Death World(科幻战争)-第42章

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run　out　at　any　moment。　Then；　there　it　was　again：　that　indefinable　feeling；　that　tug　in　a　certain
direction。　Greiss　indicated　a　tunnel　mouth　ahead　of　them；　but　Lorenzo　balked　at　a　direct　approach；
and　picked　out　a　circuitous　path　towards　their　goal　instead。　His　caution　was　rewarded　as　a　lava
stream　bubbled　and　spat　its　contents　straight　up　like　a　geyser。
The　Jungle　Fighters　hugged　the　wall；　keeping　just　out　of　range　of　burning　droplets；　until　they
reached　the　tunnel　and　stumbled　gratefully　into　its　stale　but　cooler　embrace。　After　that；　their
progress　was　a　little　easier；　because　there　were　no　lava　streams　up　here　and　because　they　could　lean
on　the　walls　for　support。　To　some　extent；　anyway。　A　particularly　violent　shudder　pinballed　the　trio
from　one　side　of　the　passageway　to　the　other　and　back；　and　made　Greiss　curse　and　demand　to　know
why　Lorenzo　hadn’t　felt　that　one　coming。
Darkness　enveloped　them；　and　Lorenzo　snapped　on　his　helmet　light；　which　luckily　still　worked。
They　passed　several　junctions；　with　Greiss　bellowing　directions　at　each　one—and　they　found　their
path　strewn　with　crushed　ork　bodies；　and　had　to　squeeze　their　way　around　more　than　one　partial
cave…in。
It　was　Braxton　who　first　voiced　the　feeling　that　they　were　being　followed；　though　when　Lorenzo
shone　his　light　behind　them　they　could　see　nothing。　Greiss　urged　them　on；　and　eventually　he
directed　them　into　an　upward…leading　passageway　that　was　smoother　and　straighter　than　the　others；
obviously　worked；　like　the　one　they　had　followed　down　from　the　clearing。
The　first　set　of　wooden　struts　they　came　across　had　slipped　and　buckled　but；　miraculously；　held；
they　climbed　past　them　gingerly。　The　second　had　broken　into　splinters；　but　fortunately　the　roof　was
staying　up　by　itself。
It　was　just　past　the　third　that　their　luck　ran　out。
Lorenzo　heard　the　orks　ahead　of　them　before　he　saw　them。　There　were　a　half…dozen　of　them；
jabbering　in　panic　as　they　tried　to　dig　through　a　pile　of　rubble　that　had　completely　blocked　the
tunnel。　They　were　succeeding　mostly　in　getting　in　each　other’s　way：　as　the　Jungle　Fighters　watched；
one　ork　accidentally　embedded　its　pickaxe　in　the　skull　of　another。
They　were　sitting　ducks　for　a　volley　of　las…fire；　the　narrow　confines　ensuring　that　even　through
the　quake　most　of　the　Jungle　Fighters’　shots　found　a　target。　The　orks；　in　turn；　didn’t　seem　to　be
106
armed—and；　taken　by　surprise；　they　jostled　with　each　other　in　their　haste　to　close　with　their
attackers；　more　than　one　of　them　stumbling　in　the　melee　and　being　manhandled　aside。　A　single
greenskin　made　it　within　knife　range—and　this；　Lorenzo　made　short　work　of　with　his　Catachan
fang。
As　he　yanked　his　blade　out　of　the　ork’s　chest；　he　stumbled；　brushed　the　tunnel　wall　with　his　bare
arm　and　recoiled　from　its　unexpected　heat。　Greiss　had　felt　it　too；　and　he　gave　Lorenzo　a　quizzical
look。　“Lava；”　he　confirmed。　“It’s　alright—it　hasn’t　built　up　enough　pressure　yet　to　cause　a　burst。
We’ve　got　a　few　minutes。”
