Death World(科幻战争)-第13部分

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and　a　meaty　hand　grabbed　him　by　the　back　of　his　jacket　and　pulled　him　back；　twisted　him　around；
slammed　him　into　the　metal　wall　of　a　hut；　and　while　he　was　still　trying　to　get　his　breath　back　from
that；　a　giant　ork　fist　pounded　into　his　stomach　and　Lorenzo　coughed　up　blood　and　felt　his　legs
giving　way。
He　managed　to　block　another　axe　thrust　with　his　las…gun—the　last　time　it　would　save　him。　The
blade　embedded　itself　in　the　gun’s　furniture；　and　came　free　with　a　cracking　and　a　splintering　and　a
last　sullen　fizz　of　energy。　Lorenzo　found　an　ork　snout　with　his　bayonet；　drawing　blood　and　making
the　creature　squeal　and　fall　back；　but　then　he　let　the　gun　go　and　it　was　just　him　and　his　Catachan
fang；　and　he　knew　that　at　best　he’d　be　able　to　kill　one　more　ork　before　they　killed　him。
He　focused　on　doing　just　that。　He　picked　his　target；　pushed　himself　away　from　the　wall　behind
him；　ducked　beneath　a　pair　of　flailing　green　arms。　He　locked　himself　into　a　deadly　embrace　with　the
luckless　ork；　denying　it　the　chance　to　swing　its　axe　or　raise　its　gun。　He　buried　his　knife　in　its
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stomach；　twisted　it；　cutting　through　the　ork’s　guts；　feeling　its　blood　spilling　out；　soaking　into　his
own　clothes；　at　the　same　time；　its　fingers　closed　around　his　neck；　cutting　off　his　oxygen；　fading　his
surroundings　to　black。　A　deadly　dance　from　which　neither　partner　would　ever　break。
Lorenzo　wasn’t　sure　at　first　if　the　pops　and　cracks　he　could　hear　as　if　from　the　end　of　a　long
tunnel　were　those　of　his　own　bones　breaking—but　the　orks　were　reeling　in　confusion　again；　and　the
grip　on　his　throat　was　loosened；　and　he　thought　he　could　see　a　lithe；　dark…haired　figure　hurling
grenades　from　the　roof　of　a　nearby　hut；　although　he　might　have　imagined　it。
He　raised　his　fang　to　make　the　most　of　his　reprieve；　thinking　he　might　claim　another　ork　life；　but
the　world　was　still　darkening　and　the　commands　from　his　brain　didn’t　seem　to　be　reaching　his
muscles…　and　now　Lorenzo　was　sliding　to　the　ground；　falling　in　slow…motion　but　still　too　fast　to　put
out　a　hand　to　save　himself。　He　was　lying　facedown；　and　his　back　was　showered　first　with　hot
shrapnel　and　then　an　ork　body　landed　on　top　of　him；　hiding　him；　and　he　just　lay　there；　clinging　to
consciousness；　his　face　sticky　with　blood　but　he　didn’t　know　whose。
A　long　time　after　that；　it　seemed；　Lorenzo　heard　the　orks　moving　away　from　him。　They　were
turning　their　attention　to　a　new　enemy；　leaving　him　for　dead；　and　he　couldn’t　have　said　for　certain
that　they　were　so　wrong。　It　was　only　after　a　long　minute　had　passed　and　he　was　still　breathing；　his
heart　still　beating　and　his　head　clearing　as　his　lungs　heaved　precious　oxygen　into　his　bloodstream；
that　he　knew　he　would　fight　on。　Only　then　that　Lorenzo　breathed　a　grateful　prayer　to　the　God…
Emperor　for　sparing　his　life；　until　he　recovered　his　wits　and　realised　he　ought　to　thank　Sly　Marbo
instead。
He　didn’t　know　why　Marbo　had　chosen　to　save　him；　above　the　others。　Maybe　he’d　just　been
lucky—in　the　right　place　at　the　right　time。　Knowing　Marbo；　it　was　possible　he’d　been　on　that　roof
all　night；　waiting　for　his　moment。　Whatever　the　reason；　Lorenzo　was　determined　to　return　the
