all arm strength after a while, resting here and there, then getting up another
twenty, thirty feet and having to stop again.

After a while it became too hard even for that, though the pit bull seemed able to keep on so that when Stone looked up the
animal was already a good four hundred feet ahead of him and tearing up the steep slope as if he was on flatland. Stone stopped
on a decent-size outcropping and took a good look ahead to scout out any holds. It was getting
much
worse. He needed something beyond hands—needed a whole fucking mountain-climbing outfit, with ropes and all. Suddenly he
had an idea. It was ridiculous, impossible, insane. But maybe it would work. Stone took off the pack he had been carrying,
filled with supplies he had gathered from the dead cannibal village. He didn’t need them now. If he made it to the bunker,
there were plenty more supplies. If not…

Throwing cans, matches, and various things over the side, Stone took the hunting knife he had ripped off from a corpse and
began slicing up the thick U.S. Army canvas rucksack, circa 1975. He took the metal clasps off the thing and reattached them
to a single long piece of webbing that, by cutting in two, Stone extended to nearly twelve feet. He secured the clasps to
one end, tying them together, and then bent their stiff clasps back, having to bang them against a rock. But after a few minutes
he had fashioned something that at least resembled a hook on the end of a rope. He threw the hook end up; it took five tries
before it seemed to catch on to a fissure in the sheer granite wall above.

Now was better than yesterday, though he wouldn’t have minded waiting for tomorrow, Stone thought glumly to him-self as he
started hoisting himself right up the side. After stretching out a little as the thick canvas material gave but didn’t break,
and hearing the metal hooks above squeak and bend, Stone found that the contraption held. He pulled him-self keeping his body
close against the rock, so that he wouldn’t somehow pull outward and dislodge the hooks from their resting place. Slowly he
dragged himself the twelve feet, like a slug as flat as a pancake against the hard surface.

Stone reached the hook, took it out, and then scouted farther up. There—an almost V-shaped set of boulders. If he could get
it between them. This time it took only three tries.

“See—getting good already,” Stone lauded himself, not even daring to look down anymore, as he realized that although this
method might work for going up, there was no way in hell it would do so for the reverse. This was a one-way trip. Top floor,
express elevator, no stops—Men’s Life and Death Department. Thank you. Stone tried the green strap, letting his weight pull
hard on it. The whole setup seemed to be holding. He could hear the pit bull barking far above him now as if in the clouds,
luring him on knowing it would piss Chow Boy off with its gloating and barking up a fucking storm.

Stone pulled hard and rose up off the ledge. This time it was a little easier as he dragged himself up hand over hand to the
hook end. It was just a matter of going slow, blending into the mountain. He remembered his father, Major Clayton Stone, telling
him something, when he had been describing his years fighting in the jungles.

“Wherever you are, Martin, blend in with your terrain. Hug it like a piece of grass, surround it like a jungle vine. But become
part of it. In harmony with it. Then it will let you pass through it.” Like all advice, it was sure as hell a lot easier to
want to carry out than to actually do so. But Stone mumbled a few prayers to the mountain, pretended he was just a growth
of branches just moving along the thing. Perfect harmony. And thus he ascended the very face of Estes Mountain, moving faster
as he gained confidence.

Stone was getting the hang of it, and his eyes getting better at picking out the small cracks that meant a possible anchoring
station for his gear, when suddenly he heard a sound right in front of his face and a fluttering of wings. He stopped and
pushed aside what he thought had been a purple-leafed bush growing right out of the side of the mountain. Behind the bush
was a nest. And three small fluffy birds sat in the mound of twigs and vine, chirping up a storm as their hooked beaks opened
and closed like snapping turtles.