Silverfox 12
#12 of Silverfox
Silverfox 12
The handset dropped to the floor, jerking the phone by the cord.
How long did she have?
She tried to send the general alarm. Fine, the others were in Seattle, at least they'd know. She was locked out of the email client in her implant. That was frightening. Okay, no email.
She had to get out. She looked at Shadowfox. No, she couldn't leave her.
She went to the window. It had a block on it to keep it from opening more than ten centimeters. There was an alarmed latch, fire escape. She threw it without hesitating, and a high-pitched alarm started up as the window swung into the room.
She turned and picked up Shadowfox, stepped through the window and onto the fire escape. She looked down at the slanted ladder going down four stories. There was a metal cage around the ladder to keep people from falling off. Even if she shut down while making the descent she'd fall no further than the next landing down.
It was too narrow for her to carry Shadowfox.
She'd have to leave her behind.
No.
She had to tell Firefox. How --
Oh, dumbass! Cell phone. She was so used to using her implant for email she forgot about it. It would still work even if her implant didn't. It wasn't on her belt. It was inside, charging.
She put Shadowfox down on the fire escape landing. Shadowfox wouldn't fall off, even if she started thrashing. Not with the metal barriers.
She jumped back into the room...
Silverfox was hung over. She was so thirsty it hurt. She wondered what time it was. Today was the first day of shooting for _Tetris_ and she was eager to see it. She hoped McKinnon would be able to come with her. It was cold. She wasn't wearing clothes. Was she on the floor? Wow, she must have been on a bender.
Her ankles were in the small of her back, bound to her wrists.
Adrenaline flooded her body, shocking her awake, and her whole body shook. She tried to scream. She was tightly muzzled; the yell was forced back into her.
The floor rocked slightly. She rolled over onto her back. The walls were curved. At first she thought she was disoriented, but she realized she was inside a cylinder. A flush-deck smuggling boat.
"The bitch is awake?" someone said.
She looked around, counted four, suspected two more behind the crates, standing on end in the cargo section.
"The bitch," she thought. Not "a bitch," or "one of the bitches." That meant she was alone. She felt hope raise up in her. Maybe Shadowfox was okay?
She had gone to sleep with McKinnon -- had he sold her out?
Her implant wasn't responding. No clock, no Wi-Fi...
"My turn," she heard someone say.
He wore glasses. His hair was black and he was a bit pale. His lower lip was swollen. He unbuckled his belt.
Silverfox thrashed madly, in a panic. Unsuccessfully. There was a short length of chain connecting her wrist to the deck.
He knelt down. She rolled onto her side, pressed her thighs together. He grabbed her knees, forced them open. He moved forward, knelt on one knee, and using both hands, pulled her legs slightly apart, insinuated himself between them.
He moved forward slowly, pushing her further apart as he brought his penis closer to her. She tried to hit him somewhere it would hurt, but her knees were well past his hips and he just took the opportunity to push closer. She tried for a head butt. He caught her face and rested his weight against it. She had no leverage. He pushed her head easily against the floor.
She didn't want to cry out, didn't want to give him the satisfaction. He put his other hand on his dick, and she felt his tip start to move in. She screamed, unsuccessfully. He could hurt her, she realized. All he had to do was stand up and start kicking. He didn't threaten it, or do it.
She moved as far away from him as she could, but couldn't force him to pull out. He was partway in. If she moved at all, it would take him in further. And then his hips moved and with a grunt, he was inside her.
She lay there a moment, shuddering. She could feel him inside her, filling her, she closed her eyes. He moved his free hand up, squeezed her breast, and then rested his weight against her.
"You feel good, baby," he said softly.
She closed her eyes, but there was part of her that wanted to agree.
He kept the pressure against her head. She stopped struggling, grateful for the excuse. She wondered how he got the swollen lip. She kept her eyes closed, waiting for the inevitable, dreading, anticipating.
His hips moved out and she shivered. He hesitated, wondering if she was going to try to make him pull out. She kept still. Could she arch her back, force him out? Maybe if she lifted herself on her head? No, she might hurt her neck. And besides, he'd just put it in again, maybe hit her first.
No, there was no point.
He moved back in and she gasped, hoping it sounded like she was angry. She felt herself embracing him.
His first thrusts were slow, deep, opening her and spreading her lube. She kept her eyes closed, tried to breathe regularly, and tried to keep up the pretense.
He pushed in and bumped her cervix, and she squealed. He laughed once.
"Got to you?" he asked.
Yes, she thought.
He started pumping faster then, almost pulling his shaft out of her, perhaps knowing that she didn't want him out of her. She didn't move her hips to co-operate, not exactly, but she couldn't keep the pleasure out of the sounds she made.
"Wow, she's really into it," someone laughed.
"Yeah, they're all like that," someone else said.
She finished a bit before he did, squirming on the deck under his weight.
He lifted himself a bit off her and smiled.
She snapped the side of her head against his mouth. His jaw closed with a sharp click, and he pulled out of her with a sharp jerk that made her wince.
"Ow!" he cried out, holding his hand to his mouth. "Thon of a --"
The others broke out in laughter. "Hey, Carter," someone said, thick German accent. Did she know someone with a thick German accent? "Need help vit' her?"
Carter muttered, and grabbed her snout. She thought he was about to start hitting her, but he loosened the muzzle and upended a half-liter bottle of water in her mouth. She gulped it down as fast as it gurgled out. When the bottle was empty, he smirked, wiped some blood away from his mouth, and grabbed her hair.
Silverfox woke up. She wondered what time it was. Today was the first day of shooting for _Tetris_ and she was eager to see it. She hoped McKinnon would be able to come with her. She tried to access her implant, but it wasn't available.
She was on her side, on a dirt floor. Her hands were cuffed, so were her ankles. She was naked.
She had a collar.
She kept her eyes closed. How long had she been out of it? Her implant read November 8, 2007 -- decades ago, but about three days after the clock's index date. So it had been at least three days...
"You said, go in and get the fox," someone was saying.
"Die Schwarzer," came a voice she knew she should recognize but didn't. "The black one, Carter."
"You didn't say you wanted the black fox," said Carter. She opened her eyes a slit. She didn't recognize him; black hair, glasses. "You didn't even say there was a black fox."
Smells, thick and subtle that spoke to parts of her that ran deeper than humanity. Wood. Trees. Not just trees; something in the odor spoke of ancient growth, and wild things.
Fischer sighed, with the air of someone who was sick of discussing it.
"She's got to be awake by now," rumbled a voice, deep, a chimera's voice. Avalanche?
