Flesh & Bone (Rot & Ruin, #3)(65)

The last three boars rose from where they had fallen over the one Lilah had shot. One took a single lurching step toward her, paused for a moment, and then fell over dead.

As it landed, Lilah saw the black dime-size bullet hole in its temple.

The two others glared at her. They grunted with awful hunger and charged.

Lilah brought her gun up, but a voice yelled, “No!”

And a second figure came rushing from the woods. Not a dog this time, but a man.

He leaped over the dead hogs and landed right in the path of the charging boars. The pale sunlight that slanted down through the trees glittered on the edge of a long sword the man raised above his head.

Not just any kind of sword.

A katana.

The man stepped into the charge of the hogs and slashed low, left and right, and suddenly the animals were falling forward, one leg on each sheared clean away. The man spun and slashed, the blade moving with incredible speed and precision so that it appeared as if the boars merely disintegrated. Then he pivoted and made two massive downward stabs, ramming the point of his sword through the weakest parts of the creatures’ skulls and destroying the spark of unnatural life that burned in their zombie brains.

Behind him, the dog rose from the destroyed hulk of the other boar.

Lilah froze, her pistol clamped in hands that now trembled. The pain in her side was screaming through her nerve endings, and shadows were piling up inside her mind.

But for all that, she could not help staring at the man who stood ten feet away, his face and body hidden by deep shadows, the katana held in his powerful hands.

She stared in uncomprehending shock.

The last thing she said before blood loss and damage dragged her down into the darkness was, “Tom . . . ?”





49

“Y’ALL READY?” ASKED RIOT. SHE WAS CROUCHED BEHIND CHONG, HER fingers lightly touching the barbed head of the arrow.

“No,” he said through clenched teeth. Then a moment later he croaked, “Go ahead.”

“Take hold of that other end, and don’t you let it turn. Otherwise we’ll be doing nothing but reaming the hole.”

“Well,” he said as conversationally as he could, “we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

“Here,” she said, handing him a thick piece of leather strapping she’d cut from her belt, “take this. Put it between your teeth.”

“I don’t need that.”

“Yeah,” she said, “you do.”

Chong took it with great trepidation and placed it between his strong white teeth. Then he reached down and wrapped his fingers around the shaft just below the dark feathers. “O-okay.”

Riot took a deep breath; so did Chong.

“Here goes.”


She gripped the end that protruded from his back, closing her left fist around it; then pinched the flat of the barb between thumb and fingers and . . . turned.

The whole arrow turned. Blood suddenly welled from both sides of the wound, darkening the strips of Chong’s shirt that Riot had used to pack the wound.

The pain was . . . exquisite. It was pain on a level Chong had never imagined before, and in the last month he had been beaten, kicked, stomped, and punched by full-grown bounty hunters. Memories of that other pain lined the shelves in his mind. This pain was on a much higher shelf. It was worse than when he’d gotten shot by the arrow in the first place. When the arrow hit him, the shock of it blunted his nerve endings and slammed his mind and body into a weird kind of traumatic numbness.

That was then, this was now.

He could feel every single nerve ending as the arrow turned despite their grips.

As it turned out, he did indeed need that leather strap. Instead of throwing his mouth wide to scream, he bit down on the pain, and the scream echoed around within his body. He could feel his scream burning through him.

Riot straightened and craned her neck to see how he was holding the arrow.

“Dang it, son, don’t grab the shaft, grab the feathers. You need friction to hold it steady. Hold it tight.” She chuckled and added, “Pretend you’re holding the Lost Girl’s hand.”

Several biting remarks occurred to Chong, but he did not have the breath to speak them. Instead he shifted his hand position, clamped down harder on the leather strap, and waited for her to try again.

She gritted her teeth and channeled her strength into her fingers.

The arrowhead did not turn. The whole shaft shifted inside the tunnel of flesh. The pain was every bit as bad. Chong screamed a muffled scream of torment, sucking in the sound, feeling tears and sweat burst from him. Feeling the heat of fresh blood on his stomach and back.

“It’s stuck like a boot in mud,” growled Riot needlessly. She tried again. And again.

Chong could feel nausea washing around in his stomach, but he did not dare give in to it. If he started vomiting now, it would make everything worse.

“Y’all want me to stop?” asked Riot.

Chong did. He really did. He wanted to tell her that. Maybe beg for her to stop. Stopping was the only sane choice.

“N-no . . . ,” he wheezed, forcing the word past the leather strap.

Riot leaned over and looked at him for a moment, studying his eyes. There was a strange expression on her face that Chong could not interpret. She gave him the smallest of smiles and a tiny nod, then bent back to her work.