The Assault - By Brian Falkner Page 0,58

a tumbled pile of rock and a slurry of dust.

“No, not Monster,” Wilton breathed from behind Chisnall, echoing his own thoughts.

There was something about Monster that had seemed indestructible, that would just smile in the face of hell and destruction and keep on going. It was shattering to see his cold, still body lying awkwardly in the monorail trench.

“Check his pulse,” he said.

Wilton stepped forward but stopped when a dull boom came from behind them, followed by a series of crashes. The pile of rocks at the entrance was shaking.

“They don’t waste any time,” Wilton said.

The Bzadians were already blasting their way through the rubble.

“We’ve got to get moving,” Chisnall said.

Brogan looked dazed but was standing by herself now, no longer needing the support of the wall.

“Wilton, give me a hand with Fleming,” Chisnall said.

They raced back to the SAS man, who was still sandwiched between the rock and the tunnel wall.

“We’ve got to move that boulder,” Chisnall said. He looked around for anything they could use as a lever, but there was nothing but rocks and rubble.

A little reluctantly, he hit the release button for his coil-gun and it appeared in his hands. He unhooked it from the holster spring.

Another explosion sounded from the caved-in entrance to the tunnel, and a fractured slab of stone crashed from the ceiling, not far from them. It showered them with more dust and debris.

“You have to leave me here,” Fleming said.

“No,” Chisnall said.

“You can’t jeopardize the mission for one person,” Fleming said.

Brogan shook her head, agreeing with Fleming.

“Watch me,” was Chisnall’s reply.

Wilton helped him move a smaller boulder into place to use as a fulcrum, then used the barrel of the coil-gun as a lever. He leaned on the stock of the gun while Wilton put his shoulder to the rock.

Fleming grunted a little as the weight of the boulder shifted. He must have been in excruciating pain, but the only sound that escaped his lips was that grunt, little more than a whisper of air.

The rock shifted slightly, and the end of the lever slipped a little deeper underneath. Chisnall kicked at the fulcrum stone, shifting it into a better position, then pressed on the lever again. He put the full weight of his body onto it. The coil-gun was tough; it didn’t break, although Chisnall doubted that it would ever fire again. Price joined him pushing down on the lever while Wilton braced himself against the tunnel wall. The rock rolled up a bit more, held there for a second by their combined strength, then slowly rolled back to where it had been.

A third explosion came from the tunnel entrance and a low rumble shook the whole tunnel. A large rock, blasted from the pile, hit the ground near them. It tumbled past, so close that Chisnall felt its passage, before it crashed into the channel. A meter to the right and it would have smeared them all down the tunnel wall.

Brogan watched, but made no attempt to help as Chisnall repositioned the rock and the lever and leaned back on the stock of the coil-gun. He looked grimly at Wilton, but Wilton wasn’t paying attention; he was looking up the tunnel. Chisnall followed the beam of his flashlight and saw a ghost.

It was a barrel-chested, broad-shouldered, tree-trunk-legged ghost that strode steadily down the tunnel, shedding layers of dust as it came. Monster Panyoczki had somehow taken on Bzadian bullets and the crushing rock of Uluru and won.

“Monster!” It was intended to be a shout, but it came out as a small breath. “Cheese and rice!”

Monster marched up to the boulder without a word, lay down on the floor of the cavern, and put those huge, ham-like legs on the rock. Blood was pouring from a gash in one of his calves, but he didn’t seem to notice. He began to push. Chisnall and Wilton leaned back on the lever, and Price positioned herself behind Fleming, ready to slide him out from between the boulder and the wall as soon as the boulder lifted.

The muscles in Monster’s legs rippled. The rock moved up the wall, and this time it kept moving. Price pulled Fleming out and was at his legs immediately, probing them with her fingers.

Chisnall examined his weapon. The barrel no longer looked straight, and the shot-counter on the side was cracked. It was now just a dead weight. He tossed it into the dust of the channel, wincing as he did so. If his drill sergeant back at