Alan Dean Foster Read Online Free Page B
Author: Alien Nation
concerned.
"Yeah! We having fun yet?"
Sykes didn't reply to that one. After checking his pistol, Tuggle rose and took careful aim at the store. The aliens were taking their time reloading, but it was hard to pick them out inside among the shelves and counters. His individual blasts in their direction drew heavy return fire. For
20
some reason the shotguns' echoes lingered longer in the night air than they had earlier.
Glass shattered above his head as the car windows were blown out. That didn't bother him. What widened his eyes was a shuddering in the body of the vehicle he sat crouched behind. Metal ripped and smoked off to his right. That last shot had gone right through the whole car. Through the car. As he stared dumbfoundedly at the ragged hole, a second blast tore through the thick sheet metal barely inches from his shoulder.
Panicked, he scuttled toward the front of the car, blasts and exit holes following him in neat, orderly succession, until only the fender remained.
Nowhere left to go except to the next car. Not too far away up the street.
Ten feet. A lousy ten feet. No time left to think, either. He rose and ran.
Two steps from the second car the next blast hit him in the side, knocking him to his right, his arms flailing wildly at the air like those of a rag doll dropped from a speeding car. A second blast caught him in the chest as he was spun around by the first, but it didn't hurt him. He couldn't be hurt any further. The first shot had cut through his spine. He was dead before he struck the asphalt.
Sykes saw it happen and could only stare. Tuggle had been his partner for nine years. Tuggle had been his friend for nine years. And Tug was down hard in the street.
The big alien loosed one, two, three additional shots in the direction of the motionless detective. One blast caught the prone body and tumbled it over like a loose stone. Then he grabbed at his buddy and threw him toward the rear of the market. As he did so the shotgun fell from Raincoat's fingers. Neither paused to recover the dropped weapon as they searched wildly for the store's rear exit.
Sykes could have charged in then, might have had a good shot at them.
Instead he was racing across the street. He slowed as he approached Bill Tuggle's body. There was no need to check for a pulse, no need to tum it over for closer inspection. The three powerful blasts had reduced the body of his partner to something unrecognizable.
One minute he'd been nearby, exchanging sotw gags, 21
alive and warm and wise-cracking across the pavement. Now he was gone. It wasn't always necessary to check for the heartbeat of a gunshot victim.
Sykes had been on the street a long time. He didn't check. Nobody had ever looked deader than Bill Tuggle looked right then.
"Aw shit, Tug, Jesus! Goddamnit!"
Sometimes all you can do is stare and curse. Not all cops pray in the conventional sense, but most do something similar. Sykes's lips didn't move, but anyone could see what he was feeling in his eyes. Words and images rushed through his dazed brain, all jumbled up together like one of Edie's stews, and his lousy mind wasn't equal to the task of sorting them out. He couldn't make sense of any of it.
Then his expression changed, his gaze came alive with something else. It spilled over into his entire being and took possession of him. By rights he ought to have stayed where he was. Sirens were wailing against the night.
Their backup on its way, too late, too far away. By rights he had no business leaving the scene to pursue, one against two. Crazy, insane, madness. Why not sweep him up in it also? What did anything matter, with Tug a limp pile of meat in the middle of a Slagtown street?
He took off toward the store, eyes wild, rage giving wings to his feet.
The store was deserted, the proprietor's wife having fled. He nearly fell twice, slipping and sliding on broken glass, heedless of sharp-edged shelving and the possibility of catching a surprise shell. The
"Yeah! We having fun yet?"
Sykes didn't reply to that one. After checking his pistol, Tuggle rose and took careful aim at the store. The aliens were taking their time reloading, but it was hard to pick them out inside among the shelves and counters. His individual blasts in their direction drew heavy return fire. For
20
some reason the shotguns' echoes lingered longer in the night air than they had earlier.
Glass shattered above his head as the car windows were blown out. That didn't bother him. What widened his eyes was a shuddering in the body of the vehicle he sat crouched behind. Metal ripped and smoked off to his right. That last shot had gone right through the whole car. Through the car. As he stared dumbfoundedly at the ragged hole, a second blast tore through the thick sheet metal barely inches from his shoulder.
Panicked, he scuttled toward the front of the car, blasts and exit holes following him in neat, orderly succession, until only the fender remained.
Nowhere left to go except to the next car. Not too far away up the street.
Ten feet. A lousy ten feet. No time left to think, either. He rose and ran.
Two steps from the second car the next blast hit him in the side, knocking him to his right, his arms flailing wildly at the air like those of a rag doll dropped from a speeding car. A second blast caught him in the chest as he was spun around by the first, but it didn't hurt him. He couldn't be hurt any further. The first shot had cut through his spine. He was dead before he struck the asphalt.
Sykes saw it happen and could only stare. Tuggle had been his partner for nine years. Tuggle had been his friend for nine years. And Tug was down hard in the street.
The big alien loosed one, two, three additional shots in the direction of the motionless detective. One blast caught the prone body and tumbled it over like a loose stone. Then he grabbed at his buddy and threw him toward the rear of the market. As he did so the shotgun fell from Raincoat's fingers. Neither paused to recover the dropped weapon as they searched wildly for the store's rear exit.
Sykes could have charged in then, might have had a good shot at them.
Instead he was racing across the street. He slowed as he approached Bill Tuggle's body. There was no need to check for a pulse, no need to tum it over for closer inspection. The three powerful blasts had reduced the body of his partner to something unrecognizable.
One minute he'd been nearby, exchanging sotw gags, 21
alive and warm and wise-cracking across the pavement. Now he was gone. It wasn't always necessary to check for the heartbeat of a gunshot victim.
Sykes had been on the street a long time. He didn't check. Nobody had ever looked deader than Bill Tuggle looked right then.
"Aw shit, Tug, Jesus! Goddamnit!"
Sometimes all you can do is stare and curse. Not all cops pray in the conventional sense, but most do something similar. Sykes's lips didn't move, but anyone could see what he was feeling in his eyes. Words and images rushed through his dazed brain, all jumbled up together like one of Edie's stews, and his lousy mind wasn't equal to the task of sorting them out. He couldn't make sense of any of it.
Then his expression changed, his gaze came alive with something else. It spilled over into his entire being and took possession of him. By rights he ought to have stayed where he was. Sirens were wailing against the night.
Their backup on its way, too late, too far away. By rights he had no business leaving the scene to pursue, one against two. Crazy, insane, madness. Why not sweep him up in it also? What did anything matter, with Tug a limp pile of meat in the middle of a Slagtown street?
He took off toward the store, eyes wild, rage giving wings to his feet.
The store was deserted, the proprietor's wife having fled. He nearly fell twice, slipping and sliding on broken glass, heedless of sharp-edged shelving and the possibility of catching a surprise shell. The
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