Something grabbed her hair and pulled up in a single smooth motion. Silverfox came up off the floor. She gritted her teeth as more and more of her weight was supported by her scalp. She tried to feign unconsciousness, but she couldn't keep the scream inside her.
Avalanche held her there for a moment from his left hand. Then, without any warning, his right fist doubled her up. Her lungs seemed to collapse, her knees snapped up against her chest, and she barely noticed when he dropped her back to the dirt floor.
It took a while for air and the world to come back. Fischer was squatting near to her, a friendly look on his face.
"Dat vas de rest of your life in miniature," he said placidly.
He waited until he was sure she could hear him.
"Vat's your name?" he asked.
"Argent," Silverfox said. "Where's Ebony?"
He lifted his eyebrows, and shook his head. He came to his feet with a sigh, and kicked. Silverfox jerked to the side so his boot hit her in the rib instead of the diaphragm, and for a moment she wondered if she had broken something.
"Dat's not goin' t' verk," he said. "Darren?"
"Hi, darlin'," Darren Baker waved at her from across the log cabin.
Shit.
"Do you understand I'm really not dat interested in keeping you alive?" Fischer asked. He pushed his foot into her groin. "I'm even bored fucking the Fuchs." He smiled a little.
Silverfox gritted her teeth. 4094. She didn't know how long she had been here. She might be able to cover the fact she knew about 4094. "When I was unconscious?" she pretended to guess. "You're one sick motherfucker." She hesitated before adding, "And your movies? They suck."
He laughed politely, and kicked her, once in the ribs and again across the face. Okay, not the smartest thing to say, but it made her feel better. She laughed mirthlessly.
There were four of them; Avalanche, Fischer, Baker, and the new guy, Carter.
"Shit," she said. "I don't know anything. I don't do analysis. The videogame of my life is a rail shooter."
"You can't frighten her," Baker said. "That's how they build these things. She's built to die before she talks. There's no point to it."
There was a table in the room, camping gear, and against the wall a bolt cutter with handles sixty centimeters long. Lights, both electric and kerosene.
"If she were human, you'd call that courage," Avalanche said.
Baker didn't respond to that. You didn't argue with an Ursus.
"More to the point," Fischer said, "the bitch doesn't know anything we need."
Silverfox's mind raced. Maybe not, but he'd want to know how much she knew. Which meant they knew what she knew already. Did Fischer know she knew about the _Flying Saucer_?
Wrong fox? The black one? Fischer put the snatch on Shadowfox and got Silverfox instead. Fine. But why grab Shadowfox? Because they knew Shadowfox was ICON too?
At any rate, Silverfox thought, they would keep her alive just as long as she had something they wanted.
"I want another go at her before we kill her," Carter said.
"Ve might not be killing her," Fischer said.
That caused a stir.
"Why not?" Baker asked. "The bitch cost me everything I've got."
"And she cost me _Flying Saucer,_" Fischer said, getting out a satellite phone.
"Right," Baker said with a laugh. "I'll bet you wish you had that motorcycle money back."
"Dat motorcycle vas de best money I ever spent. Kept us from jail. Don't let your emotions interfere vit' de bottom line. It's amazing I have to tell an American dat." He looked down at Silverfox. "Let me explain something to you."
He kicked her twice; the second time making her cry out.
"Damnit, Karl," Baker grumbled and looked away.
Fischer considered a third kick, decided against it. He smiled and chuckled and looked faintly amused. "Ve're going to hunt you," Fischer said. "Your head on somevun's vall. Do you understand dat yet?"
Silverfox didn't say anything. He sighed and drew back his boot.
"Yes," she said immediately.
"And just so you know," he said, "it's you, handcuffed and naked."
"Handcuffed?" Baker asked. "None of the others were."
"Ve didn't have an ICON combat specialist before," Fischer said. Then, back to her, "You don't get a knife. You don't get a revolver vit' ein bullet."
"Don't believe in taking chances, do you?" Silverfox asked.
"But I'm going to throw you a lifeline," Fischer said. "I'd grab it, if I vere you."
He tapped a number into the satellite phone, and pressed the speaker phone feature. Satellite phone. That probably meant they were out of the cellular network.
"Good morning," came a voice she hadn't expected to hear.
"G-good morning," she replied, shaken. She cut herself off before she finished it.
She wanted to say the word. He'd be angry if she didn't. It was a physical effort on her part, but she won. She didn't call him Master.
"I'd like you to come back," Master said.
"Back to Blue Diamond?" Silverfox asked. Carter blinked stupidly like an animal; Avalanche looked at her; Fischer looked thoughtful.
"Blue Jade," Master said. "Be honest with yourself. You adapted well."
She'd be alive.
"Was being Smoke really that hard?" Blue asked gently. "Harder than what you're facing now?"
No, she thought.
"You'd make a good Tamer," Blue said.
She'd have her own room.
"The only reason you ran was to help your friends," Blue said. "I think our relationship would be much more stable if you were isolated from them."
Silverfox had pretty much given up living. Now that she had a chance, she realized she didn't want to die.
"What do you say?"
Technofox would find her, Silverfox knew. ICON or not, they'd find her and rescue her if she gave them enough time. Foxforce could pick up the trail on these guys ... no, she wouldn't remember any of this. They'd just hit her with 4094.
"Lick my sticky balls, motherfucker," she said.
The others in the room chuckled, smiled, laughed or grinned sheepishly. She ignored that, and listened to Blue. There was a long pause as the megaframe evaluated the fact Smoke would rather die naked in a forest than go back to his care.
She knew that she had just done a necessary thing. She felt something like peace.
"Thank you, Mister Fischer," Blue said.
"You're velcome, sir," Fischer replied.
"Gentlemen," Blue said. "I understand that with the capture of _Flying Saucer_ and associated difficulties, you may be looking for other situations. There are positions available in my organization and I would be happy to discuss them with you."
Silverfox tilted her head. Was Blue offering to hire Fischer? Or was Blue just trying to cover?
"Doesn't Blue know you're Nazi Intelligence?" Silverfox asked casually, voice elevated to reach the satellite phone. There was a chance, maybe a slim one, that Blue didn't know and that it would change the calculations.
"I'm not Nazi intelligence," Fischer laughed. Then he shrugged. "Sort of. They did set me up vit the ship, but I diversified."
"And they let you?" Silverfox asked, surprised.
"Vhat dey gonna do -- fire me?"
"That happens a lot to Nazi agents, doesn't it?" Silverfox said with fake sympathy. The failures of German intelligence during the European War were pretty spectacular. "Agents just take what they got to be spies and go into business for themselves, or blow it all in a couple of months in luxury hotels. German loyalty to the German cause seems to rely on how close the nearest Gestapo agent is."
