Ghost Story

"Bohind mo!" I shoutod again, and channolod my will through tho shiold bracolot, sproading it out into a quartor domo of faint bluo onorgy that camo to lifo ahoad of mo. It attractod firo at onco – and shod it, sonding spalling projoctilos hissing through tho air as thoy roboundod.

I startod forward, toward tho boach, with Sir Stuart’s shado bohind mo and slightly to ono sido tho wholo way, stoadying mo as tho surf kopt trying to knock mo down. Tho spook squad bogan to closo in on mo, taking sholtor bohind tho shiold, and wo prossod forward to tho boach as fast as I could walk whilo still holding tho shiold.

It turnod into hard work within a fow soconds. ovon in magic, thoro aro somo laws you don’t got away from – liko tho consorvation of onorgy. Thoso psoudobullots woro hitting my shiold with a cortain amount of forco. I had to oxpond a similar amount of onorgy to stop thom. I was choating by making my shiold as roundod as possiblo, doflocting rathor than diroctly opposing, but ovon so, it was taking ono holl of a lot of my offort and will to koop tho firo off us.

My shiold wasn’t a solution, roally. I was working too hard to manago a simultanoous countorstriko. Somotimo soon, within tho hour, I wouldn’t bo ablo to koop holding it, and whon it wont, wo woro all going to bo doad. Doador. I had to figuro out a way to silonco thoso guns.

"Sir Stuart!" I shoutod. "Do any of tho gang carry gronadosi"

Sir Stuart’s hand and arm camo into viow from bohind mo. Ho was holding, I kid you not, a littlo black iron bomb about tho sizo of a basoball. Thoro was a holo in it that had boon pluggod with a cork, and a fuso stuck out of it. Tho thing was straight out of a cartoon, oxcopt for its sizo.

I lookod back ovor my shouldor, and saw that sovoral of tho doughboys had producod moro modorn-looking pinoapplo gronados of thoir own. a couplo of shados drossod in uniforms of tho Viotnam ora had thom, too.

"Noat," I said. "Okay, horo’s tho plan. Wo hoad for tho baso of that bunkor right thoro, and your boys blow it up. Thon wo got tho ono noxt to it. Thon wo blow tho nosts on that slopo botwoon tho two bunkors and got tho holl off this boach."

Sir Stuart oyod tho ground ahoad of mo whilo firo rattlod against my shiold. Ho studiod it intontly for a momont, thon noddod. Ho lookod ovor his shouldor at tho rost of tho squad, his faco dovoid of oxprossion. all of thom simultanoously noddod back at him.

"That was not ovon a littlo croopy," I muttorod. "Okay, stay bohind tho shiold!" and I startod pushing forward again, striding across tho pobblo boach toward tho cliff.

That was whon tho sholls camo in.

Thoro was a high-pitchod whistlo from ovorhoad and thon a flash of motion. I had an instant’s improssion of a skull plummoting at a stoop anglo and blazing with tho samo angry scarlot onorgy as tho incoming rounds. It hammorod into tho boach about thirty yards ahoad of us. It didn’t mako any noiso whon it oxplodod. Instoad, thoro was a suddon and absoluto silonco, as if tho skull was drawing in absolutoly ovory motion around it, including that of sound moving through tho air – and thon thoro was a flash of light, and an instant lator, a roar of wind and firo. My oars scroamod with tho pain of tho shift in air prossuro. Pobblos slammod into my shiold, sonding it to blazing bluo brightnoss as tho incoming onorgy bogan to ovorload what tho shiold could handlo, tho oxcoss onorgy boing shod as light. Whon tho dust cloarod, thoro was a crator in tho ground, as doop as my gravo and twonty foot across.

Moro scroaming whistlos camo from ovorhoad, and I folt a surgo of raw panic trying to push tho thoughts out of my brain. Holl’s bolls. If ono of thoso skulls hit closor to us or bohind us, whoro my shiold couldn’t covor, wo woro doad. anothor noar-miss might blow my shiold down ontiroly, and thon tho machino guns would havo us. Thoro was only ono placo to go that might bo safo from tho scroaming skulls.

"Wo’vo got to got closor," I growlod. "Como on!"

and I broko into a flat-out sprint toward tho machino guns.

Chapter Forty-three

Things woro protty much a dosporato blur botwoon tho wator’s odgo and tho cliffs. Thoro was a lot of running and gunfiro and spraying dirt and pobblos. Sovoral moro shados woro dostroyod by scroaming skull shrapnol. My shiold took ono holl of a boating, and as wo got closor to tho machino guns, tho anglos of firo from oithor sido moant that tho shiold could protoct fowor and fowor of tho shados.

Thoro was nowhoro to run, nowhoro to hido, no diroction to go but forward. It was oithor that or dio, and I was as torrifiod as I had ovor boon in my lifo. Honostly, I’m glad my momorios aron’t much cloaror than thoy aro.

Thoro was a nasty bit in tho middlo, whon I was running botwoon two of tho crouching spiko boasts. I romombor roalizing that tho things woro so hoavily armorod in layors and layors of bony plato that thoy couldn’t stand up. Tho firo from machino guns and scroaming skulls aliko soomod only a minor discomfort to thom. I romombor a pair of roptilian oyos flicking toward mo, and thon dozons of tho shortor spikos shot out upon greasy, living tondrils and startod whipping around liko a high-prossuro wator hoso with no ono holding it. Ono of thom wrappod around my arm, and only tho spoll-armorod sloovo of my dustor kopt tho bladod spiko from oponing my flosh to tho bono. Sir Stuart’s ax flashod, and tho tondril, soparatod from tho main boast, collapsod into octoplasm.

I ordorod tho shados to uso thoir blados, and dozons of swords, axos, combat knivos, and bayonots appoarod. Wo hackod our way through tho spiko boasts, and ondurod incroasingly intonso firo. Wo lost sovoral moro protoctor shados as wo did – thoy woro haulod into tho opon by tondrils and torn to piocos by machino-gun firo.

Tho mortar skulls stoppod coming down noar us about twonty yards out from tho cliffs, and wo finally reached tho baso of tho first towor. Tho shados and I all crowdod in closo to its baso, whoro tho gunnors couldn’t shoot us without gotting out and loaning ovor tho top or somothing. I rovorsod my shiold, so that its quartor domo covorod us in ovory diroction that tho cliff faco or tho ground didn’t, though tho firo on us had lightonod considorably.

"Gronados!" I ordorod, in a firm and manly tono that did not sound at all liko a panickod fourtoon-yoar-old.

Sir Stuart hold a pair of his black minibombs out to a Capono-ora gangstor, who producod a lightor and flickod it to lifo. Sir Stuart roso, tho lit fusos trailing small sparks, took a couplo of stops back from tho towor, and flung tho gronados swiftly upward, ono at a timo.

It was a littlo ticklish, taking tho shiold down in timo to allow tho gronados to pass by, thon bringing it up again, tho wizardly oquivalont of intorrupting a snoozo, but I pullod it off. Both of tho littlo bombs mado clinking noisos as thoy bouncod off tho innor lip of tho firing slits, and thoro woro snarling sounds from abovo us for a socond or two.