Going Feet First Ch. 05

The Shadow Stalker examined the room around Pretayus and Fretheim. There were no weapons near either man; no guards posted at the door any visible sign armor they were wearing. Unprotected, their lives could end tonight. The temptation was fierce for her, but the instincts she had trained and honed held her back just the same.

One of the girls about either men could have some weapon available, or training she was not aware of. Guards were extremely active both in the house and throughout the city and without the sheer force of Galen's magic to ensure an escape, she could never get Celia free of the estate, let alone the city.

Pulling in her claws, Petra took a deep breath and pressed an ear against the window, shutting her eyes and trying to listen. Whatever magic or technique used to silence the study was implemented in this room as well, as even with her Nekonian hearing, the Shadow Stalker could barely make out their words.

"Your balls match your coin pouch it seems," was Pretayus's more powerful voice, though Fretheim's mumblings were too quiet for the Neko to hear.

"We'll see when the whole of their kingdom comes after you... The distance you would need to run I'm sure is beyond what is written on any map..."

When things went quite, Petra pulled her ear off the glass and looked inside. After Fretheim finished chuckling to himself, he said something that made both Pretayus and Val raise their eyebrows. An uncomfortable feeling brewed in the Shadow Stalker's stomach as Pretayus relaxed in his chair with a dangerous smile.

"That's perfect. Though, I do hope you won't choose to make the attempt on my life as well to protect such a secret..." The Slaver's smile began to show teeth as Fretheim said something else, and Pretayus responded in kind, "I like the sound of that. I really, like the sound of that."

He reached down to the floor and picked up a wine glass that had been sitting by his feet. "A drink then? Before we turn to our..." he looked to Val for a moment. "retirement for the evening?"

Fretheim nodded and leaned forward as to toast and drink with Pretayus. When the men had drained their wine glasses, the human woman next to the slaver stood up and moved toward the window. Petra, though her heart rate jumped, continued to watch through the sliver between the curtains. If she could barely see in being this close, she doubted their ability to see out.

The slave came right up to the window before lying down on the floor. Petra looked down, noticing a large bed on the floor not outside arms reach from where she spied. Her heart began to settle and she pulled away from the window as there was nothing else for her to learn tonight.

...

The dim glow of a spying eye disappeared from the opening in the window curtains on Pretayus's left, the shadow of a flicking tail catching his eye as the Neko departed. After a few counts, one of the talismans around his neck no longer "spoke" to him of a presence in that direction as she left the small radius of its magic.

He cursed to mentally at himself. He had caught glimpses of her on nights, though he thought it was his paranoia and imagination. But leaving that curtain partly open, just enough for one to spy, and finding a dark-furred Nekonian come to exploit it was the last piece of evidence he needed to convince himself.

With a sigh he looked down at the glass in his mutilated right hand, where he held onto the stem of the glass between the bandaged stub of his thumb and his ring and pinky finger: the only two left on the appendage. "My lord, as I loathe having to say this, I believe our demon has finally caught up to us."

...............

Something scampered across metal with small, skittish claws. It hopped from one surface to another and slid across the steel plating before grabbing onto something solid. It scrambled again, losing traction as it attempted to dart out of the open. When it paused for a second, one could hear it gnaw on wiring before it moved on.

In a slow, deliberate manner as he woke, Flak drew his KA-BAR from its sheath strapped against his side. He took a solid grip on the fighting knife and waited for that scampering to draw close. It hit the metal plate behind his seat and crept closer to his right side. The creature had only placed a single paw on his hip when he jabbed with the seven-inch blade and pierced the squirrel right through the head.

As it twitched on his blade, he ripped it back out and stabbed it again.

"Fuck off, you little fluffed up fuck."

He pulled his knife back and wiped it clean on his arm while cursing at the pain piercing his right pectoral. If it was not for the morphine still flowing through his system he doubted he could even move his right arm with the two holes in the right side of his chest. It was a wonder that was the only real pain considering the crash he had survived.

"Going t' be fucking feelin' everything come sun up..." he cursed, looking up to the starry sky above.