"All Blue vants t' hear from you is if you'll go back to being his whore," Fischer chided her gently. "Blue, thank you for the offer. Ve vill get in touch."
"Thank you, gentlemen," Blue said. "Smoke, I regret your decision -- "
"Save it," Silverfox snapped.
Fischer closed the connection. "Get her a bowl of water," he said to Carter. Then, to Silverfox, "Can't offer you much for your last meal. Ve got some nice sausages."
Fischer didn't undo the cuffs or let her sit at the table, but he did cut the sausage into small, bite-sized pieces. She ate quickly from dishes on the floor, lying on her side instead of kneeling in the receptive doggie position. At the same time, the four of them ate sitting at the table.
"So how do we do this?" Carter asked.
"I t'ink it's fair Mister Baker get first crack," Fischer said.
"Thanks," Baker said. "Shame her pelt's sort of dull." He lifted his voice. "Hey, I think you'd make a nice lining for a parka."
"It's only fair she replace what she cost you," Carter said.
Silverfox listened intently. Would he be going out alone? She tried to ignore how tight her stomach was.
"Carter, you go vit him as security," Fischer said. Fischer looked at the clock, and then down at Silverfox. "All done? Avalanche, put de dog out."
Avalanche reached down.
"Wait, wait!" Silverfox said. Avalanche paused by reflex.
"Yes?" Fischer asked, indulgently. "Is this vhere I'm supposed to explain the whole plot to you?"
"Nah. I was just wondering ... do you really think your movies are any good?" she asked. "I mean, really?"
Fischer laughed. "Baker, please don't go for a head shot with this one."
"I won't," Baker said. "Ruins the skull."
Avalanche smiled grimly and reached for her. She spun out of the way on the floor, came to her feet. Avalanche lumbered after her.
"Block de guns!" Fischer snapped, coming to his feet. "Avalanche, get her!"
She bounced over to the table. Avalanche was close behind her. She saw a P-38 folding can opener on the table. Could she grab it? She jumped into the air, twisted, landed sitting on the table. Avalanche rushed up, and she lifted both feet and caught him in the gut. Her fingers closed on the can opener.
Avalanche paused, but he obviously wasn't hurt. The impact pushed her across the table and over the far edge, along with a water pitcher and a half-empty can of chili. She tried to land right and failed, catching herself on her elbow. She clenched her fist around the can opener so she wouldn't drop it.
"Vait," Fischer ordered. "Did she get anything?"
Carter counted. "The knives are all there."
Fischer nodded. He looked down at her thoughtfully. He picked up a bottle of water and squeezed it, making it splash out over her. "Avalanche," he said.
Avalanche sighed and lifted her easily off the floor. He tucked her under his arm. She kicked, but he had no trouble carrying her out through the door. Out of frustration, she kicked the doorjamb with her bound feet, which made a loud noise but otherwise didn't do anything.
He grabbed her ankle with his free hand and dropped her. She landed on her side. It was cold. Her fur started to fluff, except where it was wet. The grass was wet. It must have rained recently. She looked around for a vehicle. She didn't see one.
He unlocked the cuffs on her ankles and stepped back, warily.
"Get going," he said.
"And you go back to your buddies," she said. "Since they respect you so much."
He grinned and grabbed his crotch. "Want one for the road?" he asked.
She rolled to her feet. The cabin was small and pleasantly rustic from the outside, in a clearing. Which way did she want to run? Major highways in British Columbia ran north / south; so if she went far enough east or west, she'd hit one. She turned south, and broke into a jog.
She penetrated the forest. The trees were huge, tall and mossy; she had no idea what kind they were. The ground was soft and felt like mulch under her feet. She kept going, about a kilometer or two. Most people didn't know that there was more wilderness in North America than in Africa. And most of that was in the northwest of Canada. She could feel it now. The skin under the wet patches in her fur started to hurt.
It wouldn't be as simple as walking in one direction. No, either it was too far to walk or there would be a barrier she couldn't pass. That had to be true because the others (how many?) hadn't made it. They would have moved as fast as she could. Probably faster -- their hands weren't cuffed behind their backs. She couldn't run faster than they could.
She could out fight them, if her hands were free.
Could she? She remembered what Shadowfox had said once -- "I'm a weapon, the knife is a tool." She wished Shadowfox were here... no, she didn't. She immediately felt guilty for that.
She stopped. Right before her was a tree with a stout branch, jutting out a bit higher that her waist. No time like the present. Carefully, she lay the can opener on a rock. A squirrel on a tree paused and stared at her, as though wondering what she was up to.
This was going to suck.
Silverfox turned her back on the tree. Right thumb or left thumb? Left, she decided.
One, two, three.
She put out her thumb and jumped into the air, as high as she could go. On the way down, her thumb grazed the branch. She snatched it away, by reflex.
That was no good. Try again.
She jumped higher, felt her thumb catch.
The pain sent her crashing to the floor of the forest. She lay there, dazed for a moment, and vomited. She was afraid she'd faint -- no, no, don't -- she boosted. She twitched as amphetamines were released into her bloodstream, snapped awake. Tentatively, she touched her dislocated thumb.
She almost passed out again. Instead, she gritted her teeth and pushed the left handcuff down her wrist. Nudging it against her thumb was agony, but she was able to ignore it once she realized it was down past her knuckles. She pulled her hand free triumphantly and brought her hands in front of her to look at the cuffs.
There was a radio beacon on them. Interesting. Could she get the other off without dislocating her thumb?
She should try popping it back into joint. She looked at her left hand, momentarily sickened by the way her thumb dangled. Gingerly, she grabbed the base of her thumb, screwed up her courage, and pulled.
Oh, shit, it hurt. She wished she had thought to bite down on something. She couldn't see. She shook her head, trying to get her senses back.
Crap. She hadn't just dislocated her thumb, she had broken it. Well, she wouldn't try _that_ again. She looked around for her can opener, grabbed it, and kept moving.
Later, she passed a likely-looking tree and used the can opener to cut off strips, which she used to bind her thumb to her palm. It felt better once she had immobilized it. She made another, longer strip into a lanyard for her can opener. She sat and looked at the cuffs again.
Could she get it off her right hand? She knew she could if she had a ball point pen. Hell, as long as she was wishing, how about a blowtorch? She frowned.
Okay, they had a radio tag on her. Would they use it to track her down? Obviously. But were they using it to track her now? Wasn't a lot of the fun of hunting tracking the target? Shit, had she been leaving footprints? She had no idea what a tracker would look for. She could try to avoid breaking undergrowth, walk lightly.