favour；　or　to　pass　it　on。
Marbo；　he　decided；　had　the　right　idea。　Find　high　ground。
He　pulled　himself　up　onto　the　roof　of　the　nearest　hut；　finding　plenty　of　handholds　in　the　old；
pitted　metal　but　almost　falling　as　his　muscles　protested　at　being　put　to　so　much　effort　so　soon。　He’d
half…expected　to　find　Marbo　up　there；　but　he　had　moved　on；　of　course。　Lorenzo　lowered　himself
onto　his　stomach；　and　craned　his　neck　to　see　over　the　edge　of　the　building　without　being　seen　in
return。
Much　of　the　fighting　had　now　moved　out　of　the　encampment。　The　Catachans　had　drawn　their
more　numerous　foes　into　the　jungle　environment　they　knew　best；　though　with　the　acid　swamp　at
their　backs　they　had　precious　little　room　to　manoeuvre。　From　here；　Lorenzo　couldn’t　see　any　of　his
camouflaged　comrades—but　he　guessed；　by　the　positions　of　the　orks；　that　they’d　separated　along　the
perimeter　line；　making　themselves　harder　to　find。　The　orks；　in　turn；　seemed　to　be　everywhere；
shaking　trees；　firing　into　bushes；　doing　everything　they　could　to　beat　their　foes　out　of　hiding。
There　were　more　of　them；　of　course；　among　the　buildings；　searching　for　the　long…gone　Marbo；
liable　to　find　Lorenzo　instead。
His　eyes　alighted　upon　one　building　in　particular：　a　small　metal　structure；　built　with　a　little　more
care　than　most；　no　windows　cut　into　its　walls；　its　door　secured　by　thick　chains。　Ammo　store；　he
guessed。　He　strained　to　reach　his　backpack；　unfastened　it；　and　rummaged　out　the　two　demolition
charges　with　which　he’d　been　equipped。　They　weren’t　really　for　combat　use—the　Catachans
employed　them　to　clear　hard…going　areas　of　the　jungle　when　they　were　in　a　hurry　and　stealth　wasn’t
such　an　issue—but　they　were　just　what　he　needed　now。
The　first　charge　landed　with　a　plop　beside　the　chained　door；　when　no　orks　were　looking　that
way。　Lorenzo　set　the　second　to　detonate　only　two　seconds　after；　and　he　felt　his　palm　sweating　as　he
held　the　cold　sphere　in　his　hand；　counting　down。
He　let　the　second　charge　go　even　as　the　first　explosion　shook　the　buildings　around　him。　By　the
time　its　vibrations　overtook　him；　he　was　running；　but　they　made　him　mistime　his　leap　to　the　next　hut
across。　Lorenzo　pedalled　empty　air；　desperate　to　propel　himself　that　vital　centimetre　further；　and
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somehow　he　caught　the　protruding　edge　of　the　roof　as　it　passed　him；　and　almost　yanked　his　fingers
out　of　their　sockets　as　they　caught　his　falling　weight。
There　were　two　orks　below　him；　and　they　turned　their　guns　upwards。　Before　they　could　squeeze
their　triggers；　they　were　knocked　off　their　feet—and　Lorenzo　felt　it　simultaneously：　a　furious
Shockwave　of　heat　and　sound；　like　a　hurricane　raging　around　him；　in　which　it　was　all　he　could　do　to
grit　his　teeth　and　maintain　his　hold　on　the　parapet　while　his　back　was　peppered　with　debris。
The　hurricane　lessened；　and　he　strained　and　pulled　himself　up；　attaining　his　new　perch　at　last。　He
rolled　onto　his　back；　breathless；　but　raised　himself　on　his　elbows　because　he　couldn’t　resist　the
chance　to　inspect　his　handiwork。
It　looked　like　the　sky　was　on　fire。　The　building　he　had　just　leapt　from　had　collapsed；　along　with
several　others；　and　Lorenzo　could　see　the　burning；　smoking　hole　where　the　ammo　store　had　been。
