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ing them instantly.
The surviving members were no happier than the
fatty had been earlier; they opened fire, and the bony
forgot all about us, firing two more rockets at fat boy.
Meanwhile, my crew were very, very busy lying on
their bellies and kissing dirt for all they were worth,
hands over heads. All except me: I kept my hands free
and rolled onto my back, shotgun pointing back and
forth, back and forth, like a fan at a tennis match.
I didn't want to call attention to our little party, but
neither did I want us to be noticed by a smarter-than-
average monster who wanted to spill our guts to
celebrate its position on the food chain. I wished it
were still night.
The bony ran out of rockets before the fatty ran out
of fireballs. The bone bag blew apart into tiny pieces,
white shards so small they could be mistaken for
hailstones, were this not Los Angeles.
The fatty kept firing. There were plenty of troops
left to take out, and the walking flab seemed to have
an inexhaustible supply of pyrotechnics. Maybe he
got his stuff from the same shop used by the steam-
demon.
At last, any troops left intact were no longer mov-
ing. The fatty kept firing for a while into their inert
bodies.
When it stopped, nothing moved anywhere in
sight--assuming those little pig eyes could see very
far. We lay as still as we could; I wished we could stop
the sounds of our breathing. A lump of congestion
had settled somewhere in my head, and I wheezed on
every second breath, but I was afraid to hold my
breath for fear I would start coughing.
Of course, the monster's hearing might not be any
great shakes. I could see small black holes on either
side of his lard-encrusted head. If those were ears,
they seemed minuscule. I lay still, rationalizing and
wheezing, hoping the thing would do anything
except--except exactly what it did next.
The fatty was badly shot and cut up, like a giant,
spherical hamburger patty that had fallen apart on the
grill. It rumbled and began to shuffle directly for us. If
the monstrous thing stepped on one of us as it passed,
it would be a messy death.
27
I decided if one of those massive feet were
about to descend on any one of us, I would open fire.
There might be a military argument for letting one of
us die if the others were passed over, anyone but Jill,
but--forget it. Not like that!
As fat boy stumped slowly in our direction, I
realized with a sinking feeling that it was another
genetic experiment copying the human form. The
whole design was clearly functional, another killer-
critter. But if they could make creatures this close to
our basic body type, then they could do copies of us in
time.
As these thoughts raced through my mind, the thing
took one ponderous step after another, coming closer
and closer--allowing for inspection of its nonhuman
qualities. The skin was like that of a rhinoceros. Feed
this lumpkin an all-you-can-eat buffet (with a dis-
count coupon), and it might top out at half a ton. The
bald head looked like a squashed football; the beady
eyes took no note of us as it came within spitting
distance. It had to be nearsighted. Now, if it were deaf
and unable to smell, it might just miss us.
Good news and bad: if fat boy continued walking a
straight line, it would miss us all. Alas, Jill's
ultramicro lay directly next to her, and the fatty was
about to step on this critical piece of equipment.
There wasn't time for anyone to do anything,
except for Jill. All she had to do was reach out with
her right hand and grab it. I saw her raise her head
and start to move her hand, but she froze. What if it
saw her!
With only a second to spare, she worked up her
nerve and yanked the computer out of the way before
the monster would have crushed it flat. By waiting so
long, she solved her problem--the fatty couldn't see
its own feet. The bulk of the vast stomach obscured
Jill's quick movement.
Fat boy slogged on without further mishap.
I was ready to heave a sigh of relief, clear my throat,
maybe even enjoy a cough or two. Jill started to get
up. Arlene and Albert weren't moving yet, waiting for
the all-clear from Yours Truly. I almost gave it when a
blast of machine-gun fire erupted behind the fatty.
I was too damned tired to curse. We could use a
short rest before taking on new playmates!
The fatty wasn't happy about the turn of events
either. It screamed with a sound more piglike than the
pinkie demons.
The bullets sprayed in a steady stream, so many
that some were surely penetrating that thick hide to
disrupt vital organs--however deeply those organs
were hidden underneath a stinking expanse of quiver-
ing flesh.
As the machine gun cut the monster to ribbons, I
heard bug-wild, crazy laughter, the kind made only by
a human being. The laughter continued, the bullets
continued, until at last the fatty made the transition
from hamburger to road kill. It made a wet, flopping
sound, collapsed into itself and died.
We weren't playing statues while this was going on.
Guns at the ready, firing positions, we faced . . . what
looked like another human being. A very large human
figure.
I almost called out, but I checked myself. Despite
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