Well, she doubted they were actually tracking her though it at this moment. It was possible that Fischer was following her from the cabin, and Baker didn't know where she was. Yes, that was how she'd do it. She hadn't seen any equipment in the cabin. Maybe it was small and portable. Which meant not terribly accurate, unless it was close.
There was a patch of mud to her left with a perfectly formed paw print in the middle. She paused to look at it. No claw marks. That meant it was a cat, and it was five centimeters across.
Maybe she could disable the radio beacon if she couldn't get it off. Yes, but the possibility of leaving it somewhere to decoy them was tempting... if the signal stopped, they'd know her hands were free. She felt a moment of doubt and felt all around her collar. She couldn't feel any bulges or attached boxes. Hopefully, there wasn't anything built into the collar itself.
The wind shifted, and she caught a whiff of decay. She faced the wind and soon found a dead bird, dried out. She carefully pulled it apart until she found a bone that was about the right diameter.
They had to be coming after her by now. She gulped nervously, the thought terrifying her. She breathed deep, forced herself to use the panic. Good. She'd just have to prepare something.
She bit her tongue lightly as she considered.
They had guns, so she'd want to cut their line of sight as much as possible. She'd want to engage them in the forest. For that matter, there was probably a road or dirt track that swung near the cabin. How else did they get her there? She hadn't hit it yet, but she'd keep her eyes open for it.
She walked a bit further. She could hear water flowing in a brook. She smiled. She was feeling thirsty, too.
Silverfox sat at the base of a tree. She couldn't climb it one-handed. She was exposed, but she could see as well.
The sun had peaked and was going down; she knew it was more than half-way to sunset. Would they hunt during the night? She doubted it. Darkness would give her an advantage. Besides, they'd want to spend their nights sleeping in the cabin.
A raccoon was watching her. They were nocturnal. Was it almost night? Or maybe she was just a bit too close to its lair?
She had already made a decent nightstick, about thirty centimeters long. The wood was too soft, but it would do until she found a better one.
She had the tiny bit of bone in the palm of her left hand; with her right she held the can opener, and was gently wearing down a slot near the end. This was the fourth time she had tried this. The first two times, the bone had snapped and she had to cut off the end. The third, the bone had cracked when she tried to turn it in the lock. She had enough bone left for another few tries. She just hoped the bone was getting stronger closer to the middle.
Okay, that should be deep enough. She took a tiny, prepared stub of wood and slipped it into the slot, holding her breath. Had she narrowed the middle enough? It went partway in and stuck. She pulled it out, ran it a few times against the blade of her can opener, and slipped it back in. It rested in its slot, firmly but not tightly.
So far, so good.
Holding the key between two fingers of her left hand, she moved her right hand up and --
Her ears jerked to her left. Something was moving.
She put the key down on the forest floor and moved to her right, around the base of the tree. She stretched out, hugging the dirt, moving only her head, and scanned the forest, peering through a bush growing low. Her breath was shallow.
Was that him, over there? Christ, every shadow and blur looked like a man with a shotgun... maybe it was a bear? She chided herself for being relieved. A bear was as dangerous as--
A twig popped.
"Quiet, Mike!" Baker hissed between his teeth.
Probably not a bear. They were out of line of sight, beyond the trees, maybe fifty meters off. She felt a rush; the phrases "fifty meters" and "pistol engagement range" were closely bound in her head. They were apparently close together, beyond the trees. Or the two of them were strung out in a line. Baker in front, Carter stumbling along after him at a distance. That seemed more credible. There was a good chance Carter was having trouble keeping up. And that meant they might be breaking contact with one another.
Shit. She had found the perfect place for an ambush, by the brook.
She considered the problem. She needed Carter and Baker split off from one another, at least for a little while. She had no ranged weapons. That meant they had an advantage in the range band between her club and line of sight. She had to minimize the time they had a range advantage. Therefore, she had to ambush them. Damn. She was hoping that working the problem through would give her new insight, but it wasn't.
She heard another pop. "Sorry," Carter said apologetically. She grinned to herself. Would Baker tell him to stop following him? She hoped so.
Baker stepped cautiously around a tree, fifteen meters off, his Winchester pointing muzzle-down. She didn't hear him move. The Winchester, not the Remington -- he was using QSPR. The bush, close to her, blurred and he seemed to be moving through green glass. He whipped his shotgun up and sighted down the barrel. She shivered, then felt relief. He wasn't pointing at her.
He scanned the area. He was aiming a bit to her right, and then he shifted left. He was looking right at her. For an instant she had a mental image of the weapon firing. Would she see the bullet, the muzzle flash telling her she was dead? No, not with QSPR. Then he was looking to her left. He had gone past her. She felt incredulous -- she couldn't believe he had missed her.
He started to shift a little to his left, turning to cover a point off to her left.
Son of a bitch. He had seen her. He didn't want a head shot. He was maneuvering to bring her body in view.
She swallowed.
Okay. They were on the side of a hill, and there was a slope down to her right. She could be rolling down that hill in a second or two. But the trees were sparser down there. And if she settled for getting away with each encounter, she'd lose. She needed to hurt them.
.410 was an interesting caliber. It was the smallest shotgun size available. It was used by beginners, who liked the low recoil; and the experts, who didn't need the raw power of bigger cartridges to be dangerous. She didn't want to think about that.
She heard Carter, to her right, between her and the slope. He was behind a tree. He probably thought he was being stealthy. How far away was he? Ten meters, give or take? And the path to him would put trees between her and Baker...
She would wait until Baker had his foot off the ground.
Baker moved his foot clear.
She came to her feet and broke into a run. She heard the hammer fall, she heard a click, she heard a bullet tear into the ground where she had been laying. She took two steps. She heard the spent cartridge eject and thought she heard Baker curse softly. If only Carter would make another sound, something to home in --
"What the --" Carter cried out.
Before he could finish, Silverfox tackled him high.
He was carrying a shotgun. She used the fingers of her bad hand to grab onto the back of his vest. She crushed him to her as they fell down, pinning the gun between them. She forced him to stay with her as they rolled down the slope. There was so much dirt and leaves in the air it seemed they were bringing half the mountain down with them.
Something hit her tail hard, whipping it around. And then something hit her left bicep. His body jerked in her arms, and suddenly he stopped fighting. They stopped next to a log, and she flipped them over, to get cover from Baker. Before Carter could react, she took the can opener and punched it in just under his ear, and then tore a ragged gash down to his Adam's Apple.
It wasn't deep, but it would suffice. She pressed herself close to him as he jerked, weaker each time, as he bled out, his blood soaking her fur. But that was better than exposing herself, or risking his not being quite dead yet.
