Free Thirst No. 3 by Christopher Pike

shot!
    However, his close proximity makes me rethink my strategy. From the start I’ve only been interested in killing him and surviving. Unfortunately, his death will tell me nothing about who sent him. But if I could disarm him, take him alive, question him, I might learn a great deal. I need information; I especially need to know who he’s working for.
    My knives. I love knives, and I applaud my wisdom in removing three sharp ones from my vault and tucking them in my belt. If my foe truly does not know where I am and he steps from behind the tree where he’s standing, then I’ll have a clear shot at him. I can easily take his head off with my rifle. But to use my knives, to have full use of my arms, I’ll have to stand.
    He’s so damn close he’ll probably hear me.
    The decision weighs on me. Should I just kill him and survive the night, or should I risk dying but maybe find out how to survive the next year? It’s really a question of how quietly I can move and how sensitive his ears are.
    I decide to risk it. Slowly standing, I jam my rifle against a nearby branch. I’ll reach for it the instant I release the knives. Of course, if the knives don’t stop him, the rifle will do me no good. There’s no question his reflexes are as good as mine. He’ll shoot me before I can reach for the gun.
    I hold a knife in either palm. Right-handed, left-handed—both hands work the same for me. My goal is to cut the nerves between his shoulders and his arms. If I’m successful, he’ll lose control of his hands and be helpless. The armor-piercing bullets in my rifle are too powerful for such delicate surgery. A hit with one round would blow off his arm. The knives it must be.
    Quietly, I suck in a breath and raise my arms over my head.
    I stand still as a statue.
    A minute later he tries slipping between two trees.
    I let the knives fly. He hears me move, there’s no question, and I’m pretty sure he hears the knives approaching. But he hesitates a fraction of a second, and that’s all it takes. The knives catch him on the front side of both shoulders. The blades are long, eight inches each, and I’ve thrown them with such force that they sink all the way through his body and poke out his back.
    But he’s a fighter, this guy, I have to admire that. Even with the knives cutting off his nerves, he tries to twist his body so his rifle’spointed at me. He almost succeeds, but before he can fire, I have my rifle in hand and blow out his left knee. The bullet almost amputates his leg. The combination of wounds, to his upper and lower body, sucks the life out of him, and he drops his rifle and falls to the ground. Still, he reaches for a weapon in his belt.
    “Stop!” I shout from the tree. “Move and I’ll take off your head!”
    He freezes. Quickly I climb down, but I’m not in such a hurry that I relax my aim. He’s clearly an experienced killer; he’s still dangerous. Once on the ground, I circle cautiously, my rifle held ready, keeping a distance of ten yards.
    He’s tall, extremely well muscled, with bronze skin and dark hair cut close to the scalp. His thick black eyebrows and eyelashes remind me of someone from another time and place. He’s dressed completely in black. He sits on the ground with a hand pressed over his wounded leg. He’ll have to possess my rejuvenating powers not to lose his leg.
    His expression’s difficult to read. He breathes heavily; he must be in terrible pain. Never mind his leg, the knives piercing the nerve bundles in his shoulders must be agonizing. Yet he doesn’t moan or whimper. He shows almost no emotion. He’s spent half the night trying to kill me, but to my surprise I feel a wave of sympathy for him. I admire a worthy adversary, and he’s one of the finest I’ve come up against.
    “Who are you?” I ask.
    He doesn’t answer. I notice an unusual watch on his left wrist. At first I assumed he was trying to stop the flow of blood with his left hand, but now I realize