The dose of painkiller he received must have been either really strong or a bad batch for him to have hallucinated some furry man prior to his passing out. He could have sworn it had referred to him as a "human" and something about snuffing him out. If it was a local and his mind was just playing tricks, the man must have thought him dead and left when he went dark.

At least he woke again. Waking up in pain was preferable to not waking at all.

Shifting in his seat, Flak groaned at the safety strap still holding him down and promptly sliced it open with his knife before returning it to its sheathe. He then sucked in a breath and clamped down his jaw as he kicked his legs left to sit up on what was the back of his seat. From his pectoral right through to the muscles under his shoulder blade flared a rich pain that had him moaning so loud he put his own hand over his mouth to try and quiet himself.

Pull your shit together, Marine! he berated himself, clamping his jaw shut. Suck it the fuck up!

He kept his breathing steady and controlled as he let that pain dull as much as possible. It wouldn't fade, but he could keep from aggravating it as best he could, something which would no doubt prove difficult. He could have hooked his arm into the buttons of his shirt had the medic not cut it off. Now he would need a replacement jacket, something that went near to the top of his priority list as he slowly took in his first look of the helicopter's cabin.

Realizing its sorry state he hung his head down. "God fucking dammit."

Everything was wrecked from the radio, to the equipment that had been aboard, to the stretcher the wounded troop had been laying on. Parts, pieces, glass, all sort of junk were scattered on the ground below. The three Army lads and the corpsman that came with the helicopter were lying down in that mess and even without checking, Flak knew they were gone. There wasn't anything he could do about that, only shake his head and pace his way down to their bodies below.

At that moment it came to his attention that his AK was gone. But thinking back on it, he couldn't remember if he lost it when the chopper was in its spin or when it hit the dirt. It didn't matter now, it was gone. That left him only with his KA-BAR and the bayonet to the soviet weapon and he would be damned if he pulled the M60 off the side-mount and lugged it around the jungle. After dropping the bandolier for the Kalashnikov, he checked the men for pulses and then checked for weapons and ammo.

The rifles they had carried were nowhere to be found, and the medic quickly proved fruitless for anything beyond the utility knife he had. The same could be said with the two soldiers that had brought the wounded soldier aboard, aside from one of them having a single magazine for a Colt M1911 in his pocket. But when Flak checked the body of the wounded troop, he found an unusual shape strapped to his calf. When Flak pulled up his pant leg, he uncovered the welcome sight of a M1917 revolver.

"Jackpot," the Marine murmured as he pulled the pistol and swung out the cylinders, finding two of the six shots fired off.

At least it was chambered in .45 ACP.

"Sorry, bud, but I need this more than you now," Flak whispered as he dumped the spent shells out.

He stripped two bullets off the magazine found to fill the revolver's empty chambers and ensured the cylinder locked up tight. Pocketing the six-shooter he approached the pilots to check them for more munitions, finding a Colt with two magazines on the pilot's hip.

"Thanks, brother, rest in peace," he said, tucking pistol into his other pocket with the ammunition.

By chance he happened to glance up at that moment, noticing something caught underneath the Pilot's seat. A shirt. Not wanting to strip any of the men for their clothes, Flak grabbed onto it and ripped it free, tearing off the right sleeve of the tiger stripe jacket in the process.

"Fuck," he swore, examining the ragged tear in the fabric just above the elbow.

Sighing, he swung the jacket around and pulled it on, finding the fit just a bit too large for his chest size.

"Better than nothin'," he mumbled.

Armed with the basics and a shirt on his back he returned to the medic and the bag of his trade still held firm in his grasp. As the Marine combed through its contents, something caught his ear. Holding his breath he froze and listened. Branches snapped somewhere close, and someone was talking a bit too loud in a language that wasn't English.

And he swore he heard growls.

Fuck... Dogs...

He dumped out the heavy medical kit and grabbed the every pack of gauzes, wraps, and disinfectant he saw, tossing it all back into the bag along with several syrettes of morphine and anything else he figured he could use. But as he grabbed onto one dose of morphine, the cap broke off in his grasp and the needle jabbed into his thumb.

"Dammit!" Flak cursed, grabbing the tube and ripping it back out.