Evidently；　he’d　guessed　right　about　its　contents。　His　first　charge　had　blown　off　the　door；　the　second
must　have　bounced　neatly　through　the　resulting　aperture。　Its　detonation　had　sparked　a　chain
reaction；　just　as　he　had　planned。　The　sturdy　walls　had　absorbed　much　of　it　before　they　had　given；
else　he　would　have　been　dead。　To　his　satisfaction；　several　orks—presumably　reacting　to　the　first
explosion；　too　late　to　stop　the　second—had　perished；　their　burnt　corpses　twitching　and　steaming　in
the　midst　of　the　devastation。
Dozens　more　orks　were　turning　from　the　jungle；　streaming　back　into　the　camp；　looking　for　the
enemy　that　had　penetrated　their　home。　Lorenzo　couldn’t　have　hoped　for　a　bigger　distraction—and　it
had　certainly　been　well　timed　for　at　least　one　Jungle　Fighter。　He　saw　a　blur　of　activity；　heard　the
howls　of　stricken　orks；　and　then　Muldoon　came　streaking　out　of　the　foliage；　his　lasgun　firing。　From
this　distance；　Lorenzo　couldn’t　see　what　had　happened；　but　he　could　guess。　One　of　Muldoon’s
favourite　tricks：　he　would　gather　up　a　cluster　of　deadly　creepers；　secrete　himself　in　a　tree　and；　when
the　enemy　got　too　close；　let　the　creepers　go。　Lorenzo　could　see　orks　dancing　and　twisting　as　they
fought　to　disentangle　themselves；　as　the　creepers　stung　them　and　burst　their　poisonous　pustules　in
their　grotesque　faces。
But　he　was　exposed　now；　left　with　nowhere　to　run　but　out　into　the　open　where　his　painted　skin
couldn’t　camouflage　him。　Like　Lorenzo　before　him；　he　raced　for　the　shelter　of　the　ork　huts；
miraculously　untouched　by　a　hail　of　bullets—but　one　great　brute　of　an　ork　had　avoided　his　trap；　and
it　came　charging　after　him；　and　cannoned　into　him　from　behind。
Lorenzo　was　on　his　way　before　Muldoon　hit　the　ground。　He　leapt　onto　the　sloping　roof　of　the
next　hut；　almost　lost　his　footing　on　its　slick　surface；　righted　himself　and　jumped　again。　His　fingers
hovered　over　his　bandolier；　over　the　pockets　that　held　his　frag　grenades—but　unless　more　orks
moved　in；　unless　they　formed　a　living　shield　between　Lorenzo　and　Muldoon　as　they　had　between
him　and　Marbo；　a　grenade　could　do　more　harm　than　good。　His　lasgun　was　gone。　That　left　him　with
his　knife。
He　launched　himself　from　the　last　roof；　at　the　ork’s　broad　back；　and　he　let　out　a　cry—enough　for
it　to　hear　him　coming　and　half…turn　its　head；　not　soon　enough　for　it　to　bring　around　its　gun　and　pick
him　off　in　midair。　Enough　for　it　to　take　its　eyes　off　Muldoon　for　a　moment。　The　ork　jerked
backwards；　easing　its　weight　off　its　fallen　prey；　as　Lorenzo’s　fang　sliced　down　between　its　shoulder
blades—and　in　that　same　moment；　Muldoon　drove　his　night　reaper　up　into　the　ork’s　throat。
The　ork　took　a　long；　long　second　to　die—but　at　last　it　toppled　like　a　felled　tree；　and　Lorenzo
fancied　he　could　feel　the　ground　shaking　with　the　impact　of　its　heavy　corpse。　Or　with　something
else…
Something　was　coming。　Something　big。　Lorenzo　didn’t　have　to　look；　didn’t　have　to　waste　the
half…second　it　would　take　him；　to　know　it　was　bad；　that　they　had　to　take　cover。　But　Muldoon　was
slowed；　having　trouble　standing；　and　Lorenzo　saw　that　his　head　was　cut；　his　eyes　glazed　over。
Concussion。
He　reached　out　a　hand；　and　Muldoon　laughed　giddily　as　he　took　it；　as　Lorenzo　hauled　him　to　his
