Hunters Run Page 0,16

Another flapjack called, away across the air, but now its cries sounded to him like the shrill and batlike wailing of the damned.

It was time to get out of here. Get back to the van - maybe take a short video recording of the wall, and then find someplace else to be. Anywhere else. Even back in Diegotown, where the threats were at least knowable.

He couldn't run back to his camp - the terrain was too rough. But he scrambled down the mountainside as recklessly as he dared, sliding on his buttocks down bluffs in a cloud of dust and scree when he could, jumping from rock to rock, bulling his way through bushes and tangles of scrub hierba, scattering grasshoppers and paddlefoots before him.

He moved so quickly that he was more than a third of the way to his camp before the mountain opened behind him and the alien came out.

High above him, a hole opened in the mountain's side - a cave in the metal that a moment ago had not been there and now simply was. There was a high-pitched whine, like a centrifuge spinning up, and then, a breath later, something flew out of the hole.

It was square-shaped and built awkwardly for flight, like something designed to move in vacuum. Bone-white and silent, it reminded Ramon of a ghost, or a great floating skull. Against the great empty blue of the sky - atmosphere thin enough at the top that stars shone through the blue - it could have been any size at any distance. The strange boxy thing hung in the sky, rotating slowly. Looking, Ramon thought. Looking for him.

Sick dread squeezed his chest. His camp. The thing was clearly searching for something, and Ramon hadn't done anything to conceal the white dome of the bubbletent or the van beside it. There had been no reason to. The thing might not see him down here in the underbrush, but it would see his camp. He had to get there - get back to the van and into the air - before the thing from the mountain discovered it. His mind was already racing ahead - would his van outpace the flying white box? Just let him get it in the air. He could fly it low, make it hard to spot or attack. He was a good pilot. He could dodge between treetops from here to Fiddler's Jump if he had to ...

But he had to get there first.

He fled, raw panic pushing away the last shreds of caution. The demonic white box was lost from sight as he reached the edge of the scree and dove into the underbrush. The bushes and low scrub that had seemed thin and easily navigable when he'd been walking were now an obstacle course. Branches grabbed at him, raking his face and ripping his clothes. He had the feeling that the flying thing from the mountain was right on top of him, at his back, ready to strike. His breath burned as he sprinted, legs churning, back toward the van.

"I didn't see anything," he gasped. "Please. I wasn't doing anything! I don't know anything. Please. I dreamed it!"

When halfway back to the van he paused, leaning against a tree to catch his breath, the sky was empty. No ghostly box hung in the air, searching for him. He was surprised to find that his pistol was already in his hand. He didn't recall drawing it. Still, now that he did think of it, the weight and solidity of it were reassuring. He wasn't defenseless. Whatever that fucking thing was, he could shoot it. He spat, anger taking the place of fear. Maybe he didn't know what he was facing, but it didn't know him either. He was Ramon Espejo! He'd tear the alien a new asshole if it messed with him.

Buoyed by his bravado and rage, Ramon started again for the van, one eye to the skies. He had cleared more ground than he thought; the van was only a few more minutes away. Just let him get it in the air! He wasn't going to stop to video anything, not with that thing out there sniffing for him. But he'd bring back a force from Diegotown - the governor's private guard maybe. The police. The army. Whatever was in the hill, he'd drag it out into the light and crack its shell. He wasn't afraid of it or anyone. He wasn't afraid of God. His litany