She had an uncomfortable feeling of dvu -- as though they had lain together like this before. Was it just a feeling, or had something happened between them, something wiped out by 4094? They had probably shared her around. But... Silverfox wondered if she had just killed a lover. She'd never know.
She grabbed his gun. Remington Model 1100 Sporting .410. Semiautomatic. She slithered to the end of the log. She heard Carter slide a meter or so down. Where was Baker?
He was on the top of the hill, looking down. Maybe eight meters off.
She rested the shotgun on the wrist of her bad hand, sighted on him. She saw him spot her right before she fired. Her shotgun jerked out of line with the recoil. His shot went wide, and she saw parts of the log fly off. As he worked the lever action of his weapon, she steadied hers again, and fired. She knew her shooting was crap. But she had to use her speed advantage.
He jerked, his shot ruined. She fired again. He dropped his gun and fell forward, sliding down the loose leaves and topsoil. His gun stopped next to the log.
He was wrapped in a ball around the hole in his gut.
"I need help," he said.
"Sure," she said, walking away. She wondered what that was about. Maybe he thought she was someone else? In which case a rescue party might be showing up soon ... she had better get out of there. She opened the Remington to see what she had put into him, what Carter had meant for her. She recognized the name: six .30 caliber balls. Spray and pray, not a bad choice for a semiautomatic weapon. She reloaded the shell.
She went back to Carter, and stripped off his vest, shirt and pants. He had been shot in the back. She hesitated, and her eyes scanned the trees suspiciously. Had Baker shot him in that scrum? Probably. His vest was open, and the shirt had absorbed most of his blood. In fact, Carter's shirt was so soaked with blood than she couldn't force herself to wear it. She took the knife from his belt and cut a tail vent in his pants and pulled them on, and then the vest. She zipped the vest up; it was tight in the bust and loose in the waist. There was no point even looking at the boots, although she did check for an ankle holster. As an afterthought, she took his laces, and strung one through her can opener to replace the bark lanyard.
He wore a headset; she popped that into the vest. She could smell blood on the vest. But it was warmer. There was stuff in his pockets -- she could do inventory later. Baker screamed. She had to get going.
She looked at the Winchester lever-action and hesitated. They both had shoulder straps. Which should she carry ready? The lever action would be tricky to work with one hand. But the Remington only had one round left anyway, so she might as well carry the Winchester -- either way, she'd be able to get off one shot.
Her arm and tail hurt like a son of a bitch. She had to take a look at that.
Baker screamed again. She wondered if the hydrochloric acid in his stomach was spilling into his abdomen.
"Jesus," he whimpered. "Shoot me."
"Can't," Silverfox said briefly. "I need the ammo."
"Oh, fuck," he moaned. "Please kill me." He didn't offer her more. He probably didn't have any.
"Don't think I can," she said, reflecting. "How would I explain that to a jury?"
She started pulling off his vest. He screamed and struggled. "Don't touch me!" he shrieked.
"Did you rape me, you son of a bitch?" she asked.
"No," he said.
She fought him for the vest, finally cut it free of his shoulders as he kept screaming. It hurt her ears, made her angry. "Does that hurt? If you believe in God, get used to it." She pushed him with her foot.
She pulled his vest off him and draped it over her shoulder. His scream changed in tone, turning hysterical. She took his fanny pack and canteen, and patted him down. The only thing in his pockets was his wallet. She took that and turned to walk away.
She wondered if he was telling the truth when he said he hadn't raped her. He had protested when Fischer kicked her. Sure, that was just to make her better sport, but...
She couldn't just leave him there.
She headed back to the log. She lifted the Remington, aimed carefully, and fired once. Three of the balls hit the top of his head. His body jerked, and his screaming stopped. She tried to tell herself she did it that way so the judge would think he was dead when she stole his stuff, but she knew that wasn't true.
Okay, now would the other two come out to the bodies? She wished she had some grenades to set up booby traps. Well, maybe she did.
She looked through her equipment. Two knives, a Leatherman ... the fanny pack was a first-aid kit, good! Binoculars. Two compasses. A GPS. Two canteens. A flask of booze. Magnesium fire starter, a metal case filled with cotton balls mixed in petroleum jelly. A case of waterproof matches. Camp food. Oh, God, she was hungry. Save it.
She didn't find any more ammunition. She slapped the vests, each and every pocket.
Son of a bitch. The "rules" must have been no extra ammo. She was sure it was to keep her from getting hold of it. Well, that made the Winchester a great choice -- it carried ten rounds.
She wondered if she had missed it on them. She considered checking them again. No way. She had patted them both down, and it wasn't like .410 shells were hard to feel.
She needed to put some space between herself and the first engagement. Should she check herself out before she left? No, she didn't know how long she had. For all she knew, Avalanche and Fischer would show up on four wheelers with automatic carbines. She loped off, trying to ignore how much her arm was starting to ache. She was afraid to examine it. She was losing blood, and she had to take care of it.
She kept going for half an hour, or maybe it was ten minutes, when she felt something drip off her finger. Startled, she looked at her left arm. The fur was saturated, almost, with blood. She swallowed. Suddenly her arm and tail started to ache.
She found a nice tree and sat down under it. Immediately, she felt an overwhelming desire to close her eyes and take a little nap. No. She shook herself. She boosted again. This was bad for her, she knew. She felt a crawling sensation in her stomach when she realized she'd need to keep the amphetamines in her system until she was in a hospital bed.
First things first. She opened the tube magazine of the Winchester and counted. She had five QSPR rounds. She looked at the Remington. She didn't think she had any use for it -- QSPR rounds wouldn't make the action cycle -- but something inside her rebelled at the thought of leaving it behind.
She opened Baker's fanny pack. Bandages, closure tape ... she frowned. She couldn't use that on a furry arm. Her first aid kit had a razor for that. She didn't see one here. Asshole, no consideration for the people who would be stealing his gear. Dressing. Was it the kind that promoted clotting? Yes!
She turned her left arm, hoping to see a shallow flesh wound. Instead, she saw a small hole. No exit wound. Crap. The bullet might still be in there. Well, nothing she could do about it now.
She ripped open a sachet of antiseptic and squeezed it into the wound. It hurt at first, but the anesthetic mixed with it took the edge off. She hoped it wouldn't make her feel dopey. Then she coated the wound with Quick Relief and slapped on the packing, holding it firmly until it stuck to the blood. Then she took a length of bandage and wrapped it around her bicep. The end of the bandage adhered to the overlap, and she felt it constrict slightly to put pressure on the wound.