feet。　“Looks　like…　like　I　owe　you　my　life；”　he　giggled。　Then；　suddenly　earnest；　he　gripped　Lorenzo
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by　the　arms　and　stared　into　his　eyes　as　if　he　had　the　most　important　information　in　the　Imperium　to
impart。　“Hey；　Lorenzo；　you　noticed？　There　isn’t…　isn’t　half　as　many　of　the　greenskins　as　Greiss
said　there’d　be。　Thirty…　thirty　to　one；　my　eye！　More　like　ten　to　one。　And　we　can　take　down　ten　orks
apiece；　right？　Hell；　I　must’ve　killed　five　already。”
That　noise　was　getting　closer…　The　rumbling　of　an　engine。　Lorenzo　looked　now；　and　he　saw
it—saw　its　piercing　light　first；　through　the　drifting　smoke　of　the　battlefield；　and　then　the　shape　of　the
behemoth　behind　it。
It　was　black；　daubed　with　crude　paintings　of　human　skulls　and　bones—ramshackle　in
appearance；　but　bristling　with　armour　plating　and　weapons。　Lorenzo　had　seen　vehicles　like　this
before。　It　was　the　ork　equivalent　of　a　tank—a　battlewagon；　they　called　it—manned　by　a　greenskin
mob。　They　howled　and　strained　forward　on　the　back　of　this　unnatural　beast　as　they　saw　their　two
exposed　foes。　The　pilot　trained　the　vehicle’s　searchlight　upon　the　Catachans；　and　wrestled　its　great
wheels　around。
Muldoon’s　mood　had　changed　again；　and　suddenly　he　looked　distant　and　extremely　pale；　apart
from　the　livid　red　gash　across　his　head。　“Trouble　is；”　he　said　to　himself　in　a　hollow　voice；　“they　got
Brains。　I　saw　him　go　down。　So；　we　have　to　take　out　a　few　more　orks　each　to　make　up　his　share。”
Lorenzo　couldn’t　allow　himself　to　react　to　this　news。　There　would　be　time　for　mourning　the
dead　later；　when　the　act　of　so　doing　wouldn’t　add　to　their　numbers。
The　battlewagon　had　two　guns；　like　eyes　on　stalks　protruding　before　it。　The　one　on　the　right
flared；　and　Lorenzo　pushed　Muldoon　aside　as　a　shell　whistled　by　and　thumped　into　the　dirt；　and
filled　the　world　with　light　and　sound　again。　His　comrade　sagged　in　his　arms　like　a　dead　weight；　and
Lorenzo　slapped　him　across　the　face；　hoping　to　shock　him　back　to　alertness。　More　gunfire—the
right…hand　gun　again—but　the　searchlight　had　lost　its　targets　and　the　smoke　from　the　first　impact
was　swirling　around　them　and　ork　weapons；　mostly　lashed　together　from　spare　parts；　were
notoriously　unreliable　anyway。　Still；　the　impact　almost　knocked　Lorenzo　off　his　feet。
Muldoon　blinked　as　blood　seeped　into　his　eye；　and　coughed　as　smoke　crept　into　his　throat。
Lorenzo　tried　to　drag　him　toward　the　huts；　but　there　came　another　explosion　from　that　direction　and
they　were　thrown　back；　back　into　the　open；　and　the　searchlight　had　rediscovered　them　and　there
were　more　orks　coming；　silhouettes　through　the　haze；　from　the　encampment；　from　the　jungle。
Muldoon　was　pressing　his　lasgun　into　Lorenzo’s　hands；　saying；　“Here—you　can　make　better　use
of　this　than　I　can。”
“What…　what　are　you—？”
He　wouldn’t　have　had　to　finish　the　question；　even　had　the　smoke　not　robbed　him　of　speech。　He
could　see　the　answer。　Muldoon　was　rummaging　in　his　bandolier；　finding　a　demolition　charge　with
each　hand—and　although　Lorenzo’s　first　instinct　was　to　stop　him；　to　save　him；　he　held　himself　back
because　his　comrade　was　grinning　at　him　now。　“You　saved　my　life。　That　makes　it　my　turn。　And
besides；　I　count　nine　greenskins　on　that　tank。　Add　them　to　the　other　five；　and　that’s　my　share　and　a
