Death World(科幻战争)-第23章

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protect　his　night　vision。　He　was　half　blinded。
But；　as　the　echoes　of　the　explosion　died　away　and　his　deadened　ears　popped；　he　could　hear
movement　and　grunting　from　the　encampment　just　a　few　footsteps　away。　And　the　shadows；　the　only
things　he　could　make　out　now；　were　shifting。
Lorenzo’s　mind　raced。　Had　his　comrades　blundered　into　a　trap　he　had　missed？　Had　something
else　found　them？　Was　it　his　fault？
There　had　to　have　been　casualties；　he　realised；　his　throat　drying　at　the　thought。　The　explosion
had　been　centred　right　at　the　spot　where　he’d　heard　Greiss’　voice。　It　had　sounded　like　a　frag
grenade。
The　shadows　were　converging　on　that　spot　now；　orks　snarling　and　roaring　with　battle　lust　as
they　rushed　to　defend　their　territory。
A　wave　of　despair　passed　over　Lorenzo　as　he　realised　it　didn’t　matter　now　which　of　his
comrades　were　alive　or　dead。　The　orks　knew　where　they　were—and　as　Greiss　had　said；　the　orks
outnumbered　them　thirty　to　one。　They　had　nowhere　to　run；　trapped　between　the　encampment　on　one
side　and　the　acid　swamp　on　the　other。
There　was　no　doubt　about　it。　They　were　all　dead。
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CHAPTER　ELEVEN
The　orks　were　an　oncoming　mass；　one　indistinguishable　from　the　next；　at　least　to　Lorenzo’s
compromised　sight。　The　air　was　filled　with　noise；　and　the　ground　shook　to　the　staccato　flashes　of
more　explosions：　makeshift　grenades；　hurled　over　the　heads　of　the　orks’　front　ranks　by　those　in　the
rear。
In　response；　las…fire　barked　out　of　the　jungle；　striking　the　foremost　orks　and　passing　through
them　into　their　comrades。　Lorenzo　felt　like　cheering。　At　least　five；　six；　seven　of　his　fellow　Catachans
were　alive　and　fighting　back—and　the　next　explosions　blossomed　in　the　heart　of　the　orks’　own
ranks。　The　Jungle　Fighters’　frag　grenades　were　more　effective　than　the　orks’　bombs；　because　the
greenskins　were　packed　so　closely　together；　each　of　them　more　likely　to　take　a　shrapnel　hit。　Their
armour；　and　their　thick　hides；　would　protect　them　from　the　worst　of　it；　but　many　would　be　injured；
some　badly。　Some　were　knocked　off　their　feet　by　the　concussive　force　of　the　blasts；　as　Lorenzo’s
eyes　cleared；　he　saw　orks　stumbling　over　each　other；　trampling　on　the　fallen；　pushing　each　other
aside—and　yet　still　advancing。
They　didn’t　know　where　he　was。
As　the　orks　closed　in　on　Lorenzo’s　squad；　he　realised　they　were　passing　him　by；　in　his　solitary
position　ahead　of　the　others。　The　others　were　dead　anyway。　He　had　a　chance　to　save　himself；　to
sneak　away；　maybe　take　a　report　back　to　Lieutenant　Vines　so　that　the　next　men　sent　out　here　would
know　what　lay　ahead　of　them。
He　didn’t　consider　it　for　a　second。
Lorenzo　broke　cover；　letting　out　the　loudest；　wildest　war　cry　in　his　repertoire；　his　finger　locked
around　the　trigger　of　his　lasgun　so　that　it　fired　repeatedly　into　the　enemy　mass。　He　didn’t　care　how
accurate　his　shots　were；　chances　were　they’d　find　a　few　orks　wherever　he　aimed　them。　He　just
wanted　to　draw　attention　to　himself。　Maybe—with　luck—convince　the　greenskins　that　he　was　more
than　one　trooper；　that　their　enemies　had　surrounded　them　in　a　pincer　movement。　The　more　of　them
he　could　distract　from　his　squad；　the　better　their　chances　would　be；　the　worse　his　own　chances。
He　was　dead　anyway；　he　told　himself。　They　were　all　dead。　But　the　longer　the　Jungle　Fighters
survived；　the　more　orks　they　could　take　down　with　them。　The　more　orks　they　took　down；　the　greater
the　chance　there’d　be　stories　told　of　them　back　home。　Assuming　that；　by　some　miracle；　this　story
made　it　back　home　at　all。
The　nearest　orks　responded　with　alarm　and　confusion　to　Lorenzo’s　attack；　took　a　moment　to
pinpoint　the　source　of　it；　and　aimed　their　weapons：　crude；　solid…shot　guns。　They　were　too　slow。
Lorenzo　had　already　dived　into　the　sheltered　gap　between　two　huts；　and　he　was　still　running　as
bullets　pinged　off　metal　behind　him。　He　heard　grunts　and　howls　and　footsteps；　and　he　knew　he’d
succeeded　in　drawing　the　attention　of　a　few　dozen　orks。　Now　he　just　had　to　survive　the
consequences　of　that　success。
