"Stand Off" - Part Nine

"Last stand," said Mouse.

"Yeah," I said. "Last stand."

And lit up the three Trogs near us, by the rear stairs, sweeping the FAL left-right, quick burst into each ganger, staggering them, then swept the rifle right-left, finishing them with bursts to the head, rupturing skulls and geysering gore and gray matter.
   
Pivoted, the FAL tracking.
   
Mouse opened fire on the Trogs across the light-well, dropping four in rapid succession and knocking aside a pair of throwing axes in mid-flight.
   
The other six charged.
   
Three skirting along the far walkway.
   
Three coming directly at us on the nearside walkway.
   
Mouse mowed down the skirters then went empty.
   
I dropped the first two Trogs with short bursts. They folded and went sprawling.
   
The rifle went dry.
   
And the last Trog vaulted his fallen comrades and rounded the corner, hatchet raised high, snarling, spittle flying from his lips, screaming a war cry.
   
Subvocal.
   
And the world slid into slo-mo.
   
The Trog was three meters away
   
Dropped the FAL, letting it fall to my side, still attached to the sling, and the Twins leaped into my hands, roaring and bucking, spitting fire and lead into the charging Trog, ten rounds punching into his chest, geysering blood, then walking up his torso and blowing his face apart.
   
He fell back and hit the ground with a meaty thud.
   
Caught movement out of the corner of my eye.
   
Spotted more figures running in from the low block.
   
Mouse bolted past me to the walkway corner and threw something toward the onrushing ganger mob, a black cylinder that arced out to the end of the nearside walkway and bounce into the main lift bank area.
   
Recognized it.
   
Flashbang.
   
I turned my head, eyes closed.
   
Felt the concussion in the middle of my chest, saw the flash behind my eyelids.
   
Then opened my eyes.
   
Saw Mouse drop to one knee and loose a long, rolling burst from her M4.
   
More figures pouring in from the low block. Trogs and Dragons. Some ducking for cover, some throwing elbows and backfists, jockeying for position, some folding under Mouse's hail of rounds.
   
Then: shadows in the rear stairwell.
   
The Twins came up, tracking, as two Dragons burst from the stairwell entrance, katanas drawn, and sprinted toward us.
   
Squeezed both triggers and pumped eight rounds at the pair, walking the shots up-torso and blowing the top of their heads off, their feet flying out from beneath them, bodies arching backward and slamming into the concrete floor with meaty thuds.
   
Heard the M4 go dry.
   
Mouse dropped the mag and slapped in a fresh one, went back to shooting gangers
   
Shit.
   
Too many.
   
Then something caught my eye.
   
And a thought struck.
   
Crazy enough to work.
   
I hoped.
   
Holstered the Twins, ran up to Mouse, put a hand on her shoulder.
   
She stopped shooting.
   
I pointed to the light-well.
   
She saw and gasped.
   
"Hell, no!" she said.
   
Too late.
   
I bolted for the walkway railing nearest us, vaulted to the top, kicked off, and leapt out into the open space of the light-well.

(to be continued...)

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