few　for　Brains　to　boot。”　Looking　into　his　comrade’s　ashen　face；　Lorenzo　saw　the　pain　he　was
holding　at　arm’s　length；　the　darkness　lurking　at　the　edges　of　his　eyes；　and　he　knew　then　as　Muldoon
surely　did　that　this　was　how　it　had　to　be。
Then　he　was　gone；　tearing　himself　from　Lorenzo’s　grip　before　he　could　think　of　a　word　to　say。
He　was　racing　into　the　light—and　before　the　orks　knew　what　was　happening；　he　was　too　close　for
them　to　train　their　gun　upon　him；　but　not　too　close　for　them　to　bring　their　other　weapon—the　one　on
the　left—to　bear…
It　was　a　flamethrower。　That　explained　what　this　single　wagon　was　doing　out　here；　thought
Lorenzo；　why　the　orks　had　assembled　it　in　the　depths　of　a　jungle　that　would　only　impede　it：　they’d
been　using　it　for　clearance　operations。　A　fierce　jet　of　flame　licked　around　Muldoon　now；　and
although　he　seemed　to　avoid　the　worst　of　it；　and　though　Lorenzo’s　vision　was　obscured　by　smoke
and　by　the　battlewagon’s　glaring　light；　he　was　certain　that　Muldoon　had　been　winged；　that　he’d　been
burnt；　and　yet　like　the　relentless　orks　themselves　he　kept　going。
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He　vaulted　over　the　guns　onto　the　front　of　the　tank；　planting　his　feet　and　his　fists　into　the　faces
of　the　orks　at　the　triggers。　Those　behind　saw　the　threat　to　them　and；　snarling；　drew　their　own　guns；
and　one　of　them　leapt　at　him　but　he　turned　its　momentum　and　its　weight　against　it；　and　threw　it　over
his　shoulder　and　off　the　moving　vehicle。　The　others　fired；　and　Muldoon’s　body　twitched　and　jerked
as　their　bullets　ripped　into　him；　and　Lorenzo　feared　that　he　too　would　fall　and　die　in　a　splatter　of
mud　and　blood；　but　he　was　climbing—climbing　onto　the　back　of　the　battlewagon　as　if　animated　by
willpower　alone；　and　he　fell　into　the　midst　of　the　ork　mob　and　they　leapt　upon　him　and　tore　him
apart；　but　by　then　his　final　goal　had　been　achieved。
The　charges　blew　the　battlewagon　apart　from　the　inside；　and　eight　orks　died　screaming。
By　that　time；　Lorenzo　had　replaced　the　depleted　pack　in　the　lasgun　his　comrade　had　given　him；
and　he　was　firing　at　the　shapes　that　loomed　about　him；　making　sure　he　kept　moving；　an　impossible
target　amid　the　sensory　chaos。　He　felt　a　grim　sense　of　triumph　as　he　claimed　his　tenth　kill　of　the
night；　and　he　thought　of　Sharkbait　Muldoon　and　knew　he　would　have　been　proud。
But　he　also　knew　he　was　surrounded；　and　the　orks　were　homing　in　on　him　now；　closing　him
down。　They　came　at　Lorenzo　from　all　sides；　moving　in　to　close　combat　as　usual；　trusting　in　their
greater　strength　and　numbers　against　his　greater　dexterity。　This　time；　he　knew；　he　had　no　right　to
expect　a　reprieve；　no　Marbo　to　save　him。　He　had　used　up　all　his　luck。　So　he　dropped　his　gun　and
hurled　the　last　of　his　grenades；　and　he　thought　about　how　bravely　Muldoon　had　died—and　Donovits
too；　he　didn’t　doubt—and　he　drew　his　Catachan　fang。
And　finally；　Lorenzo　ran　to　greet　his　enemies；　with　his　trusty　knife　in　his　hand　and　a　defiant　roar
in　his　throat。
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CHAPTER　TWELVE
The　fighting　seemed　to　have　gone　on　forever。
Lorenzo　remembered　the　first　tint　of　sunlight　touching　the　sky；　remembered　how　amazed　he’d
been　that　only　one　night　had　passed　because　it　seemed　so　long　since　he’d　thought　of　anything　but
