Hunter's Run by George R. R. Martin Read Free Book Online Page B

distance. The strange,
boxy thing hung in the sky, rotating slowly. Looking, Ramon thought. Looking
for him.
     
    Sick dread squeezed his chest.
His camp. The thing was clearly searching for something, and Ramon hadn’t done
anything to conceal the white dome of the bubble-tent or the van beside it.
There had been no reason to. The thing might not see him down here in the underbrush,
but it would see his camp. He had to get there - get back to the van and
into the air - before the thing from the mountain discovered it. His mind was
already racing ahead - would his van outpace the flying white box? Just let him
get it in the air. He could fly it low, make it hard to spot or attack. He was
a good pilot. He could dodge between treetops from here to Fiddler’s Jump if he
had to…
     
    But he had to get there first.
     
    He fled, raw panic pushing away
the last shreds of caution. The demonic white box was lost from sight as he
reached the edge of the scree and dove into the underbrush. The bushes and low
scrub that had seemed thin and easily navigable when he’d been walking were now
an obstacle course. Branches grabbed at him, raking his face and ripping his
clothes. He had the feeling that the flying thing from the mountain was right
on top of him, at his back; ready to strike. His breath burned as he sprinted,
legs churning, back toward the van.
     
    ‘I didn’t see anything,’ he
gasped. ‘Please. I wasn’t doing anything! I don’t know anything. Please. I
dreamed it!’
     
    When halfway back to the van he
paused, leaning against a tree to catch his breath, the sky was empty. No
ghostly box hung in the air, searching for him. He was surprised to find that
his pistol was already in his hand. He didn’t recall drawing it. Still, now
that he did think of it, the weight and solidity of it were reassuring. He wasn’t
defenseless. Whatever that fucking thing was, he could shoot it. He spat, anger
taking the place of fear. Maybe he didn’t know what he was facing, but it didn’t
know him either. He was Ramon Espejo! He’d tear the alien a new asshole
if it messed with him.
     
    Buoyed by his bravado and rage,
Ramon started again for the van, one eye to the skies. He had cleared more
ground than he thought; the van was only a few more minutes away. Just let him
get it in the air! He wasn’t going to stop to video anything, not with that
thing out there sniffing for him. But he’d bring back a force from Diegotown -
the governor’s private guard maybe. The police. The army. Whatever was in the
hill, he’d drag it out into the light and crack its shell. He wasn’t afraid of
it or anyone. He wasn’t afraid of God. His litany of denial - Please!
I didn’t see anything! - was already forgotten.
     
    He reached the meadow that
contained his camp just as the alien reappeared overhead. He hesitated, torn
between dashing for the van and diving back into the brush.
     
    It was close enough that Ramon
could size it now; it was smaller than he’d thought - perhaps half the size of
his van. It was ropey; long white strands like the dripping of a candle making
up its walls. Or its face. As it swooped nearer, Ramon felt a knot in his
throat. It was too close. He would never be able to reach the van before it
came between them.
     
    Perhaps it’s friendly, Ramon
thought. Madre de Dios, it had better be friendly!
     
    The van exploded. A geyser of
fire and smoke shot up out of the meadow with a waterfall roar, and tenfin
birds rose screaming all along the mountain flank. The shockwave buffeted Ramon,
splattering him with dirt and pebbles and shredded vegetation. He staggered,
fighting to maintain his balance. Pieces of fused metal thumped down around
him, burning holes in the moss of the meadow floor. It was shooting at him!
Through the plume of smoke, Ramon saw the thing turn, flying fifteen feet above
the ground, swooping toward him again. The bubbletent went up in a ball of
expanding gas, pieces of torn plastic tumbling and