There was only one fighting style Dallas knew: brawling. He held his axe in front like a limbo stick and charged in, clotheslining five thralls at once. He could hear the gunfire behind him slowing down, as the humans had to adjust their aim to avoid hitting him in the back. While cutting the Lost apart was usually his one and only game plan, Dallas had a much easier method for dispatching them today. He was going to chuck them off the bridge. The dumb bastards barely remembered how to fight let alone do a breast stroke, and the river underneath was easily six feet deep by his reckoning.
Whether by pushing, tripping, or throwing, Dallas sent the thralls careening over the side one by one. Here and there they would get taken out by his axe or a stray bullet from the rear, but a lot of them ended up taking a swim. The bridge was too narrow for the thralls to surround them with sheer numbers, and after a few minutes of fighting the cannon fodder were cleared away.
And then there was the infernal. The moment it had a clear line of sight on Dallas it started shooting lasers at him, and with little room to maneuver he had no choice but to deflect them outright. With his reflexes it was well within his ability to block the leader’s attacks, but these beams felt heavy. Every time an energy bolt hit his axe blade it felt like his weapon was going to shatter into pieces. The metal strip holding the handle together groaned with every impact. The force of the infernal’s beams kept pushing Dallas back, and he couldn’t get close enough to take its head off.
Luckily Dallas wasn’t the only revenant on the scene. Mr. Balaclava had apparently been waiting for his opening. The axe wielding handyman could see where the type B’s shadows manifested behind the humanoid Lost. It was a pincer maneuver the Commune had used many times with Cerise. The fight ended with an unceremonious burst from the man’s assault rifle. Infernals were immortal, but they weren’t bulletproof.