Greiss　nodded；　and　asked；　“How　far　to　the　surface？”
“Almost　there。　Just　the　other　side　of　that　cave…in。”
“Guess　the　orks　had　the　right　idea；　then；”　said　Greiss—and　the　Jungle　Fighters　rummaged　amid
the　corpses　of　their　enemies　to　retrieve　their　pickaxes　and　spades；　and　set　about　the　blockage　with
gusto　and　a　great　deal　more　efficiency　and　teamwork　than　the　greenskins　had　demonstrated。
Lorenzo　was　worried　about　Greiss。　He　had　retied　his　bandana　like　a　bandage　over　his　head
wound—but　the　bleeding　showed　no　sign　of　abating；　red　rivulets　rolling　down　his　cheek。　None　of
this　seemed　to　lessen　the　zeal　with　which　he　swung　his　pickaxe；　but　then　Lorenzo　had　learned　to
expect　no　less　from　him。
“Looks　like　you　were　right；　Braxton；”　Greiss　murmured—and　Lorenzo　swung　around；　and　this
time　his　light　beam　did　pick　out　something。　A　lot　of　somethings；　no　longer　bothering　to　hide。
Ork　zombies；　shuffling　up　the　tunnel　behind　them。　They　could　only　fit　two　abreast　with　their
broad　shoulders；　but　their　ranks　extended　further　back　than　Lorenzo　could　see—and；　at　their　heart：
the　chilling　sight　of　an　even　bulkier　creature　that　could　only　have　been　the　warboss　himself；　his　skull
half…caked　with　mud　but　stripped　to　the　bone　beneath　this。
There　was　still　too　far　to　dig；　no　way　they　could　escape　in　time。　There　were　too　many　sources　of
fresh　corpses　for　Rogar　to　use　against　them；　even　discounting　those　orks　that　had　been　melted　in
lava　or　whose　bones　had　been　shattered。　Lorenzo　found　himself　averting　his　gaze　from　the
oncoming　army—not　through　fear　of　their　strength　and　numbers；　but　lest　he　glimpse　the　familiar
shape　of　a　lost　comrade　among　them。
“Looks　like　this　is　it；”　growled　Greiss。
“No；　sergeant；”　protested　Lorenzo—though　he　knew　it　was　hopeless　too。　“Not　now。　Not　when
we’re　so　close！”
“I　didn’t　mean　the　end　for　all　of　us。　Just　me。　About　damn　time！”
“What…　what　are　you…？”　Lorenzo　began—but　Greiss　hefted　his　pickaxe；　and　Lorenzo　saw　that
gleam　in　his　eyes；　saw　where　it　was　focused；　and　suddenly　he　knew　what　the　sergeant　was　planning。
And；　impulsively；　he　laid　a　restraining　hand　on　his　shoulder　and　he　said；　“Let　me。”
“What’s　wrong　with　you；　trooper？”　snapped　Greiss。　“That’s　ty　orders；
and　I’m　telling　you；　I　don’t　like　it！”
“You’ve　taken　worse　hits　than　this；　sergeant。　I　know　you　have。　You　aren’t　going　to　let　some
dumb　ork　get　the　better　of　you；　are　you？”
“Too　damn　old；”　grumbled　Greiss。　“This　was　always　going　to　be　my　last　outing。　And　you；
Lorenzo；　you　got　a　job　to　do。　You’re　the　only　one　who　can　tell　Patch’s　story。　I’m　only　sorry　I　won’t
be　around　to　hear　it。”
“I…　I’m　dying　too；　sergeant。　Poisoned。”
Greiss　looked　Lorenzo　up　and　down；　and　said　curtly；　“You　look　alright　to　me。”　Lorenzo　couldn’t
argue；　because　Greiss　was　right—because；　exhausted　and　hurt　though　he　was；　he　realised　only　now
that　the　effects　of　the　effigy’s　venom；　the　nausea　and　the　dizziness；　had　receded。
Then　Greiss　clapped　him　on　the　arm　and　smiled　grimly。　“Live　for　me。　Tell　everyone　I　did　it；　got
my　blaze　of　glory。　And　don’t　be　so　damn　impatient　for　yours。　Way　I　see　it；　you　got　a　lot　of　stories　in
