Free Maelstrom by Taylor Anderson Page A

was filled with a gray, wispy cloud from the “smokeless” powder cartridges. Then, ever so slowly, but with increasing speed, Silva got his “stately collapse.” It almost fell on top of him. The earth shuddered as the monster toppled lifelessly to the ground amid the sharp crackle of its own breaking bones. The riddled head struck less than six feet from where Dennis stood, and he was festooned with a splatter of gore and snot.
    Silva almost fell to his knees, but somehow managed to keep his feet. Angrily slamming the cutlass back in its scabbard—to hide his shaking hands—he whirled and faced a grinning Paul Stites, as the gunner’s mate rushed to him.
    “What the hell’d you do that for?” he yelled, his voice filled with indignant wrath. “Goddamn it, I was just gettin’ to the good part! What’s the matter with you?” Yanking his cutlass back out, he stomped over to the head until he stared down at its remaining, unblinking eye. The thing seemed dead, but its abdomen still heaved weakly, and bloody bubbles oozed from its nostrils. He touched the eye with the sharp tip of his blade, pushing until the orb popped and a viscous fluid welled forth. The creature didn’t stir.
    “That’s for chasin’ us all over kingdom come and scarin’ these poor cat-monkeys half to death,” he said. Then he drove the blade deeper, feeling with the point. Finally he shoved it in almost to the hilt, and the ragged breathing abruptly stopped.
    “That’s for Tony Scott,” he muttered darkly. “That’s for killin’ my friend.”
     
    “Wish we had a camera,” Stites said languidly, slowly exhaling a blue cloud of smoke.
    “Who cares about cameras; just gimme a damn bullet, will ya?” Silva pleaded. He and Stites were lounging on top of the dead monster, sharing a carefully hoarded cigarette, while Bradford—quite recovered—scampered around the beast, pacing its length and talking excitedly with the Hunter, who’d appeared in the cut soon after the shooting died away.
    “Why?”
    “Because I want one, damn it!” He sighed. “Look, shithead, I shot myself dry, see? I’m totally out of ammo ! Right now that gives me the creeps like I never had before. So just shut up and give me a bullet, before I beat you to death!”
    Stites smirked and opened his bolt, then stared into his own magazine well in horror. Frantically slapping his pockets with increased panic brought no satisfaction. “Jeez, Dennis! I’m empty too!”
    Silva was grimly quiet a moment, considering the long trek back to the refinery and the boat. Suddenly he brightened. “Hey, Mr. Bradford!” Courtney paused his examination and looked inquiringly at him. He had every reason to be well disposed toward the big gunner’s mate. After all, he’d gotten quite close to the monstrous creature and witnessed all sorts of movement before it was killed. Silva only hoped Bradford could protect him from the worst of his captain’s wrath. “You got plenty of bullets left, right?”
    Bradford sheepishly hefted the Krag. “Indeed. I’m certain I fired several times, there at the end, but somehow I still have as many rounds as I set out with. Strange.”
    “Musta had some extras an’ thumbed ’em in without thinkin’. You got plenty of stuff to think about right now, though. Why don’t you let me wag that heavy rifle back for you?”
    Bradford grinned uncertainly. “Oh, thank you very much indeed . . . but I wouldn’t want to be a bother. I can carry my own weight, you know! Still . . . the sling is bloody uncomfortable on my sore shoulder. . . .”
    Silva tossed the empty BAR to a wide-eyed Stites and leaned down to accept the Krag. “No bother a’tall!”

CHAPTER 2
    Unusually, despite the early hour, it was already raining by the time all the lines were singled up, and the special sea and anchor detail finished all topside preparations for getting underway. Matthew Reddy, captain of USS Walker , High Chief of the Amer-i-caan clan, and supreme