6.

The gate snapped shut with a final clang, and within seconds, the skies opened. Lightning forked down the rows of solar collectors while hail hammered their panels in relentless torrents. A second strike connected with a collector further afield, toppling it with a screech.

Cries broke out in the distance. The raw, desperate sounds froze me in place, even as the sentries shouted for me to keep moving. I strained to catch more. Panicked workers? Refugees trying to reach the holodome? Or had the kufugaki crept closer than we thought? I’d believed they hunted farther out, but maybe that had changed.

Perfect. Monsters at the back door. Maybe this was how they’d trapped the ones in the detention room.

Hunched low, I zigzagged through the solar field. Near the lightning-blasted collector, a group of haggard women staggered out from the twisted wreckage. The one in front, almost bald except for a few wet strands of hair, rushed at me, spouting gibberish. Her companions veered wide, circling to flank.

I held my position, naginata ready, the rain soaking through my clothes. Kufugaki, this far gone, didn’t use tactics. If they thought they’d found an easy target, they were in for a surprise.

Their leader charged. One slash tore open her thick neck. She dropped to her knees, gurgling, no longer charging—just bleeding. Her ravenous companions didn’t hesitate. They fell on her like feral dogs.

So much for honor among cannibals. I leapt forward, struck one with a helicopter spin, then drove the blade backward into the other. Both collapsed.

Muted shouts rose behind me. Maybe the patrollers were angry. Maybe cheering. Or maybe warning me about something worse.

Hard to tell. The wind had turned the rain into a white sheet, and I couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead.

Still crouching, I skirted the downed collector but lost my balance when my boot caught on a jagged piece of metal. I pitched forward, naginata flying out of my hand.

When a heap of sodden canvas broke my fall, I discovered why the patrollers had been shouting. Man down. One of theirs. Dead, too, judging from the sour stench of excrement exuding from his rumpled gray uniform.

The kufugaki who’d been sucking on his sweetbreads didn’t take kindly to the intrusion, either. Snarling, he swatted the guy’s head aside. Then, growling, ropes of bloody spittle swinging from his chin, he bared his teeth and lunged.

I rolled clear, the contents of my backpack crunching and clinking. While I groped around in the muck for my weapon, the kufugaki launched himself at me again.

This time, the bastard made contact. Filthy and ragged appendages, so contorted they no longer resembled human fingers, pawed and clawed at my legs, tearing at field pants that had already seen one too many battles.

“Not my leathers, you freak!” I screamed. Though worn paper-thin in places and clinging to me like a second skin everywhere else, they were still my favorite hunting pants. Right now, they were also the only pair I had.

I kicked for all I was worth, but even after driving his rotten nose into his brain, the crazy fucker still kept coming at me! Maybe the abundance of fresh soldier meat and the potential for other easy meals made these kufugaki stronger and meaner than the ones back home. I’d never seen one so damned tenacious!

Having had my fill of flesh-eating mutants for one day, I unsheathed my largest knife. A slash opened his neck from ear to ear and finally put the bastard out of his misery.

Confident our skirmish would draw out more of the damned things—because they never traveled alone—I crawled through the mud until my numb fingers finally found a familiar hilt. Snatching up the naginata, I waited.

When no more kufugaki shambled out of the mist, I did what I always did after a kill—searched the body for valuables. I liked to think of them as a bonus. Besides, if I didn’t take them, someone else would.

The kufugaki didn’t look promising (they never were), so I went straight to the soldier. He’d worn a backpack like mine, which now lay a few yards from his body.

A quick search turned up a half-full canteen, a pair of squashed protein bars sealed in black and gold foil, and a camouflage poncho-hooch—a heat-retaining tarp. Beneath it, I found a pair of field glasses. I let out a whoop like I’d struck gold.

Then I saw the mini-beam launcher in his pale, stiffening hand. My breath caught when I spotted the muddy black band circling his wrist. A wristlet. Jackpot.

Shoving the MBL down the back of my pants, I clawed at the band. A soft green glow leaked through its cracked face. Still functional. I pressed every button, trying combinations as fast as possible, but nothing broke the security lockout. With no time to waste, I shoved it into the anorak’s kangaroo pocket and moved on.

Leather creaked as I pushed myself upright, the mud grinding into every seam. Then I noticed a pair of metal handlebars. Water ran through my hair and down my face as I stared at the shape before me.

He’d been riding a TerraCycle when the kufugaki caught him. If it still worked, I could put Mazawa in my rearview before nightfall.

A few feet from the TerraCycle, another body lay in the muck—rag-clad and filthy, with a scorched hole centered in its forehead. MBLs did that at close range. Good for you, I thought. At least the soldier took one of the marrow-suckers with him.

I hauled the dun-colored vehicle upright to get a better look. Dents and scratches covered its chassis. Mud clogged the hubs of its studded tires, and its headlamp hadn’t survived the crash. The battery indicator didn’t inspire confidence either, the needle hovering below half.

Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Starting it took time and effort. By the time the engine sputtered to life and kept running, the sky had darkened, and hail pelted the ground. I stashed the pack in the under-seat compartment, climbed on, and roared west.