Chapter 23 #2
Then the Calypson faced where the other two targets advanced, his arms lifted slightly away from his body.
Through Carver’s infrared, they looked like animals, and all the articles he’d watched and read on his journey resurfaced.
Those mutated canines, the ones that had killed a scientist, were they about to attack the Calypson?
But they skidded to a stop before they pounced.
“What are you staring at?” The doctor whispered her question, her tone fearful.
Good. She should be terrified of him. It would keep her compliant.
Carver’s blood curdled as all three forms turned toward him in unison. Was the fucker controlling the animals? It sure as hell looked like it. He lifted his weapon and aimed over the barrel.
Dark shadows solidified into sharper forms as the trio emerged from the snow, a canine on either side of the Calypson.
Behind him, the doctor gasped.
The closer the fucker walked, the clearer the damage to his head became: cheekbone, flesh and muscle.
Beneath the disfigurement, the calm Carver had observed on his face during their first encounter was now replaced with twisting rage.
So the fucker could feel. Then Carver would do his best to facilitate his descent into anguish.
He fired at the beast on the left a half second before firing at the one on the right.
Then he aimed dead center of the group. Pop.
Pop. Pop. A trio of shots pulsed toward them.
The first connected with the animal’s shoulder, sending it flying backward.
The second animal dodged, the shot disappearing into the snow, sizzling through the moisture as it traveled.
Carver didn’t see if the third shot connected, because the animal veered and charged.
A strangled sound, a warning, emerged from the doctor’s comm connection in his helmet. He had no time to think about it because the canine barreled toward him.
Pop pop pop. Three shots hit the animal’s center mass.
Muscle and tissue flew, but the beast didn’t stop, leaping toward his throat with a snarl.
Carver used its momentum, ducking, then jamming his gun into the animal’s belly.
Pop pop. The bulky, bleeding mass flew over his head.
He rolled, following it over, and fired again, aiming for its head.
The shots obliterated its face and skull, halting its progress. It skidded to a stop in the snow, leaving an arc of red behind it.
Gulping breaths ricocheted inside his helmet, the sound of the doctor’s panic filling his head through their helmets’ interface.
Carver turned. The Calypson stood directly in front of him, his eyes glinting silver, confirming all of Carver’s suspicions. He’d moved fast earlier too—too fast to clock. That rage remained, and it intensified when the Calypson’s gaze flicked to the doctor behind him for the briefest of seconds.
Carver reacted on instinct. Smack. He punched him in the gut, then followed through with a roundhouse kick to his head.
Thud. The Calypson bent with the force, but otherwise kept his feet.
When he straightened, his expression darkened further.
Carver swung his weapon, intent on taking his head off like it was a club, but the fucker grabbed the muzzle in one hand and crushed it like it was made of bio-matter instead of metal composite.
Fuuuuuuuuck. The human race was in serious trouble.
Carver reached for the gun strapped to his thigh and yanked. The Calypson slapped it away before he could fire a shot. It skidded to a stop in the snow.
His fist slammed upward in the next instant, connecting with the fucker’s jaw. He received a jab to the shoulder for his trouble. Every punch and kick resulted in an equally intense block. It felt like the Calypson knew what he was going to do before he did it.
Purposefully, Carver emptied his mind.
A low growl vibrated from his right. He turned in time to see the animal leap. Carver dropped to the ground, then rolled until he reconnected with his gun. He rotated onto his back and fired.
The shots caught the animal in the chest, and it howled before twisting out of the line of fire. Carver kept shooting in an arc, aiming for the Calypson who hadn’t gone far. Two headshots, and the fucker dropped to the ground. Thud.
Everything went silent except for the wind. Carver lay there for a second, catching his breath and listening. The second animal had run off somewhere, but he couldn’t hear it. Off to lick its wounds.
He kind of felt like he needed to do the same. Carver hadn’t had his ass handed to him in a while.
The thought got him moving. He rolled to his knees and stood, his gun loose in his hand. The Calypson lay motionless where he had fallen.
A loud hum made him look up at the tether. The cabin descended, then slowed as it neared the port. He watched for a minute, marveling at its slick construction, then it disappeared inside the structure. Kerclunk. The sound echoed as the cabin attached.
He peeled his eyes away and focused on the body. He’d given the Calypson another two headshots, but Carver wasn’t taking any chances. Hell, if he had the time, he would decapitate the fucker.
“Shithead,” he muttered, stepping closer. Pop. He gave him a third shot to his face.
A swallowed scream penetrated his eardrum. He turned his head and looked toward the doctor while he repeated the process. Pop. Pop. This time he aimed for the fucker’s chest.
Carver tipped his chin when he realized she was trying to get into his go-bag again.
Straightening, he strode toward the port while adjusting the settings on his gun.
“Bad doctor,” he muttered as he stepped inside the decontamination zone.
He aimed and fired. The blast stunned her for the third time, and she dropped to the ground as the door sealed behind him. A fine mist covered his body.
Fuck, he would be glad when he was off this doomed planet.