Yune stood up, legs spread, pistol held in both hands, and began to fire spaced shots at the top of the knoll. “Go!” he shouted. “Right now! Go, go, go!”
Ralph stood up. Holly stood up beside him. As on the day when Terry Maitland was shot, it seemed to Ralph that he could see everything. His arm was around Holly’s waist. There was a bird circling in the sky, wings outstretched. The tires were hissing. The SUV was settling on the driver’s side. At the top of the knoll he could see a stuttery, moving flash that had to be the scope of the bastard’s rifle. Ralph had no idea why it was moving around like that and didn’t care. There was a second scream, then a third, the last one almost a shriek. Holly grabbed Yune’s arm and jerked him. He gave her an amazed look, like a man rudely yanked out of a dream, and Ralph knew he had been ready to die. Expected to die. The three of them sprinted for the shelter of the gift shop, and although it had to be less than two hundred feet from the mortally wounded SUV, they seemed to be running in slow motion, like a trio of best friends at the end of some stupid romantic comedy. Only in those movies, no one ran past the mangled bodies of two men who had been alive and healthy only ninety seconds before. In those movies, no one stepped in a puddle of fresh blood and left bright red tracks behind. Another shot rang out, and Yune shouted.
“I’m hit! Fucker hit me!” He went down.
13
Jack was reloading, his ears ringing, when the rattlesnake decided it had had enough of this bothersome intruder in its territory. It struck him high on the right calf. Its fangs penetrated Jack’s chino pants with no trouble at all, and its poison sacs were full. Jack rolled over, holding his rifle high in his right hand, screaming—not at the pain, which was just beginning, but at the sight of the rattler slithering up his leg, its forked tongue flicking, its beady black eyes intent. The slippery weight of it was hideous. It struck him again, this time in the thigh, and continued its sinuous upward trek, still rattling away. The next strike might be into his balls.
“Get off! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”
Trying to get rid of it with the rifle would do no good, it could evade that, so Jack dropped the gun and seized it in both hands. It struck at his right wrist, missing the first time but hitting on its second try, leaving holes the size of colons in a newspaper headline, but its poison sacs were exhausted. Jack neither knew nor cared. He twisted it in his hands like a man wringing out a washcloth, and saw its skin split. Down below, someone was firing repeatedly—a pistol, by the sound—but the range was long and nothing came close. Jack flung the rattlesnake, saw it thump to the rocky scree, and slither away once more.
Get rid of them, Jack.
“Yes, okay, right.”
Was he speaking, or only thinking? He couldn’t tell. The ringing in his ears had become a high hum, like a steel wire being stroked until it vibrated.
He grabbed the rifle, rolled onto his belly, placed the barrel back on the flat rock, peered into the scope. The remaining three were running for the shelter of the gift shop, the woman in the middle. He tried to put the crosshairs on Anderson, but his hands—one of them repeatedly snakebitten—were trembling, and he got the olive-skinned guy on the end instead. It took two tries, but he got him. The guy’s arm flew back over his head like a pitcher getting ready to throw his best fastball, and he fell on his side. The other two stopped to help him. This was his best chance, and maybe the last. If he didn’t take them now, they’d get behind the building.
Pain was flowing up his leg from the initial bite, and he could feel the flesh of his calf swelling, but that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the heat that was now spreading like a flash fever. Or the sunburn from hell. He fired again and thought at first he’d hit the woman, but it was only a flinch. She grabbed the olive-skinned man by his unwounded arm. Anderson got him around the waist and yanked him to his feet. Jack pulled the trigger again, and got nothing but a dry click. He fumbled in his pocket for more shells, loaded two, dropped the rest. His hands were going numb. The leg that had been bitten was going numb. His tongue seemed to be swelling in his mouth. He screamed again, this time in frustration. By the time he applied his eye to the scope again, they were gone. He could see their shadows for a moment, then those were gone, too.
14
With Holly on one side and Ralph on the other, Yune was able to make it to the splintered side of the gift shop, where he collapsed with his back against the building, panting. His face was ashy, his forehead dotted with pearls of sweat. The left sleeve of his shirt was bloody down to the wrist.
He groaned. “Fuck, doesn’t that fucking smart.” From the knoll, the shooter fired again. The bullet whined off the asphalt.
“How bad?” Ralph said. “Let me see.”
He unbuttoned Yune’s cuff, and although he pulled the sleeve up gently, Yune yelped and bared his teeth. Holly was on her cell phone.
When the wound was revealed, it didn’t look as bad as Ralph had feared; the bullet had probably done little more than crease him. In a movie, that would have left Yune ready to rejoin the fray, but this was real life, and real life was different. The high-powered slug had gotten enough of him to do a job on his elbow. The flesh around it was already swelling, turning purple, as if it had been smashed with a club.
“Tell me the elbow’s only dislocated,” Yune said.
“That would be good, but I think it’s broken,” Ralph said. “You still lucked out, man. If it had gotten any more of you, I think it would have torn your lower arm right off. I don’t know what he’s shooting, but it’s big.”
“My shoulder’s dislocated for sure,” Yune said. “Happened when my arm whipped back. Fuck! What are we going to do, amigo? We’re pinned.”
“Holly?” Ralph asked. “Anything?”
She shook her head. “I had four bars at the Boltons’, but not even one here. ‘Get off me,’ is that what he shouted? Did either of you h—”
The rifleman fired again. Alec Pelley’s body jumped, then lay still. “I’ll get you, Anderson!” came floating down from the top of the knoll. “I’ll get you, Ralphie-boy! I’ll get all of you!”
Yune looked at Ralph, startled.
“We messed up,” Holly said. “The outsider had a Renfield after all. And whoever he is, he knows you, Ralph. Do you know him?”
Ralph shook his head. The shooter had been yelling at the top of his voice, almost howling, and there were echoes. It could have been anyone.
Yune studied his wounded arm. The bleeding had slowed, but the swelling hadn’t. Soon he would have no appreciable elbow joint at all. “This hurts worse than when my wisdom teeth went to hell. Tell me you have an idea, Ralph.”
Ralph scooted to the far end of the building, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted. “The police are on their way, asshole! The Highway Patrol! Those guys won’t bother asking you to surrender, they’ll shoot you like a rabid dog! If you want to live, you better run for it!”
There was a pause, then another scream. It might have been pain, laughter, or both. It was followed by two more shots. One thumped into the building above Ralph’s head, knocking a board loose and sending up a flurry of splinters.
Ralph pulled back and looked at the other two ambush survivors. “I think that was a no.”
“He sounds hysterical,” Holly said.
“Out of his mind,” Yune agreed. He put his head back against the wall. “Christ, it’s hot on this asphalt. And it’ll be a lot hotter by noon. Muy caliente. If we’re still here, we’ll bake.”
Holly said, “Do you shoot with your right hand, Lieutenant Sablo?”