you　yet；　you　only　just　earned　your　name。”
107
He　turned　and；　before　Lorenzo　could　say　anything　else—before　he　could　think　what　to　say—he
was　charging　at　the　front　rank　of　zombies　with　a　bloodcurdling　scream。　As　he　reached　them；　as　they
grabbed　and　clawed　at　him；　he　smashed　his　pickaxe　into　the　wall　beside　them；　again　and　again；　until
the　first　crack　began　to　show…　and　to　widen…　and　explode。
A　deluge　of　lava　crashed　into　the　passageway；　and　surged　downhill。　It　subsumed　Sergeant　Greiss
and　the　zombies；　swept　them　away；　and　Lorenzo　knew　that　this　time　there　wouldn’t　be　enough　left
of　any　of　them　for　Rogar　to　reanimate。　He　turned　away；　couldn’t　watch；　concentrated　on　the
blockage　in　front　of　him；　swinging　his　pickaxe　in　time　with　Braxton’s；　driving　himself　on；　ignoring
the　pain　in　his　fractured　wrist；　not　letting　himself　think　about　anything　but　the　task　at　hand　because
if　he　did　think　about　it；　what　had　happened　to　Greiss　and　Armstrong　and　Myers　and　Storm　and　all
the　others；　if　he　really　thought　about　it；　he　might　have　been　overwhelmed　by　the　unfairness　of　it　all。
Why　them？　Why　them　and　not　him？
Lorenzo　thought　about　their　sacrifices；　and　his　greatest　fear　was　that　they　would　all　be　for
nothing。
His　pickaxe　rose　and　fell；　and　he　could　feel　the　heat　from　the　lava　at　his　back　and　the　rock　walls
closed　in　around　him；　and　his　pickaxe　rose　and　fell；　and　there　were　tears　in　his　eyes　but　that　might
have　been　the　dirt。　He　remembered　the　ship；　out　in　warp　space；　so　long　ago　now；　and　that　feeling　of
being　trapped；　surrounded　by　hostile　forces；　helpless　to　influence　his　own　fate；　and　he　longed　for　the
open　air　but　feared　he　would　never　breathe　it　again。
Lorenzo’s　pickaxe　rose　and　fell；　and　he　felt　as　if　he　had　been　doing　this　forever；　getting
nowhere。　He　could　sense　the　planet；　his　enemy；　a　living　presence　in　his　thoughts；　and　he　knew　it　had
won；　defeated　him；　that　he　would　never　find　his　way　out　from　inside　it—that　Rogar　III　would　bury
him　as　it　had　buried　the　rest　of　his　squad。　Just　swallowed　them　up；　left　no　trace　of　them。　No　one　to
tell　their　stories。
No　one　to　remember…
108
CHAPTER　EIGHTEEN
Daylight。
Lorenzo　hardly　registered　it　at　first；　couldn’t　bring　himself　to　believe　in　what　might　have　been　a
cruel　trick　on　the　planet’s　part。　It　was　only　a　pinprick；　after　all；　not　enough　to　make　out　any　details
of　what　might　be　out　there。　But　it　was　daylight；　nonetheless；　and　its　touch　invigorated　him。
His　right　wrist　was　bruise…blackened；　stiffening；　and　he　couldn’t　wield　the　pickaxe　anymore
without　suffering　a　lance　of　pain　up　his　arm。　But　he　and　Braxton　had　chipped　most　of　the　bigger
pieces　of　rock　away；　and　Lorenzo’s　knife　was　now　sufficient　to　whittle　at　the　packed　soil　that
remained。　To　make　that　pinprick　wider。
Finally；　thankfully；　after　what　seemed　like　an　age　in　the　dark；　they　pushed　their　way　through　a
curtain　of　loose　earth　and　emerged；　stumbling　and　choking；　into　the　dew…pregnant　morning。　Only　a
few　hours；　Lorenzo　calculated　from　the　height　of　the　sun；　since　they　had　entered　the　ork　mine—but
what