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He might be infectious。 Even if he isn’t； what can we do for him out here？”
“You got anything at the camp that could help him？”
“No；” said Mackenzie emphatically。
“Then Muldoon comes with us；” said Greiss with equal force； “until I’m sure there isn’t a cure
for him。”
“You think you can drag him all the way to the warboss’ hideout and back？ You think you can
guarantee he won’t wake up along the way and bring the orks down on us？ No； sergeant。 No； no； no。
I don’t like doing this—but I’m ordering you to abandon this trooper for the sake of the mission！”
“Sorry； sir；” said Woods； who by now had slung Muldoon over his shoulders and was carrying
the bigger man effortlessly。 “Isn’t the sergeant’s decision no more。 Sharkbait is my buddy。 You
want me to drop him now； and leave him here for the lizards and the birds； you’ll have to shoot me。”
With that； Woods turned his back defiantly and set off into the jungle once more。 The rest of the
Catachans wasted no time in joining him； leaving Mackenzie standing。 The commissar turned to
Greiss as if for support； but recoiled at the malicious half…grin on his face。 So he took the only
course open to him at that moment。 He lapsed into a judicious； if sullen； silence。
They moved on。
It was as the evening closed in that the birds launched their attack。
The sky； where it could be seen； was still a light shade of blue—but with the sun having
surrendered its efforts to pierce the trees； the shadows had free rein down here。 The canopy had
captured much of the heat； but it was beginning to evaporate。 The Catachans were used to jungle
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nights； of course； and their eyes adapted well to the gloom。 The same could not be said of
Mackenzie and Braxton。 After stumbling one too many times； Braxton had made to light a torch； but
Greiss had hissed at him to put it away。 “You want to draw every critter in the jungle to us—and
blitz our night vision while you’re at it？”
They were caught by surprise； because they hadn’t heard the birds massing。 This in itself was
unusual。 It suggested a level of coordination unprecedented in such creatures； in Lorenzo’s
experience—that the birds had appeared in such numbers； so quickly。
The beating of their wings was like oncoming thunder； except that it sounded from all directions
at once。 Their bodies were a storm cloud； drawing with it a darkness even the Catachans couldn’t
penetrate。 And then they were there； the birds； plummeting through the leaves like hailstones—but
hailstones that； when they hit； burst into screeching； scratching darts of fury。
Lorenzo had just had time to draw his Catachan fang and lasgun。 He was wielding the latter onehanded；
keeping his knife hand back to protect his face。 He fired repeatedly； aiming up above the
heads of his comrades。 It felt like the air was full of whirling blades； scratching； cutting； pecking at
his flesh。 He could barely see to take aim through the tumult of black wings—but as a particularly
large bird flew up before him； claws outstretched； beady eyes trained upon him； Lorenzo saw his
chance and struck。 He felt his bayonet punching into the soft tissue of the bird’s heart； and he smiled
grimly as blood welled onto his fingers。 The bird had been skewered； and Lorenzo didn’t have time
to remove it； so he fired the lasgun again and swung it like a club； knocking a few of his avian
attackers from the sky； hopefully stunning some。 The dead bird’s corpse split； lost its grip on the
bayonet； and hit Lorenzo’s boot with a wet slap。
A sharp beak had clamped onto his ear and was tugging at it； so he sideswiped its owner with his
fang； which left his face exposed for a split…second and gave another bird the chance to swoop in
and jab at his eye。 Lorenzo twisted his head aside in time； but they were tugging at his hair； clawing
at his scalp。 The birds had torn away his bandana； and drawn blood。 He was pumping las…bolt after
las…bolt through feathered bodies； but for each one that dropped two more seemed to replace it。 And；
unexpectedly； they had his gun； their claws scrabbling at its furniture； working in concert to yank it
from Lorenzo’s grasp。 They didn’t quite have the strength； so instead they piled their weight on top
of it； forcing its barrel down until he couldn’t pull the trigger for fear of blowing off his own foot。
The gun was useless to him now； a dead weight in his hand； so he sacrificed it。 He flung it to the
ground； taking several startled birds with it。 He delivered a vicious kick to one as it struggled to