He　ducked　and　weaved　and　twisted　between　huts　at　random。　The　longer　he　could　keep　his
pursuers　searching　for　him；　the　fewer　orks　the　others　had　to　contend　with　in　the　meantime。　But　he
couldn’t　disappear　completely；　couldn’t　flee　back　into　the　jungle；　because　the　orks　might　just
abandon　their　hunt　in　frustration　and　return　to　the　combat。　Lorenzo　let　out　a　whoop　and　fired　his
lasgun　three　times　into　the　air；　drawing　his　foes　further　into　their　own　camp。　He　rounded　another
corner　and　disturbed　a　knot　of　gretchin；　who　screeched　and　jabbered　in　their　own　crude；
incomprehensible　tongue；　and　came　at　him。
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Lorenzo　brought　up　his　lasgun；　fired；　downed　several　targets—and　then　the　rest　were　upon　him；
or　streaming　around　to　attack　him　from　behind。　They　were　kicking　and　scratching；　squealing　for
their　masters。　He　swung　his　lasgun　like　a　club；　dislodging　two　of　them。　He　kicked　and　punched　at
the　others；　he　reached　over　his　shoulder；　seized　a　gretchin　that　had　clung　to　his　back；　and　slammed　it
into　the　ground。　He　tried　to　run；　kicking　more　of　the　creatures　out　of　his　path；　but　they　dogged　his
heels。　He　spun　around；　fired；　claimed　two　more　kills；　and　the　rest　of　the　gretchin　scampered　out　of
sight。　They　emerged　again　as　soon　as　Lorenzo　had　turned　his　back。
Their　cries　drew　the　orks；　as　he　had　known　they　must。
The　first　of　them　appeared　ahead；　and　barred　Lorenzo’s　path。　It　snarled　at　him；　as　if　to　intimidate
him　with　its　presence。　That　worked；　he　had　heard；　against　some　men；　the　ork；　with　its　sloping　brow；
its　jutting　jaw　and　its　recessed；　baleful　eyes；　cut　an　imposing　figure—and　his　eye　line　was　level　with
its　fearsome　tusks　and　its　slobbering　lips。　To　a　man　who　had　faced　down　a　Catachan　devil；　though；　a
single　ork　was　nothing　special。　It　might　walk　and　talk；　but　to　a　Deathworlder　this　green…skinned
monster　was　just　another　thing　to　be　killed。
Lorenzo　snapped　off　a　round；　the　shot　narrowly　missing　the　ork　though　the　flash　sent　it　howling
and　reeling　in　pain—but　he’d　pay　for　the　second’s　distraction　it　had　caused　him。　The　ork’s　comrades
had　found　him　too；　and　they　came　at　him；　rounding　the　ramshackle　buildings　from　all　directions。
More　than　one　of　them　mimicked　the　Catachan’s　earlier　actions；　kicking　aside　the　gretchin　that　had
summoned　them。　The　pathetic；　stunted　creatures　slunk　away；　their　job　done。
Surrounded　and　outnumbered；　Lorenzo　concentrated　his　fire　in　one　direction；　hoping　to　clear　an
escape　route　for　himself。　His　one　advantage　was　that　the　greenskins　couldn’t　use　their　guns　without
hitting　each　other—though；　given　the　speed　at　which　they　were　coming；　that　wouldn’t　keep　him
alive　for　long。　He　finished　off　two　of　them；　but　the　lasgun’s　power　pack　whined　and　died　as　the　third
bore　down　on　him。　He　tried　to　impale　the　ork　on　his　bayonet；　but　it　wrestled　his　gun　away　and
tossed　it　aside。　Another　ork　smacked　into　Lorenzo　from　behind；　and　he　rolled　with　the　blow；
drawing　his　knife　as　he　hit　the　ground　and　twisted　out　of　the　way　of　a　descending　axe　blade。　It　sliced
into　the　earth　a　whisker　from　Lorenzo’s　ear。　Its　wielder　wasn’t　far　behind　it；　choosing　not　to　retrieve
its　weapon　but　to　leap　instead　on　its　fallen　prey　and　rend　him　with　its　bare　hands。　Lorenzo　threw　up
his　knife　so　the　ork’s　own　momentum　forced　the　blade　through　the　roof　of　its　mouth　and　into　its
brain。
Its　dead　weight　smacked　onto　him；　winding　him；　pinning　him　down；　but　providing　him　with
cover　and　a　moment’s　respite。　By　the　time　two　other　orks　had　hoisted　their　dead　comrade　aside；
Lorenzo　was　ready　to　act。　On　hands　and　knees；　he　slipped　between　the　legs　of　one　of　his　attackers；
and　tripped　it　in　the　process。　The　orks　fumbled　and　stumbled　and　generally　fell　over　each　other　in
their　eagerness　to　apprehend　the　slippery；　squirming　Catachan—but　any　green　hands　that　found　him
were　rewarded　with　a　slash　of　Lorenzo’s　fang。
Then；　joyously；　he　was　through　them　all；　open　space　looming　ahead　of　him；　and　he　was　pushing
himself　to　his　feet；　snatching　his　stolen　lasgun；　reaching　for　a　fresh　power　pack　from　his　bandolier
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