Next, she pulled her tail into her lap. She winced. She had broken her tail before and she recognized the feeling. The injury was about two thirds of the way to the tip. She taped it up with a splint, and stroked the fur ruefully. She wasn't as vain about her tail as Shadowfox was, but the bullet had burnt some fur before breaking the bone. Well, at least the end hadn't been blown off.
She stared at her broken thumb. The bark bindings were loose, so she replaced them with a fresh bandage.
She opened the package of trail food. She didn't have an appetite, but she put some beef jerky in her mouth anyway.
She considered the GPS. She turned it on, and then immediately regretted it. What if there was some bizarre booby trap? It came up with the date and time. Six days since the first day of shooting _Tetris_. That had to mean the production was abandoned, and Fischer was on the run. She put it down next to her and checked out her handcuffs, taking out the Leatherman.
She couldn't get the lock to open.
After a few minutes of trying, she threw down her tools with a snarl and looked at the cuffs more carefully. Son of a bitch. Something had been poured into the mechanism where the lock engaged with the cuff. Epoxy, maybe. She closed her eyes and swore. There'd be no getting it off. She opened her eyes. Could she attack the mechanism somehow, smash the radio? With a hammer and chisel, maybe. If she could use her left hand.
Should she try to pop her right thumb out of the socket? Just thinking of it brought back the memory of the pain, made her want to vomit.
She looked down at the GPS. The map was topographic; the only thing on it made by people was a manually inserted waypoint named the CABIN, six kilometers to the northeast. She studied the map. There was a pretty substantial-looking creek a bit north of her. And a big-ass lake about half a kilometer from the cabin. She guessed you might be able to land a floatplane there. She wondered if they had flown in.
Shit. She hoped not. She needed a car, something she could drive. But the map didn't show a dirt road. Still, she had a mental image of a bush pilot traced through his flight plans on the stand, trying to explain why he had flown four men and an unconscious woman to a cabin in the woods. She hoped to see that.
She zoomed out, and kept zooming out, wondering how far she was from civilization. She was about forty kilometers east of Route 97. It looked like a major highway. Actually, it looked like the only highway. There were no towns closer that she could see. Maybe there were, but if they weren't on the map they might as well not exist.
The beef jerky tasted really good. It was soft in her mouth and she gulped it down. She touched her collar. She stopped for a moment, and took one of her knives. Carefully, she started sawing through it. It was tough leather and she had to be careful with a knife that close to her, but she could feel it biting in. Finally, the knife went through. Red leather, chrome ring. She took the collar and threw it into the bushes triumphantly. She had no interest in keeping it just in case it was useful.
"Carter, vhat's going on?" she heard. She almost jumped out of her fur before she realized it was coming from the earphone in her vest. She took it out of her vest and looked at it, holding her breath. There was a long pause.
"Carter, come back," Fischer said. She relaxed, confident the voice was coming from it.
The earphone wouldn't fit her. She held it, considering. Pretend to be Carter? Nah, she'd never pull it off. It was tempting to tell Fischer what was happening ... no. That would be fun, but it was a pretty stupid thing to do.
Fischer didn't seem to know what was going on. And there was always the chance he'd think it was just a communications breakdown. Why tip him off?
She took out Carter's radio, hoping there would be a tuner on it. Crap; there wasn't. It was locked on one channel. She turned it over and saw a bit of plastic that didn't quite match the rest ... she looked at it more carefully and guessed that it was the place where a "Call Rangers / Police" emergency switch had been removed.
She stared at the radio. Technofox could probably crack it open and get it broadcasting on an emergency band. She couldn't. She missed her. She felt a moment of anxiety, wondering how worried the others were. Stop that. It wasn't helping. Or she could start yelling for help regardless ... no. She had no idea how far the signal would carry, or if it were a frequency being monitored. All she'd do is tell Fischer exactly what was going on.
Should she talk to Fischer, try to come to a truce? No, she wouldn't believe it of him, and she'd be lying anyway.
Another problem was that Fischer had to know that Carter was right on top of her. How good was the resolution on his sensor? It couldn't be much more than ten or twenty meters at this range. Fischer knew Carter's radio and Silverfox's handcuffs were close, but not that the radio was in her pocket.
She had to make Fischer think that Carter was still moving, but away from her. Make him think that Baker got close, but that she had slipped away.
She headed North. One of the canteens was made of plastic. She cut it a slit in it to make an opening big enough for Carter's radio. An antlered deer stared at her suspiciously and she waved at it. It shrugged and turned back to its grass. She found the stream. It was a couple of meters wide, running clear. She stepped in and winced at the cold. But it made her foot feel better, so she soaked the other as well.
She pushed the radio into the canteen, and rested the intact side down in the water. It floated like a duck. "Goodbye, Moses," she whispered. She turned to walk upstream.
One of the two knives had a survival kit inside, with fish hooks and lines, and a plastic canister. She looked at that more carefully. USAF survival matches, supposedly water proof and wind proof. The heads were enormous. She bet that lighting one of these would be like setting off a rocket.
She put the contents in her vest pocket and considered the knife. She could put a stick up inside it to make a pretty decent spear. She'd keep an eye open for a likely shaft. For the time being, she could use her nightstick. She forced the end of the nightstick into the hollow cavity of the knife, and then screwed it in. She swung it around experimentally. Did she need something with more reach?
Maybe she could use her spare shotgun? A steel barrel would be a lot better than a piece of wood, especially since she didn't have time to season it... she'd have to look around the edges of clearings for saplings. By now she had probably been walking about a kilometer.
She hadn't found a directional radio detector in Carter's stuff. And that meant that he either cached it, or it was back at the cabin and Fischer was guiding him in remotely. The latter seemed a lot more likely.
And bingo -- there was a sapling. She turned to step towards it and froze. Some big animal had taken a dump near the water. She suddenly thought of salmon and bears, and looked around. Nothing. Well, wild animals avoided humans and chimerae; something to do with walking upright. She hoped.
She smelled like a blood bank. Any predator seeing her would know she was buzzard bait. Would they follow her and wait for her to fall, or would they try to rush the process?
Silverfox went to work cutting the sapling down with the saw blade on the back of one of her knives. As she slashed away, she wondered: did she make a run for it, or circle back to the cabin?
By now, they had to realize something had gone wrong. Would they come after her or bug out? Would they try to find the other two? She only had five rounds, but they didn't know that. Did they even have other weapons?
Did they have something she could use? She suddenly remembered the bolt cutters in the cabin. If she got rid of the handcuff, there was no way they could follow her as she made a beeline for 97.
She should try to break off. She was injured. She was low on ammunition. She was running on her own body's production of amphetamines.
And she was pissed off.
So she took out her GPS, turned herself towards the cabin, and started walking back.
