Necropolis. James Axler
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Название: Necropolis
Автор: James Axler
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9781474000062
isbn:
Those fingers clutching at his throat were as strong as iron, and he struck the ground behind the pair of gelatinous assailants. Thurpa blinked, struggling to bring his thoughts back into line, to get his limbs to respond to commands.
The two leapers continued on their path, having forgotten the cobra man after they’d unceremoniously dumped him on the ground. He twisted himself, rolling from his back to where he could get his hands and knees beneath him. Even as he did so, a hammer blow struck him between the shoulder blades, and his face was mashed into the ground, dirt digging into his nostrils. He turned his head, exhaling and clearing his airways, but another rubbery paw pressed down on his cheek and neck.
Out of the corner of his eye, Thurpa could see it was one of the horrors. It had fissures through its flesh and cracks on the surface of its skin. It looked vaguely male, but inside bones hung like pieces of fruit in dessert gelatin. His nostrils were assailed with the sickening, ugly stench of copper and salt, a cloying reek of decaying and drying blood.
The creature’s face lowered nearer to Thurpa’s, and it seemed to sniff.
“No,” came the order from another. “She says...no.”
Thurpa felt a moment of relief, but even so, the slimy, clammy grip on his neck and face was steely, rigid, unforgiving.
“Lucky,” Thurpa’s captor growled. “Lucky you.”
Thurpa wanted to say something, but he knew better. These creatures had some intellect, but they were following the orders of another. Someone who wanted living captives.
If the shimmering monstrosity hadn’t been resting its weight on his shoulders, neck and head, he would have been able to move, to shift the creature’s weight atop him, but the thing was either too well balanced on him or it had somehow laid down roots to make any motion on the Nagah’s part impossible. Seeing glimmering pseudopods digging into the dirt before his eyes confirmed his second suspicion, and he realized that he was a prisoner, pinioned and helpless.
He watched as translucent legs raced past, heading into the forest after Brigid Baptiste, Nathan Longa and Lyta.
Thurpa’s stomach churned with regret that he couldn’t protect the young woman.
* * *
GRANT HEARD THE RATTLE of gunfire and grimaced. He was separated from his friends and allies by the rift in the earth. Kane was gone, down through the pit, and while he was concerned for his friend, he knew his partner was wearing his shadow suit and had the devil’s luck when it came to surviving bad situations and the same devil’s cunning when that luck was not enough.
Right now, Grant knew that Brigid and the others were in combat. With what, he couldn’t tell, but everything he observed told him that this was not the work of a simple militia, even one with as much manpower and firepower as the Panthers of Mashona. This was more akin to the work of the Annunaki or the Tuatha de Danaan, ancient technology, and perhaps a subterranean city. He’d encountered many such hidden societies. One was lodged within a bubble in the basalt that separated the surface of the earth from its molten, fiery interior, a true lost world of dinosaurs, cast-off pan-terrestrial humanoids and ancient horrors.
Whether in the depths of space or at the center of the world, there were millions of secrets still strewn about the planet in multiple forms, and most of what they had encountered was deadly and dark.
Grant looked up and down the rift between him and his friends, and he saw that there was a tree, tottering with its gnarled roots showing out over the drop-off. The trunk of the tree was thick enough for him to walk on and long enough to use as a bridge. Running in either direction, looking for a better crossing, would eat up valuable time while his allies fought against the unseen force.
He rushed to the tree and hurled himself at the trunk with all his might. The shadow suit helped protect his shoulder from potential dislocation by the amount of force he’d thrown at it. Dirt broke and cracked, and he listened to the snap of roots.
One blow and he’d loosened an already half-uprooted tree. He immediately wrapped his arms around the trunk and pulled back. The tree rocked toward him, more cracks, more snaps echoing the distant gunfire, reminding him of the countdown he fought against. Grant surged with all his muscle, weight and leverage, and he felt the tree begin to loosen.
Pushing the tree down straight across the chasm wouldn’t do much. All it would do was rip out the tree by its roots, and perhaps send his only bridge toppling into the depths of the rift. Toppling the tree “inland” would take the ungraceful roots and make them into a grapnel, then leave the upper branches and trunk to rest on his side of the improvised bridge.
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