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As if on cue, a smoking aircraft skidded onto the deck, gear snapped, rolling over.
Half a wing was gone.
A cluster of mutants clawed at the cockpit, gnawing through it. Gunfire cracked from inside.
Saving lives came first. They would forget the boss for now.
Ample Time nocked an explosive arrow, loosed it at the nearest mutant.
The blast tore through its spine, fragments peppering others, wings shredded and bloody.
Shrieking, they staggered back.
Tracer fire then cut them down, skulls bursting one after another.
Old White charged, axe cleaving a fanged skull on the cockpit.
Inside, Falling Feather gasped. His chest...
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