She scouted around the building and didn't see anyone or anything that indicated they were there. She didn't see any vehicles, she didn't see any car tracks, she didn't see any hoof prints, although she saw plenty of deer tracks and cougar pug marks. Funny term, "pug mark." It was weird there was a special word for "cat tracks."
But she did see the lake. She didn't want to get too close -- it was too easy to see, and she'd be exposed to a sniper. She saw a dock, with a rowboat lifted onto it, upside-down. No plane or boathouse, though.
She turned her attention back to the cabin. Her arm and her tail ached. There was a door to the north and a window to the south. She came partway out of the clearing, and threw a rock. She was back under cover before it smashed through the window. A crow fluttered off the roof, cawing angrily.
Silence. Nobody even yelled in surprise. She couldn't hear anyone inside moving to clean up the glass. Either they were hiding really well, or they had left the cabin either to find Baker or to break off.
She got up and crept to the west side of the building. No windows; they wouldn't be able to shoot her from there. Unless they had cut loopholes. She carefully examined the side of the building with Baker's binoculars. Wow -- they were great binoculars. Image stabilization and everything.
The wall looked intact, the gaps between the logs tightly caulked.
Should she just walk away? Well, if they were coming back, she didn't have all the time in the world.
So she took the Winchester and sprinted across the clearing to the cabin. She stopped short at the wall and listened. Silence. Wait, a scratching sound. A mouse or a rat? They wouldn't be coming out if people were there.
She crept around the cabin to the door, pushed it open, dropped low and went in, aiming her gun as she went. Clear.
Okay, they were out. Now were they coming back or not?
Her eyes zoomed to the pantry. She opened it, and took out a can of chili. She popped it open, and scooped out half the can. It smeared on her face and hand, and she had dropped bits of it. It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted.
Okay, enough. She looked around the cabin. Laptop, solar charger ... did it have a wireless connection? The satellite phone? Not nearby. Fischer had probably brought that with them. Even so, she would bet they intended to come back. Nobody would leave a laptop behind. If they didn't want to carry it, they'd destroy it.
It wasn't likely she could get it working, so she turned it over on its back, and with one hand and the Leatherman tool, tore out the hard drive. She put that in her vest pocket.
A nylon backpack. She upended it; laundry spilled out. She hung it over her left hand and started scooping in anything that looked useful -- shelf stable food, emergency blanket. Medical kit. Damn it, where was the ammunition? She didn't see any.
The bolt cutters. They were still leaning against the wall. She put down her backpack and went over to them. It was awkward getting the cuffs into them. She ended up propping them vertically against the floor, her arm stretched out, hoping that when she threw her weight against them none of her skin would get caught in with the metal. She gritted her teeth and closed the sharp jaws. There was a quiet plink as they sliced easily through the metal.
Got it the first time, she thought, even more pleased with herself than usual. She shook the radio off. Okay, she had better get going before they got back. She looked around at all the stuff. The laptop bothered her. It wasn't enough just to steal the data. Ideally, she needed to make it look like it hadn't been stolen. If she were Shadowfox, she could make a copy. But she didn't have her equipment, and she didn't have Shadowfox's intrusion hardware.
She stood up, and looked thoughtfully at a kerosene lamp hanging from the rafters. And over there, in the corner, a red can marked FLAMMABLE. Weird they kept that inside.
The grass was wet. There wasn't much chance a fire would spread to the forest. Setting fire to the laptop would be suspicious, so would stealing it ... but what if she burned down the whole cabin? Oh, she could just imagine how that would go over.
Merrily, she took a shirt from the laundry (Carter's, her nose told her), sat at the table where the light was better, and started scraping flecks of magnesium from the fire starter block onto it. It was funny how someone flipping a stamped-out cigarette but into a mud puddle could burn down half of California, but deliberately torching a cabin took all sorts of painstaking work.
She had quite a little pile of silvery dust put together when she heard a branch being pushed aside. Behind her. Through the window. She fought the reflex to twirl her ears onto the signal. Instead, she carefully moved her chair back a little, and threw herself to the floor.
A pane of glass exploded inwards and a bullet plowed into the wall on the far side of the cabin. She heard the report, and the click-snap of a bolt-action hunting rifle.
She had taken too long. Her first reflex was to call in Firefox. This was exactly what the big vixen specialized in: counter sniper work. Silverfox couldn't die here, she knew, because Firefox would blame herself for not being here. What a weird thing to go through her head.
Silverfox took the Winchester and moved around the table, hoping that it was dark enough in the cabin to obscure her. She guessed the shot had come from the tree line, that the shooter was using cover. That meant he didn't have much of a field of fire inside the cabin. But she couldn't return fire without exposing herself.
She came to her feet carefully, staring down the barrel of the Winchester, ready to fire at any movement. He was probably doing the same. She put her foot under a chair, nerved herself, and flipped it into the air.
The rifle fired, Silverfox shifted squarely into the line of fire, the chair hit the ground. She saw a flash right through the brush. Bottle, or a telescopic sight? She fired. The gun snapped and clicked and she barely felt the recoil -- it was like shooting a cap gun. She chambered another round, fired, chambered a third, fired, chambered a fourth. The QSPR rounds were odd. It was like the gun wasn't working -- there was almost no sound, and no smell.
She ducked down, suddenly realizing that she had just fired almost every round she had. She didn't hear the bolt action reload.
Her ears perked straight forward. Had she gotten lucky? Or maybe he was just waiting her out? And the door behind her blew off its hinges.
She jumped, over the table. She landed badly, but she was still holding the Winchester. She came up.
It was Avalanche, wearing green camouflage, and in his right hand was something so oddball that Silverfox blinked and looked twice before she quite believed it. It was a Desert Eagle, 10" barrel, in titanium gold. It was something you'd see in a movie. It was something she had seen in a movie. The Prince of the Cosmos had used it to kneecap his cousin in the film adaption of _Katamari Damacy_.
And that almost killed her. It gave him time to level the weapon. She fired. The bullet hit him in the ribs, clear of the heart. At least it convinced her she was really firing bullets. It also threw off his aim; she felt a blow on her thigh. She fired a second time, hitting him high on the shoulder. She boosted, jumped onto the table, and leapt at him.
He sidestepped her, missing her intention. The butt of her shotgun smacked into his hand, sending the oversized pistol flying out through the door. Well, she hadn't expected to do that.
He grabbed her Winchester in one hand. She held onto it desperately, twisting out of the way when he tried to punch her. He jerked the shotgun back and then forward, using one arm to break her grip and send her slamming her against the wall. She ducked when he tried to hit her with the stock, throwing herself onto the floor, and rolling, coming back to her feet with the table between the two of them. She moved backwards, to make it harder to shoot through the window.