blood　and　smoke　and　fire。　Yet　when　he　looked　back　on　that　time；　much　of　it　was　no　more　than　a
blur　of　sneering　ork　faces　and　knife　thrusts　and　death。　Lots　of　death。　He　thought　that；　at　one　point；
he’d　stood　back　to　back　with　Sergeant　Greiss；　but　he　couldn’t　be　sure。　Once　they’d　moved　into
hand…to…hand　combat；　he’d　had　no　choice　but　to　surrender　himself　to　his　instincts。　Otherwise　he’d
have　thought　about　the　tiredness　in　his　muscles　and　the　aches　from　his　bruises　and　the　stilloverwhelming
odds　against　him；　and　he　would　have　lain　down　and　died。　Or；　worse　still；　he’d　have
thought　about　dying。
He　could　have　died；　and　he’d　probably　have　known　nothing　about　it。　Just　wound　down　like　a
spring；　from　a　wound　he　hadn’t　yet　felt；　and　that　wouldn’t　have　been　so　bad；　would　it？
Lorenzo　was　fighting　in　his　sleep；　muscle　memory　twitching　his　arms　in　response　to　an
imaginary　parade　of　blood…crazed　enemies。　Somewhere　in　the　back　of　his　mind；　he　thought　he　must
have　wondered　if　he　would　ever　wake　up；　or　if　he　would　fight　this　nightmare　struggle　forever。
Yes；　it　had　been　a　glorious　battle。
And　it　was　made　all　the　more　so　by　the　fact　that；　in　the　end；　Lorenzo　felt　sunlight　touching　his
face；　and　he　opened　his　eyes　and　knew　that　he　had　lived。
It　took　him　a　moment　to　work　out　where　he　was。　The　light　was　bright；　but　his　surroundings　seemed
dim。　He　realised　that　the　light　was　streaming　through　a　small　window；　to　be　swallowed　by　the　dust
and　the　dirt　in　here。
An　ork　hut。　Lorenzo　was　lying　on　a　makeshift　bunk；　really　no　more　than　a　pile　of　junk　draped
with　rags；　and　he　was　swaddled　in　stinking　furs。　He　was　hot；　burning　up。　It　crossed　his　mind　only
briefly　that　the　orks　themselves　might　have　brought　him　here；　as　a　hostage。　That　wasn’t　their　style。
The　fact　that　he　was　here　meant　his　small　squad　had　achieved　the　impossible。　They　had　won。　But　at
what　price？
Lorenzo　felt　a　stiffness　in　his　side；　and　sent　a　tentative　hand　under　his　bulky　coverings　to
investigate。　His　questing　fingers　found　a　hard　knot　of　synth…skin；　between　the　ribs　in　his　right　side；
and　he　winced　at　the　sudden　white　hot　memory　of　an　axe　blade　scything　through　his　flesh。　His
memories　were　disordered；　still　vague；　but　that　pain；　he　felt　sure；　was　among　the　most　recent　of
them。　He　sighed　regretfully。　He　would　have　liked　to　be　found　standing；　at　the　end。
“Hey；　Lorenzo？　You　moving　under　all　that　lot？”
The　familiar　voice　drew　Lorenzo’s　gaze　to　his　left；　to　the　next　bunk；　where　lay　Woods。　He　must
have　been　injured　too；　though　Lorenzo　wouldn’t　have　known　it　from　the　cocky　grin　on　his　face。
“Bout　time　too；”　said　Woods。　“Been　lying　here　awake　on　my　own　the　past　couple　of　hours；　while
you’ve　been　snoring　away。　What’s　the　point　in　winning　the　biggest　damn　scrap　this　squad’s　ever
seen　if　you　can’t　jaw　about　it　with　your　buddies　afterwards；　huh？”
“We…　did　win；　then？”
Woods　raised　an　eyebrow。　“I’ll　put　that　down　to　your　being　flak　happy。　Of　course　we　won；
Lorenzo！”
“What　I　mean　is…　I　heard　about　Brains。”
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Woods　pouted。　“Yeah。　We　lost　Brains。　And　they’re　starting　to　give　up　on　Sharkbait；　too。　Been
looking　for　him　all　morning。”
Lorenzo’s　mind’s　eye　flashed　up　a　picture　of　Muldoon　racing　into　the　light