anathema
Leon's mouth had fallen open. His usual reflexes under fire had abandoned him. Leon Freedman was frightened and bewildered.
The Quiet One cricked his neck again, produced another small-caliber handgun from his kit. He walked from one twitching body to another, another pop at each stop, a .22 to the eye of each man. The motionless McCrimmon he ignored, as the top of the man's skull was already missing.
McCrimmon's brains looked like a can of mushroom soup from where the Quiet One stood.
All Leon could tell was that McCrimmon's eyesockets were empty.
Nobody out here had a .22 handgun. No one had .22 shells sufficient to blow off the cap of a human skull.
Leon felt for his knife as the man turned from his work. To his surprise, it was right where it should be. So was his sidearm. The weight felt right, it was loaded.
Leon was doing an instant replay in his head, .22, six shots, the Quiet One's rifle slung over his shoulder.
Leon had the play in his head, he was just too dismayed to run it.
"What the fuck you doin' man?" Leon had the knife out, was struggling to his feet.
The man took one look at Leon's knife & walked towards him normally. "God's work." His tone was sarcastic. His cigarette was still lit.
Leon assumed the familiar crouch, knife at the ready. "You stay away from me. You stay away from me."
The man brushed past him without touching him, returning to his kit bag. He reached down and grabbed his canteen, taking a generous swig. He offered it to Leon. "Here, you can drink all you want now."
Leon found himself standing down from combat stance for reasons he didn't quite understand. He took the canteen and took another hefty gulp.
Pieces coalesced in Leon's mind. "Are they Phoenix?"
The Quiet One was a chain smoker. He lit another cigarette from the last millimeter of the one he had going. "Yep." The Quiet one knelt to stub out the dying butt on a rock.
"So you, you're a Firebird." Leon had heard talk; he had a glimmer of hope of understanding .
"Yep."
Leon had experienced having a price on his head a lot. "How much was I worth this time?"
The Quiet One cricked his neck again. "Fifty."
Leon challenged the man. "Why am I still alive?"
The Quiet One was taking inventory. "Been two days since we got you out. That's a long time in the open for us." He turned a not-unfriendly gaze over his shoulder at Leon. "Been trying to figure out if I could make it out with just you."
Leon grunted again. "How do you figure that justifies fraggin' seven countrymen?"
Another surprising low laugh from the Suddenly Not So Quiet One. "Because, Corporal Freedman, you talk in your sleep."
The Quiet One cricked his neck again, produced another small-caliber handgun from his kit. He walked from one twitching body to another, another pop at each stop, a .22 to the eye of each man. The motionless McCrimmon he ignored, as the top of the man's skull was already missing.
McCrimmon's brains looked like a can of mushroom soup from where the Quiet One stood.
All Leon could tell was that McCrimmon's eyesockets were empty.
Nobody out here had a .22 handgun. No one had .22 shells sufficient to blow off the cap of a human skull.
Leon felt for his knife as the man turned from his work. To his surprise, it was right where it should be. So was his sidearm. The weight felt right, it was loaded.
Leon was doing an instant replay in his head, .22, six shots, the Quiet One's rifle slung over his shoulder.
Leon had the play in his head, he was just too dismayed to run it.
"What the fuck you doin' man?" Leon had the knife out, was struggling to his feet.
The man took one look at Leon's knife & walked towards him normally. "God's work." His tone was sarcastic. His cigarette was still lit.
Leon assumed the familiar crouch, knife at the ready. "You stay away from me. You stay away from me."
The man brushed past him without touching him, returning to his kit bag. He reached down and grabbed his canteen, taking a generous swig. He offered it to Leon. "Here, you can drink all you want now."
Leon found himself standing down from combat stance for reasons he didn't quite understand. He took the canteen and took another hefty gulp.
Pieces coalesced in Leon's mind. "Are they Phoenix?"
The Quiet One was a chain smoker. He lit another cigarette from the last millimeter of the one he had going. "Yep." The Quiet one knelt to stub out the dying butt on a rock.
"So you, you're a Firebird." Leon had heard talk; he had a glimmer of hope of understanding .
"Yep."
Leon had experienced having a price on his head a lot. "How much was I worth this time?"
The Quiet One cricked his neck again. "Fifty."
Leon challenged the man. "Why am I still alive?"
The Quiet One was taking inventory. "Been two days since we got you out. That's a long time in the open for us." He turned a not-unfriendly gaze over his shoulder at Leon. "Been trying to figure out if I could make it out with just you."
Leon grunted again. "How do you figure that justifies fraggin' seven countrymen?"
Another surprising low laugh from the Suddenly Not So Quiet One. "Because, Corporal Freedman, you talk in your sleep."