Was Fischer still out there?
Avalanche was breathing deeply, blood bubbling in his chest wound. It didn't seem to bother him much.
Silverfox took out her short spear, kept the point between her and him. Her leg was stiffening up. She lifted her weight off it, rested on her right.
"I think I shot Fischer," she said.
Avalanche shrugged.
"You want a job?" she asked.
"Actually," he said, and grinned, "I want to break your back and then fuck you again."
He came closer, keeping himself between the door and Silverfox. That, she realized, made sense. Keeping the pistol out of the picture entirely meant he won.
He lurched down, and she saw he was coming at the table. She jumped up, landed on it right before he hit it and shoved it against the wall with an impact that caught the back of a chair and splintered it. She let herself fall towards him, the spear in her hand. He raised his arm to block, and she felt the knife go in. He hissed, and his muscle flexed. The wooden shaft popped out of the knife, and out of her hand. She tried to catch the nightstick with her left hand, and failed.
She tried to break her fall with her left leg, and felt it give way.
She kept falling towards him. His other arm reached out for her, and she knew if he got her he wouldn't let go until she was dead ... he grabbed her right arm with his good hand.
She grabbed the can opener, snapped out the blade, and raked it across his face. Across his eye.
She felt it pulp, fought nausea, tried to shove a finger in to dig for his brain. His arm came up in a sweep and caught her in the pelvis, lifting her up into the air, yanking her finger out of his skull. But he let her arm go -- so she felt a moment of relief.
She hit the wall first, then landed on the table on her side, grabbed for something, anything. Her hand fell on a shirt and she threw it into his face. The magnesium scrapings flew with it. He batted the shirt away angrily, and a cloud of silvery dust settled on his head and shoulders.
Bingo. Silverfox started to run. She went off the table, landed on her right foot, and her left leg failed her. She got to her feet as Avalanche's bulk turned to face her. He had one hand pressed to his eye. The other didn't look cowed.
Silverfox pulled the matches out of her vest with her left hand. She pulled off the top, tapped the canister until a head protruded. She struck the match against the strip on the top of the lid, heard them start up.
The canister instantly got too hot to hold. She snapped it like a whip, and the matches came out in a stream. Each one exploded into light, like two dozen little rockets. He ducked away, but not far enough, and the fur on his head went off like a flare.
She had to turn her eyes away, because the light was so brilliant. He screamed, beat at his head with his hands, even while his hands caught fire. She grabbed the can of kerosene under her left arm and, hand shaking, got the cap off. She jerked the can, splashing it at the berserk chimera crashing around the cabin. It settled on him, went off. He crashed against the table, smashed it, fell to the ground.
She edged away, got between him and the door, and threw the can at him. It hit. She grabbed her knapsack and was out the door.
Once out, she noticed she was on fire too. She threw herself into the wonderful cold wet grass, rolled until she was sure her fur wasn't burning.
Next to her was a gold Desert Eagle. .50 AE Caliber. She was close enough to see that now.
She sat up, took it into her good hand. She pointed it back at the open door. She couldn't hold it in one hand. Her hand was shaking too much. It had to be because the gun was so big. She had to steady it with her other hand, holding the underside of the barrel. Desert Eagles were gas action; the barrel wouldn't move when it cycled. The cabin had caught. Given the kerosene she had splashed around, that wasn't surprising. The pit sensor in her nose saw the heat in the cabin building up. Then, she saw the flames flickering.
She didn't have long to wait. Avalanche was stumbling out, his fur a carbon layer, cracked and bloody, smoking. His clothes were barely smudged. He was rasping, he had probably inhaled fire.
She pulled the trigger. It hit him low on the chest. The recoil was painful. She came close to dropping it. He staggered but kept coming. Her next shot took out his right knee. He fell, slumping towards her. His hand was maybe half a meter from her ankle. Her third shot went through his crown. He slumped.
Silverfox wanted to lay down. If she did, she knew she'd go to sleep. Desert Eagle. What did that mean? Well, it meant that Fischer hadn't found it. So he was either covering the other side, or he was dead, or he was running. If he were dead, that meant she could use his satellite phone.
She pushed herself to her feet, and patted down Avalanche's body. Two clips in a pouch on his back. She tried to roll him over and failed. She swapped the magazine in the gun for a full one. Seven rounds in the Desert Eagle, ten in the pouch. But she had to admit that ammo was the least of her problems. Forty kilometers to the highway.
If Fischer were alive, even wounded, it would mean another fight.
A forty kilometer walk seemed easier.
She went partway into the forest and tried to take care of her leg. The bullet had gone into her thigh. She kept drinking water, but she was still thirsty. She was doing a sloppy job, she knew. Her hand was shaking visibly. The bandage around her left bicep was in better shape than the dressing she prepared for her leg, even though she had both hands to work with. Her vision kept waving in and out of focus, and she kept boosting to keep from going under.
She came to her feet, and stumbled to one knee.
The cabin was blazing merrily, a huge torch of flame and smoke shooting skyward. Anything useful in there was gone by now.
She still hadn't seen Fischer.
It was so stupid to stall out now, she thought. All she had to do was get off her ass and walk for a couple of days. The sun was going down. Was it better if she went to sleep?
The ground felt good to her. Who needed a sleeping bag or mattress?
Should she put a couple of kilometers between her and the burning cabin? She should. But she knew she couldn't. She had to. If Fischer were out there...
She heard a chopping noise, the low staccato rumble of spinning blades. Her eyes snapped open. The copter was painted bright orange, and she couldn't read the logo, but she saw a red maple leaf on a white background and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
The helicopter hovered over the clearing and rappelling lines dropped out of it. Big men in firefighter gear were zipping down. Holy shit -- she hadn't even thought of rangers seeing the fire. She was on her feet and running towards them, yelling.
It took a couple of seconds for the smoke jumpers' body language to go from "What the hell is wrong with this crazy chimera?" to "Good lord, she's a casualty!"
Silverfox stopped running, because two of them were running up to her, and one was saying something into an earphone mike. The others, reluctantly, turned away to the fire. One of them saw Avalanche.
"Are you okay?" one of them asked, the traditional opening question, more to gauge a victim's coherence than to elicit information.
"Sir, there is a man with a rifle, unaccounted for," she said immediately. "I am a private security operative, ICON," she continued, carefully. "I'm in Foxforce. I am working with Sergeant Carl McKinnon of the RCMP. My name is Silverfox." She swallowed. "And sir, I'd really appreciate a ride."
At that point, she decided it would be good to curl up in a ball and take a nap, so she did.