He quickly shook out his hand and looked at his thumb, spotting the small blood droplet that had formed at the injection site. Both his shoulders drooping and his jaw slacked he looked at the needle in his other hand. At the sight of the empty bulb, he didn't have to be a detective to realize that its contents were now flowing through his veins.

"Fuck..."

His hand started to tingle and from there Flak could feel the painkiller take effect up his arm. It wouldn't be long before it hit his brain and put him out of any sort of fighting shape. He had to move and move quickly with what he had or that approaching force, which he doubted to be American, was going to find one stoned Marine to use for target practice or chew toys for their animals.

Removing the canteens from the bodies and adding them to his stash in the medical bag, Flak climbed his way out of the wrecked Huey, keeping as much weight off his right arm as possible. When he got out onto the side of the bird, he spotted light coming through the trees, and swore up a storm under his breath.

He heard running water to his right, something that could mask the sound of his movements. There was also the side-mounted M60, but its swivel prevented it from aiming low enough to shoot in their direction. Without another option he hopped onto a tree that had fallen down against the side of the chopper and ran down it to the ground before he looked toward the approaching sounds. The lights were getting closer, and he could hear bushes cracking as they drew near his position.

Flak stepped off, ready to run before the whole world shifted beneath his feet and the trees went into a spin around him. He managed to stumble several paces forward before he fell to his knees, his head twirling and his body feeling pretty damn good.

"Morphiiiinnnne..." he muttered, getting back on his feet.

With all his focus he forced one foot in front of the other, trying his own strength. He was holding, but as a branch snapped close by, he didn't take any more time babying himself and broke out into a full sprint.

"Find the water... find the water..." he repeated, following his ears toward the splashing sounds nearby.

Branches and shrubs were knocked aside and crushed underfoot as he carved a path through the bushes. If he had any element of stealth, or any chance of not being detected by whoever was approaching, it was gone now as he charged forward. Those voices were trailing in behind him and he wasn't going to stop to chat with them nor give them an opportunity to catch up as he rapidly approached a thick patch of brush. Going his full speed, Flak had a flying start to his valiant leap through the wall of green, only to land himself in the racing current of the river High.

"Fu-llllbbb!" he swore as he hit the water and plunged below the surface.

His momentum hadn't carried him at all as right away the water pulled him down stream, his body twirling and rolling in the flow.

With all his strength he swept with his arm that wasn't holding the medical bag, kicked his legs, and booted toward the ground whenever he rolled upright. Ahead he spotted the water getting a bit more shallow and immediately stomped his foot down to catch a rock, the move bouncing him just high enough to get his head above the surface to catch a breath before being drawn back down.

"Can't- fuckin'- swim - in - this!" he called as his mouth fell below the water line, still trying to kick his way back up.

...

Shining his flashlight along the shore of the river, Michael cursed and turned his light to Mila, who solemnly shook her head.

"He ran into the river, maybe to flee," she said. "There's a bit of fear left behind in his scent."

Sighing, Michael motioned for Mila and the pair of warriors that accompanied him to follow as he took to the path leading back to the wreck of the Huey. "Nothing we can do for him now... He fucked off into the river and with that current; I don't know where he's going to wind up."

"Terik Burr, maybe, if the water doesn't pull him down and kill him," his mate replied, taking his hand.

"Much as I hate to think it... Poor bastard probably did drown. I wouldn't even want to tempt those waters."

"To survive a crash like he did... it's sad for him to go in such a way."

With those words, Michael's eyes widened and he released Mila's hand while stumbling to the side. All the sudden he felt dizzy, and he frowned before shaking out his head to clear it away. After some blinking and taking a deep breath, his mind refocused and he regained a solid stance.

"Whoa, that was weird."

"What happened, are you alright?" Mila asked.

Rubbing his head, Michael responded, "I'm fine... I think I just had déjà vu."

"Deeja voo?" she repeated.

"Yeah... what you said, I could swear I heard it already. In a dream or something, can't really recall right now." He emptied his lungs and drew in a deep breath. "Fuck it, I'll figure it out later. We have a crash site to scavenge and some good men to bury."

