In the Heart of Darkness(127)

Back again, quick. Chop. Chop. Chop. More fingers—and a thumb—fell to the floor. A wrist dangled, half-severed. Blood covered a face gashed to the bone.



Back again, quick. The men piled up behind the table were a helpless shrieking mob. Not even that—a pack of sheep, half-paralyzed by third-degree burns and mutilation.



Chop. Chop. Chop.



Now, the strikes were lethal. Hands with severed wrists and amputated fingers could no longer protect necks. Antonina aimed for the carotid arteries and hit two out of three. (The third would die also, a bit more slowly, from a severed jugular.)



Instantly, she was soaked in blood. She leaned into the spurting gore, like a child might lean into a fountain, and struck at the two remaining men behind the table. Both of them—dazed with shock and agony—were trying to crawl away from the nightmare.



One of them worked his way free, with nothing worse than a split shoulder blade. The other collapsed, dead. Antonina had chopped right through the back of his neck, severing the spine.



The sole survivor, screaming with fear and pain, scrambled toward the door on his knees and hands. (One hand, rather. His left hand was fingerless.) The timing, from Antonina's viewpoint, was perfect. The remaining thugs in the outer room had finally managed to drag aside the two bodies blocking the door. Two of them pushed their way through, only to stumble over the thug crawling toward them.



One of the men kept his balance, staggering against the doorframe. The other tripped and sprawled across the pile of bodies in the middle of the kitchen. He flung out his hands to break his fall and managed to grab the edge of the table.



For a brief instant, the thug stared up at Antonina.



Her face was the last thing he ever saw. Other than the huge blade which descended onto his own face and removed it. The cleaver bit into his forehead and kept going, down and down, driven by Antonina's fury. The blade peeled off his eyebrows, shredded the eyes, took the nose, both lips, all the chin and a small piece of the chin bone.



Then, Antonina made her first mistake. By now—some thirty seconds into the battle—she was almost berserk with rage. She kicked aside the face flopping onto her foot, drew back the cleaver, and split the man's head in half. The blow was so ferocious that the blade jammed in the skull.



She tugged at it fiercely. Jerked. Jerked again.



Stuck.



She looked up. The thug leaning against the doorframe stared back at her. For a moment, the man's eyes were simply wide with shock. His jaw hung loose.



Then, seeing her predicament, he shouted sudden victory and sprang toward her. He circled around the pile of bodies and the upended table, making his way into the rear of the small kitchen.



"Come on, lads!" he bellowed. "I've got the bitch trapped!" He waved his club triumphantly.



Antonina backed against the stove and seized both of the remaining knives. She flipped one of them end-for-end. Now holding it by the blade, she made a throwing motion. The club-wielding man in front of her drew back, flinching.



It was a feint. She half-turned and threw the knife at another thug coming through the kitchen door.



That knife, however, was too blade-heavy for a good throw. The thug howled from the pain—the haft bruised his chest badly—and staggered back out of sight. But Antonina knew that he was not even disabled.



Despairing, she turned back to face her immediate opponent.



I didn't think there'd be so many.



She pushed all despair aside. She didn't expect to survive, but she would sell her life dearly.



From the outer room, Antonina heard a sudden shouting uproar. Cries of triumph, she assumed, but ignored them. Her attention was completely fixed on her assailant in the kitchen.



The thug in front of her danced back and forth, snarling and waving his club. For all the man's bravado, Antonina realized that he was also very frightened. She had slaughtered a number of his fellows, after all. And—like the fat shopkeeper—the street tough recognized the expert way she was holding her knife.



He cocked his head, without taking his eyes from her. "Come on!" he bellowed. "Damn you—I've got her trapped!"



Antonina stepped forward. Her knife waved, feinted, probed. The thug backed against the wall, swinging his club wildly. Antonina kept her distance, looking for an opening.



Again, the thug shouted.



"What the hell are you waiting for, you assholes?"



From the door, a cold voice answered.



"They're waiting for Satan."



Antonina gasped. Her eyes sped to the door. She staggered back against the other wall, almost collapsing from relief.



The thug's eyes followed hers. An instant later, all color left his face.