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WAR MACHINE- AN EXTRACT

Keenan fired his weapon, the Makarov thumping his fist as he charged Mr Max; who met the charge head-on and they clashed, bouncing from one another in a flurry of blows and bullets. Keenan was knocked away, but rolled fast, finding his feet, his gun lost, and attacked with all his power and might, the attack filled with the frustration of a mission halted journey abated revenge unquenched and his arms were pistons his fists pile-drivers as he smashed blow after bloody blow against Max’s pulverised skull knocking the Seed Hunter back and back and back; Keenan launched himself, boots spreading Mr Max’s lips across his face, splintering teeth, and as Max hit the ground Keenan was atop him, a small blade between his knuckles. He was snarling, animal face filled with rage hot fury in his eyes and all humanity sympathy empathy gone in a violent red blinding surge of something he could not comprehend. With the dagger he punched out Max’s eyes watched the milky fluid pop and spurt across the Seed Hunter’s face but Max did not scream, did not cry out and behind, behind those eyes those fake eyes Keenan looked down fell down into a million minute glittering globes and he realised deep inside his soul that Mr Max was so far from human to be beyond understanding and his punch dagger slammed Max’s throat cutting deep and sideways, severing the main artery in a gout of warm human blood but it was fake all fake and false and inside Keenan could sense this charade this petty ersatz production and a snap of imminent danger went click like a detonation trigger inside his head.
  He did not see the blow. It sent him squirming across the sand, rolling, coughing on dust.
  He glanced up – into Max’s boot.
  Again Keenan spluttered, choking, blood pouring from his nose, a forehead cut feeding his eyes and face with a sheen of slick crimson; blinding him. He rolled, over and over, as if trying to get away, a deep groan emanating from his stomach to his lips.
  He pushed himself to hands and knees …
  Tried so hard to breathe …
  The next blow broke three ribs and left him ten feet away on his back.
  Mr Max loomed into vision his eyes all gone and deep recessed clusters filling Keenan with a visual madness and an urgent need to laugh like a maniac. He cannot see! screamed Keenan’s brain. But of course, he could. Mr Max was not human.
  ‘I am sick of this shit,’ snarled Max. He kicked Keenan again, sending him rolling across the desert like a limp sack of pulped bones. Keenan gazed weakly towards the tail-end of their Gunship. Colours swirled in his head. Pain receded and he was filled with a curious light-headedness. He wondered if he would die there; lying in the sand, so close to discovering the truth …
  His girls. His dead girls.
  So close.
  Keenan coughed. Then blinked. It seemed to take a long time. His eyelids weren’t working properly. Max appeared, and behind him the Gunship was a blur of dark circular exhaust ports, ribbed with bands of TitaniumII alloy. Keenan tried to roll away, pushed himself onto one elbow, levered himself up. He could see Emerald beyond; her hand was over her mouth, body deflated with horror; and she was doing nothing, doing nothing to help… fear etched acid on her alien face.
  This is it, thought Keenan.
  This. Is. It.
  He slumped back. Mr Max was staring down at him. He bared his teeth, long black slivers nestling behind the false smashed stumps from Keenan’s blows; he stooped, drawing a long serrated knife from his boot. The knife which had killed so many Ket warriors… and a million other unfortunates down through distant centuries…
  Max clenched the blade tight; like a lover.
  He stepped over Keenan’s wounded, battered body; straddled him.
  ‘I’m going to cut your throat. I’m going to watch you drown on your own blood. It may take a little while.’
  Keenan said nothing. He was filled with pain which pounded him from a hundred sources, a raging surf; and he was incapable of speech. Max filled his vision, a terrible frightening immortal deity looming above him like a dark shivering ghost and Keenan felt so weak so lost so pitiful so small, flooded with self-loathing and disgust because strength had fled him and he was going to die on a sand-whipped desert floor begging silent for a life he didn’t deserve -
  And he realised.
  There were some things you could not fight.
  Some creatures just too powerful …
  Keenan laughed, a cold laugh which bubbled blood.
  And watched the slow blade descend.

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