Shoot Her!
Moviemuncher
Summary: He slowly takes his aim at the eye about eleven foot away, preparing to shoot with lethal precision. The bushes rustle to his left and dread and fear pool in his gut. He looks round and sees her; the big one. "Clever girl" he whispers, disappointed at himself. He knew their intelligence. He should have known better. She lunges. Notes:
(See the end of the work for notes.)
Work Text:
He slowly takes his aim at the eye about eleven foot away, preparing to shoot with lethal precision. The bushes rustle to his left and dread and fear pool in his gut. He looks round and sees her; the big one.
"Clever girl" he whispers, disappointed at himself. He knew their intelligence. He should have known better.
She lunges.
He feels the claws on her fore limb dig into his face and the other on his upper left arm, she's biting his shoulder at the joint her wickedly curved, retractable claw digs into his leg as he rolls to his back. She moves with him and he feels searing agony, pain and desperation. He clenches both fists tightly and realises he's still holding the shotgun, his eyes are squeezed shut to offer meagre protection from the claws. He swings the Franchi shotgun around as hard as he can against her skull. He is a strong, desperate man so it knocks her forwards, but raptors are tenacious even as she bites into his fleshy upper arm. She knows if she bit his neck the fight would be over.
She knows.
Still, she recognized him and his hate, she's being sadistic. He places his finger on the trigger and jambs it to where her hind leg meets her body and fires, the recoil burning along his wrist and arm. She jerks backwards and topples sideways, shrieking. He looks up to see the raptor that had been eleven feet away was gone from sight. He rolled from the thrashing raptor trying to regain its balance and tried to stand himself.
He couldn't, he looked at his leg and saw a raking, eight inch cut on his left thigh, oozing blood thickly. Possibly his artery. He aimed his gun at the raptors neck and fired, her head snapped up from the force of a close distance round and collapsed. The raptor gargled, it's death rattle he was sure, as his labored breathing was probably his.
Still, Robert Muldoon had defeated this creature and no doubt the other two were after Sattler. He hoped she made it to the relative safety of the maintenance shed. He needed medical attention and that meant the normally two minute walk back to the bunker. Injured as he was, he could only hope to get there within ten minutes. If he didn't bleed out or get attacked. He didn't see any signs of arterial spray and the surprisingly shallow wound was towards his outer thigh.
Using the shotgun as a prop, he launched himself up. The raptor was still gurgling, its tail flopping weakly. He watched it cautiously, without sympathy. But still, he had to kill it. To satisfy an instinct, a need inside that he'd had since the raptors killed the first of four workers. He leaned against a tree as he shot it in the neck again, because it wasn't moving so much it was a solid blow and with a brief convulsion of the head and tail, it stopped. Stopped all noise and movement.
Finally.
Muldoon looked at his injured and useless left arm, blood forged rivers into skin that pumped slowly. Puncture wounds lay in an oval pattern above his elbow, 'bout a half inch deep. He knew there were similar indentations along the his arm and shoulder. The skin round them was ragged but the rips were tiny. She had been biting but not tearing. Unusual.
He had to go.
He walked; stooped over and using the shotgun to support himself he was able to find the path. He made the short journey to the raptor pen slowly. Birds tweeted and chirped, the sun shone and there were no dinosaurs. Besides sharp, sometimes stabbing pain and the irritations that came with it, it was almost pleasant. He was limping heavily across the sand. It had taken him about ten minutes to reach the door that he clumsily opened and shoved himself through, pulling it shut behind him. The lights were back on. Sattler did it, he supposed. Or maybe the emergency generator was on, the auxilary power, if the bastard Nedry didn't shut that down too.
Maybe the lights had been on before, he couldn't remember. He felt dizzy and sick and tired.
The heavy bunker door was down the corridor. He shouted something, he wasn't sure what. Maybe 'help'.
Either way, Hammond popped his head out at the door like a meerkat reacting to a dustress call from a family member. He saw Muldoon and jumped. Muldoon realised he must make a frightful sight, a tall figure covered in mud, blood and injuries. Hammond rushed out with his cane and ducked under his useless, tender left arm. He hissed.
"Sorry dear boy, truly I am."
Hammond had spoke softly, warmly and with weight. Muldoon wondered if he meant beyond the discomfort he'd caused as he leaned some weight on the shorter man. He forced himself forward and heard Malcolm gasp as he entered. He made it about four feet into the room before pitching forward, hitting a counter and passing out. The agony unbearable, and the fear of dying, the unkown, sickening. The last thing he heard was the crack of his own skull on a metal surface.
Notes: Please give some form of feedback. Anonymous feedback is allowed so no excuses. JK, it would be nice though. Posted on AO3 also.
Series this work belongs to:
« Part 2 of the Survival of Robert Muldoon series