Leopard Hunts in Darkness - Smith Wilbur (книга бесплатный формат .TXT) 📗
Craig knew in that first moment of contact that the Shana was simply too strong for him. He had height and weight and he was trained to the hardness of black anthracite. He whipped a long arm around the back of Craig's neck, but Craig, instead of resisting, put all his own weight into the direction of the Shana's pull. It took him by surprise, and they cartwheeled. As he went over, Craig kicked out with the metal leg but he didn't connect cleanly.
The Shana twisted and struck back at him. Craig smothered it and they locked, chest to chest, rolling first one on top, then the other, flattening the coarse scrub, their breathing hissing "into each other's face. The Shana snapped likea wolflat Craig's face with his square white teeth. If he got a grip, he would bite off Craig's nose or rip his cheek away. Craig had seen it done before in beer hall brawls.
Instead of pulling his head back, Craig butted forward with his forehead, and hit him in the mouth. One of the Shana's incisors snapped off at the gum and his mouth glutted with blood. Craig reared back to butt him again, but the Shana shifted over him and suddenly he had the trench knife out of its scabbard on his belt. Craig grabbed his wrist desperately, only just smothering the stab.
They rolled and the Shana came out on top, straddling Craig, the knife in his right hand probing with the bright silver point for Craig's throat and face. Craig got both hands to it, one on the Shana's wrist, the other into the A of his elbow, but he couldn't hold him. The knife cro point descended slowly towards him, and the Shana kicked his legs and locked one between Craig's, pinning him likea lover.
Down came the knife, and behind it, the Shana's face, swollen with effort, his broken tooth pink with blood, blood running from his chin and dripping into Craig's upturned face, his eyes mottled with tiny brown veins, bulging from their sockets and the knife came down.
Craig put all his strength against him. The knife point checked for a second, then moved down to touch Craig's skin in the notch where his collarbones met. It stung likea hypodermic needle as it pierced the skin. With a sense of horror, Craig felt the Shana's body gathering for the final thrust that would force the silver steel through his larynx and he knew that he could not prevent it.
Miraculously, the Shana's head changed shape, distorting likea rubber Halloween mask, collapsing upon itself, the contents of the skull bursting in a liquid fountain from his temple and the sound of a shot dinned in on Craig's eardrums. The strength went out of the Shana's body and he rolled off and flopped on the ground likea fresh-caught catfish.
ay, kneeling Craig sat up. Sally-Anne was only feet aw facing him, the Tokarev pistol held doublehanded, the barrel still pointing skywards where the recoil had thrown it. She must have placed the muzzle against the Shana's temple before she fired.
J killed him," she breathed gustily and her eyes were filled with honor.
"Thank God for id" Craig gasped, using the collar of his shirt to dry the nick on his throat.
"I've never killed anything before," Sally-Anne whispered.
"Not even a rabbit nor a fish nothing." She dropped the Pistol and started to dry, wash her hands, scrubbing one with the other, staring at the Shana's corpse. Craig crawled to her, and took her in his arms. She was shaking wildly.
"Take me away," she pleaded. "Please, Craig. I can smell the blood, take me away from here: "Yes. Yes." He helped her to her feet, and in a frenzy of haste rolled the ground sheet and buckled the straps of the rucksacks.
"This way." Burdened by both packs and the rifle, Craig led. aer away from t i ing grounc towards taste west.
They had been going for almost three hours and had stopped for the first sparing drink, before Craig realized his terrible oversight. The water bottles! In his panickly haste, he had forgotten to take the water bottles from the dead Shana.
He looked back longingly. Even if he left Sally-Anne here and went back alone, it would cost him four hours, and the Third Brigade patrols would surely be coming up.
He weighed the water bottle in his hand, a quarter fall: barely enough to see out this day, even if they laid up now and waited for nightfall and the cool, not nearly enough if they kept going and t9ey had to keep going.
The decision was made for him. The sound of a single engined aircraft throbbing down from the north. Bitterly he stared up into the pale desert sky, feeling the helplessness of the rabbit below the towering falcon.
"Spotter plane," he said, and listened to the beat of the engine. It receded for a while, and then grew stronger again.
"They are flying a grid search." As he spoke, he saw it. It was closer than he had thought, and much lower. He forced Sally' Anne down with a hand on her shoulder, and spread the cape over her, glancing back as he did so. It was coming on swiftly, a low winged single-engined monoplane. It altered course slightly, heading directly towards him. He dropped down beside Sally-Anne and crawled under the ground sheet beside her.
The engine roared louder. The pilot had spotted them.
Craig lifted a corner of the ground sheet and looked out.
"Piper Lance," said Sally-Anne softly.
It carried Zimbabwe Air Force rounders, and incongruously the pilot was a white man, but there was a black man in the right, hand seat, and he wore the dreaded ey both stared burgundy, red beret and silver cap-badge. Th onlessly as the Piper made a steep turn, with down expressi one wingtip pointed likea knife directly at where Craig lay. The black officer was holding the radio microphone to his lips. The wings of the Piper levelled and she came out turn, heading back the way she had come. The J of her throb of the engine receded and was lost in the desert silence.
Craig pulled Sally-Anne to her feet.
"Can you go on?" She nodded, pushing back the sweat-damp wisp of hair i from her forehead. Her lips were flaking, and the lower one had cracked through. A drop of blood sat on it likea tiny ruby.
