Page 12 of Zeke
She watched, fascinated despite her revulsion, as the spider hunkered down next to the blood. Its movements were almost careful as it extended what looked like a feeding appendage to sample the crimson drops.
At least someone was benefiting from this.
Twitchy's sharp bark cut through the forest quiet. His boot connected with the spider, sending it tumbling across the wet leaves before it disappeared back under the log.
Asshole.
He grabbed her arm and hauled her forward, snarling, "No more delays!"
She nodded and picked up the pace. At least she'd gotten some blood on the rock before Twitchy's boot sent the creature flying. And the way he'd reacted told her plenty about how the ferals felt about Parac'Norr's native species.
They must have been walking for another hour when voices cut through the forest from up ahead. Her captors stopped immediately. Scarface's head snapped up. Tank's hand went to his weapon while Twitchy crouched low, scanning the trees.
Her heart sank as five new figures emerged from the forest ahead. They were all massive, with red eyes that said they were blood-mad like the others. But these looked different… older, maybe, or just more dangerous. She didn’t know. Didn’t care. If she got out of this, she was taking safe jobs on safe planets without any aliens whatsoever.
The leader of the new pack was built like a tank. Bigger than Scarface by a head at least, with scars carved deep across his chest and arms. He moved like he owned every inch of ground his boots touched—shoulders squared, chin up, red eyes scanning them like he was deciding which one to kill first.
Scarface stepped forward to meet him. They stopped just out of arm's reach.
The newcomer spoke first, his voice a low rumble that hurt her ears. "What are you doing in our territory?"
Scarface's jaw tightened. "Passing through."
"With a female." The newcomer's red eyes fixed on Michelle, and she felt like prey being sized up by a predator.
Both groups turned to look at her. Eight pairs of red eyes, all focused on her like she was a piece of meat they were deciding how to carve up. Her grip tightened on her walking stick, knuckles white against the dark wood.
The newcomer stepped closer, close enough that their chests nearly touched. Scarface's nostrils flared, his upper lip peeling back from his teeth. The newcomer answered with his own snarl, fangs gleaming in the dim light.
"She's ours now." The newcomer reached out, moving to grab her.
"No! Mine!" Scarface's roar split the air as he lunged forward, intercepting the grab.
Hands slammed into chests. Snarls erupted from both groups. She found herself caught in the middle as huge bodies pressed in from all sides, all trying to claim her. A hand grabbed her left arm—one of the newcomers. Another clamped on her right shoulder—Tank, pulling her back toward his pack.
Pain shot through her leg as she was dragged between them. The walking stick slipped from her grip, clattering to the forest floor. Fuck. They were going to tear her apart like this.
"Stop!" she gasped, trying to fight them off, but her voice was lost under all the growls and threats.
The newcomer's companion—a feral with heavy scars covering half his neck—grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back to leer down at her. "Pretty little thing."
Twitchy's claws were out now, the lethally-sharp tips pressed against Scarred-Neck's throat, drawing a thin line of blood. "Let. Her. Go."
Tank's claws dropped with soft snicks, three inches of razor-sharp death aimed at the newcomers.
Hands yanked her in opposite directions. Her left arm stretched toward the new pack. Her right shoulder pulled back toward Tank's group. The fabric of the splint gave way with a soft ripping sound, and the bones in her leg shifted, grinding against each other. White light exploded behind her eyes, and she fought to stay conscious.
Then the sky opened up.
What had been a light drizzle turned into a torrential downpour in seconds. Water cascaded through the canopy in sheets, instantly soaking through her clothes and turning the forest floor into a slippery mess. The temperature dropped like a stone, and shivers racked her.
But it was the sound that made her blood run cold.
A low rumble, growing louder. Not thunder. Something else. Something that made her brain scream warnings. She knew this area. She'd studied every contour line, every elevation marker, every drainage pattern when they'd done the preliminary surveys for the construction project. This whole section was a natural funnel, with steep slopes channeling runoff from the mountains above into a series of narrow valleys.
Flash flood zone. Extreme risk during heavy precipitation events.
The survey report's warnings slammed back into her memory as the rumble grew louder. Water and debris, thousands of tons of it, roaring down from the mountain slopes, turning every creek and gully into a killing machine.
