Lesser Gods Read Online Free PDF Page A

been.
    Obviously time for me to devise a Plan B. Either that, or resign myself to being sliced and diced when I reached the barricade of well wishers forming in front of me.
    I glanced at the street ahead, searching for some way out. And there it was: A sign proclaiming “Sporting Goods” halfway up the block between me and machine gun head.
    I had an idea.
    Reaching down to my thigh, I unlocked and released the mini-claymore and then, with shaky fingers, peeled the backing from it, exposing the sticky surface underneath. I slowed just enough to slap the claymore onto the thick armor plate of a rusty postal box as I whistled past it.
    Speeding up again, I could now see the machine gun ahead of me being trained at my chest. But as I expected, the Harvey held his fire, knowing if he could avoid damaging me, my body would be worth a lot more to the snatchers that bought parts from them. The machine gun would only be employed as a last-ditch method of stopping me. The other Harvies were spreading their nets, hoping to capture me alive for minimal damage to the body parts on skates headed their way.
    I glanced back.
    My pursuers were nearly even with the postal box. I slowed to a stop and thumbed off the cover of what appeared to be a decorative insignia on my vest, exposing the claymore’s remote firing button underneath. As the group tailing me came into range, they slowed, realizing they were in danger.
    But they were too late.
    I pushed the button. There was a resounding explosion and a cloud of smoke and dust rose over the place where they’d been.
    I didn’t wait to see the results produced by the spray of high velocity plastic fragments thrown in a wide swathe across the street behind me. With any luck I would have gotten nearly all the Harvey’s, but there now had to be fewer working models behind me than in front. I went a few more feet and then slammed to a stop alongside the sporting goods store, turned, and glanced back.
    Luck had been with me. All the Harvies that had been pursuing me were down, with only a few showing even a hint of life, their clawed arms snapping and thrashing madly in their death throes.
    Seeing that I was no longer boxed in, the machine gunner fired a short burst; the armor-piercing slugs cracked through the air over my head as I dived through the wide portcullis leading into the cool interior of the sporting goods store, a business I hoped, given its location, would be devoted to death and mayhem toward man and animal alike.
    My hope was fulfilled. While the store displayed a few obligatory bows and arrows and an ancient Frisbee that looked as if it might have been an original, in keeping with its location, most of the merchandise behind bullet-proof display windows was armament — everything from grenades to mortars to flame throwers and all stops in between.
    “Need to do some business,” I said loudly over the machine gun fire on the street. I held up the smart card Death had given me so the wizened man behind the thick bullet-proof glass could see it.
    The sight of a card full of creds brought a rising smile to the dealer’s face, wrinkling his skin until it looked like his skull might crack. I shoved the card into a reader for a quick cred check. The unit glowed green and “500” appeared in its readout.
    “What can I take you for?” the store owner asked, smile now permanently frozen in place.
    “Cartridges. Two millimeter SRR, armor piercing.”
    The man behind the counter scratched his chin, raised an eyebrow, and then vanished behind the counter. He reappeared a second later with a box of pre-loaded, disposable magazines in his hand. “Anything else?”
    “No — but I’m in a hurry.”
    He plinked the ammo on the counter and shoved the packet through the transfer slot that cycled and brought the ammunition to my side of the armored window. I pulled my charge card out of his machine and pocketed it, then snatched the ammo packet, broke it open, and jammed a magazine