...

Leaning against a tree away from the Willher men picking through the wreck, Farok watched the scavenging process in silence. Pieces of metal in the general shape of a tool or weapon were pulled from the monster's corpse as well as actual tools the humans had with them. Axes, shovels, even seats and packs.

Parasites, the former Ra'zorlich thought.

Two of them had gone inside the beast while the four others formed a line to pass salvage down to a forming pile. After the initial bit of useful equipment made it out, the first body was passed up from inside and handed down the chain to the ground. With great care did the Willhers lay the dead man down on a bare patch of grass, ensuring his eyes were closed before moving the next body.

There was no subtly to Michael's movements when he tromped through the bush into the clearing around the crash. Something foul had come upon him judging by the frustrated look upon his face. By how he walked with only his mate and the men that had gone with him, Farok could only guess the survivor fled. Impressive considering the state he had seen him in last.

"There was a survivor, but he jumped into the river. He's gone," Mila explained to Sayn as they met with the warrior.

Suicide after that? Farok wondered, frowning as his eyes narrowed on Michael.

"Unfortunate. We could've welcomed another like your mate. Give him my condolences for me, I tire of changing tongue," Sayn replied, his mood physically showing as it fell.

The tracker gave him a respectful bow before facing Michael, speaking softly with him in Human while the Warrior leader wandered over to the bodies of the men pulled from the chopper. Much to Farok's surprise, the ranked Willher gave a bow of the head and Nekonian salute to the humans, a gesture momentarily repeated by his warriors.

When he finished speaking with Mila, Michael approached his brethren and snapped to a stiff stance before raising a flat hand to his brow. To this, Farok bowed his head and then turned his eyes to Sayn and the human weapon strapped across his back. He doubted he could get his hands on the magical weapon now, even if he were to make a formal request. Besides, whatever training he would need to wield it was not something he had patience for or intended to waste his time on anymore.

He led Michael to the crash site, he tried to help the survivor. Only now the survivor was gone and whatever bargaining tool he could've used with Michael went with him.

His hood pulled up, the golden-furred Neko slipped away from the Willhers and began his walk toward the river. With fatigue plaguing him, and the night only a few zetran away from turning to day, he had to find a place to rest. When the sun was up, he would follow the waters to Redding, seek out the human with the eagle on his sleeve, and take back his assassin.

.............

The patter of feet echoed off the walls of the underground as a lone Drow rode his lizard mount down the tunnel of the underground. Mail armor clinked underneath his linen shirt and the leather coat he wore overtop. A steel piece of plate armor protected his back and light, maneuverable steel plates protected his legs with cloth trousers underneath for padding. No weapon hung at his side, only a leather satchel with an ironweave strap.

Short hair white as surface snow topped his head as hard, red eyes focused on the path ahead of his lizard. The beast moved at a hastened jog, a pace which the Dark Elf knew it could maintain for a great deal of time before it tired. Knowing this balance allowed him to get rather far rather quickly with little toll on his precious mount. After all, a royal courier was expected to be one of the swiftest messengers in the Drow Empire.

He knew every tunnel and passage from Vholk'reem, to Faerssune, to Xukuth'Che'el, and every little farm and settlement in between. Of his two hundred-fifty years in this life, nearly two of those centuries had been spent exploring these tunnels. A fact that served his Val'sharess well.

Below his him his lizard groaned at the roar of moving water drowning out the silence of the tunnel. Knowing what lay ahead, the courier leaned forward and said, "I know, I know, only one more crossing after this then no more. We can rest in Faerssune, for now- dash!"

With a rush of vigor and a roar in response, the lizard launched forward into a full sprint. In moments the large, open section of tunnel housing a section of the underground waterway came into range of the Drow's Darkvision. The clearing, nearly as large as a city block but only as high as a two story house, was cut down the middle by a river that was as wide as four lizards were long.

The one way across, aside from the narrow foot path along the wall, was the large iron vein sitting in the middle of the rapid. One needed a lot of speed, and a finely trained mount to leap to and pounce off of it without falling into the current and getting sucked into the rest of the underground water network.