right itself； and sent it sprawling。 Then he brought his boot down on another； and snapped its neck。
Was it his imagination or was the flock thinning at last？ Lorenzo could focus on individual birds
now； rather than being overwhelmed by their mass。 They were indeed； as first impressions had
suggested； jet black； from their wingtips to their claws； even their eyes。 There was no expression in
those eyes—no rage or satisfaction； just a matter…of…fact blankness。 Their wings were short； flapping
furiously to keep their squat bodies aloft。 Their black beaks came to wicked hooked points。
Lorenzo found a tree and backed up to it； denying them the chance to come at him from behind。
He kept his fang in motion； slashing at any bird that ventured too close。 They had become less bold
with fewer numbers； keeping their distance； giving the impression of watching； waiting for an
opening； although their eyes were still glassy。 Lorenzo feinted； drew one of them in； and tore open
its stomach with his blade； showering himself in its guts。
Another tried to blindside him； but he caught it by the throat； squeezed； felt its bones popping
between his fingers and thumb。 Its body joined the growing pile at his feet—and then； something in
that pile nipped his ankle。 At first Lorenzo thought it was just one bird； crippled； unable to fly but
still single…minded in purpose。 He raised his foot； tried to kick the wretched creature away—but
there were more of them down there； scratching and pecking。 The air around him seemed to have
darkened with their bodies again。 Reinforcements？
33
A bird shot up from below and got past Lorenzo’s defences； latching onto his face and hugging
it； and he would have let out a cry if he hadn’t bitten his tongue in time。 He was blinded； he could
barely breathe for the bird’s sticky； bloodied feathers in his mouth and nose。
He clawed at it； but its brethren were pecking at his knuckles； biting his fingers； keeping him
from getting a grip； and his tormentor’s claws were like nails raking his cheeks。 He dropped into a
protective crouch； closed his fingers around the creature on his face at last； and tore it away from
him； taking too much of his own skin with it。 He saw it properly for the first time as it struggled in
his hands—and although Lorenzo had seen much in his short career as a Jungle Fighter； the sight
that greeted him now caused his mouth to gape in surprise。
The bird’s neck had been cut almost through。 Its head flapped lifelessly against its wing until； as
Lorenzo watched； it detached itself at last and plopped into the long grass。 But the body was still
moving—and not just the uncoordinated twitching that could follow death in some species； but a
deliberate and almost successful attempt to squirm free from him。 With a shudder of revulsion； he
dashed the bird against the nearest tree； with enough strength that his hand cracked through its body
like an egg。 It didn’t move again。
Then Lorenzo felt them； saw them clawing their way up his legs： more bird corpses； some
nursing broken legs； wings； backs； some eviscerated。 Some of them had been dead a long time
before this battle had begun。 Putrid flesh slid from their gnarled bones； the stench that hit Lorenzo’s
nostrils would have been sickening to someone less familiar with it。
The first few skeletons had climbed as far as his lap； and they sprang for his throat； falling short；
their wings too tattered and rotted to catch an air current。 Lorenzo tried to brush them off； but they
were tenacious。 He mimicked Muldoon’s earlier actions； rolling on the ground； feeling a satisfying
crunch of bones beneath him。 One skeletal bird hopped onto his face； and he stabbed at it with his
knife。 The blade passed through its empty eye sockets； and he lifted the undead creature off him； its
legs pedalling the air； wing bones cranking uselessly。 He flicked it away。
And then； suddenly； he was unmolested； the last of the birds around him finally still in death。
His own survival assured for the moment； Lorenzo’s thoughts went to his comrades。 He was
relieved to see that each of them had won or was winning his own battle。 He joined them in
shooting； slicing and bayoneting the few remaining birds。 Without their superior numbers； they were
easy prey； and soon the Jungle Fighters were jumping and stamping on hundreds of small corpses。
Then there was silence。
They regrouped； and took stock of their injuries。 Landon was the worst； his face red with his own
blood—but nobody had escaped harm； apart from the unconscious Muldoon。 Lorenzo’s comrades
all sported crazed scratch patterns on their arms and faces； and he could tell from the prickling pain
in hi