Armageddon Run

by David Robbins

  The G.R.D.’s reached the backyard in question and swarmed around the swing set.

  Now!

  Rudabaugh drove the plunger down.

  Six sticks of dynamite detonated with a resounding explosion, blowing dirt and dust and tangled metal, along with torn limbs and ravaged torsos, into the air. The noise was deafening.

  The G.R.D.’s in the middle and on the left slowed, taken completely unaware by this development.

  Hickok, Blade, Geronimo, and Bertha were sprinting toward the garage, taking advantage of the momentary lull.

  Orson left the cover of the doghouse and jogged to join them.

  The G.R.D.’s on the left spotted Orson leaving and renewed their onslaught.

  Rudabaugh removed the first set of wires and applied the second.

  The G.R.D.’s on the left were about 30 yards from the doghouse.

  Then 20.

  Then ten.

  Rudabaugh depressed the plunger, and six more sticks of dynamite blew countless genetic mutations to kingdom come.

  Two charges expended—five to go!

  Rudabaugh stripped the second set of wires and affixed the third.

  Bertha tripped and fell. Hickok was at her side in a flash, yanking her erect and propelling her toward the garage.

  Blade, reloaded, was protecting his friends. He unleashed a rain of death on any G.R.D.’s foolhardy enough to get within range of his Commando.

  Geronimo’s FNC was equally as efficient in dispensing ruinous mayhem among the furious creatures.

  Orson caught up with the others and added his M-16 to their firepower.

  The G.R.D.’s were fanning out, the flanks deploying in uneven lines, evidently intending to encircle the defenders and finish them off.

  Rudabaugh knew he would need to time this just right. He gripped the plunger, observing the left flank as it swung wide of the area near the doghouse. He hastily counted at least 20 of the brutes in the desired tract and leaned on the plunger.

  Another gigantic explosion rocked Catlow.

  His nimble fingers flying, Rudabaugh replaced the third set of wires with the fourth. An instant later, he pressed the plunger.

  The G.R.D.’s on the left flank received the same destructive treatment as their counterparts on the right.

  The cool air was now filled with billowing dust, literally choked with clouds of pulverized dirt.

  The Warriors, Bertha, and Orson reached the garage.

  Blade, his left hand pressed against his side, the Commando in his right, looked up at the slanted roof. “Rudabaugh!”

  Rudabaugh peered over the edge.

  “Fall back!” Blade ordered. “We can’t hold them!”

  Rudabaugh waved them on. “Keep going! I have three more surprises to set off!”

  Blade hesitated, reluctant to leave one of his men behind.

  “Go!” Rudabaugh urged him. “I’ll catch up!”

  The others started toward the command post. Blade nodded once and took off.

  Rudabaugh turned to survey the field.

  The dust was beginning to disperse. Bodies covered the field and the backyards of many of the homes. The remaining G.R.D.’s were congregating in the center of the field, gathering their forces for an all-out assault.

  Rudabaugh calculated his tactics. The final three charges were planted in a line between the garage and the field. The first was 60 yards from the garage; the second, 40; and the third, only 20. If the placements were to be utilized to their peak advantage, he would need to insure that the G.R.D.’s came directly toward the garage. He attached the set of wires for the first charge, grinned, and stood up.

  Some of the G.R.D.’s spotted him, and with a mighty din they advanced on the garage.

  Rudabaugh stayed erect. He knew he was taking a great risk, because some of the creatures were armed, but he wanted them to concentrate on him to the exclusion of all else.

  The G.R.D.’s reached the tree Bertha had hidden behind, surging forward, game for the battle despite their heavy losses.

  A bullet smacked into the roof to the right of Rudabaugh.

  Not yet! he told himself.

  The leading line of creatures approached the vicinity of the first charge.

  Not yet!

  Something buzzed by Rudabaugh’s head to the left.

  They were now at the 40-yard point and still coming.

  Not yet!

  He wanted the expanse of ground between the garage and the field to be crammed with the fiends when he detonated the trio of charges.

  The G.R.D.’s sprinted onward, and the fleetest of them arrived at the 20-foot mark.

  Rudabaugh started to bend over, to reach for the plunger, when a scorching, searing pain shot through his left shoulder, wrenching his body sideways and causing him to totter, lose his balance, and fall on his right side as his feet dropped out from under him and he endeavored to catch himself before he slid off the garage roof.

  He’d been hit!

  He couldn’t afford to waste precious seconds examining the wound. His left arm was tingling, strangely unresponsive and useless, so he lunged for the plunger with his right.

  The 60-yard charge exploded.

  Frantically, Rudabaugh took off the wires for the spent charge and replaced them with the set for the next bundle.

  There was a peculiar scraping noise coming from the other side of the garage.

  Rudabaugh depressed the plunger and the air vibrated with the concussion of the 40-yard charge.

  Hurry! his mind screamed.

  Hurry!

  In a twinkling, he had the third set of wires fastened to the contacts.

  The odd scraping was louder.

  Rudabaugh fell on the plunger.

  Only 20 yards from the seventh charge, the garage was buffeted by the tremendous blast, its walls shaking and swaying. For a moment, it seemed as if the building would collapse. Dirt, rocks, and tiny pieces of mushy flesh showered from the sky.

  Rudabaugh grimaced as a large stone glanced off his temple. His left shoulder felt cold and clammy, and he backed up, scrambling down the roof. He looked up at the box, regretting he had to leave it behind, and the act saved his life.

  Perched on the top of the garage roof was one of the Doktor’s genetic deviates. Decidedly reptilian, this one had bulging red eyes and scaly green skin. Instead of four fingers and a thumb, the creature had three abnormally long digits, each capped by a razor-like claw. It hissed and leaped.

  Rudabaugh went for his right pistol, his draw impeded by his awkward position. He managed to clear leather, but not before the G.R.D. slammed into him, driving him backward, both of them hurtling from the roof and falling to the ground.

  Rudabaugh twisted as they fell, hoping the creature would bear the brunt of the impact, but they both landed on their left side. A lancing spasm racked his body, and he forced himself to respond, to roll away from the G.R.D. before it could recover. He lurched to his knees and brought the 45 automatic up.

  The thing was already on its feet.

  Rudabaugh fired, the 45 booming, the bullet catching the deviate in its chest and jerking it rearward. But it recovered almost immediately and sprang, snarling, its claws outstretched. He fired again and again, each slug stopping the creature in its tracks, but each time it kept coming. His fingers abruptly became weak as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

  The G.R.D. towered above him, its fangs gleaming.

  Rudabaugh attempted to use his pistol, but his sluggish body refused to respond to his commands. He flinched, expecting the claws to slash into him, to rend him apart, but instead a volley of lead crashed into the creature and flung it against the garage.

  “Hang on!” someone exclaimed.

  Rudabaugh felt an arm encircle his waist and he was forcibly hauled to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged in the general direction of the command post. He turned his weary head, anticipating he would see Blade or Hickok or Geronimo.

  It was Orson.

&nbs
p; “Hang on!” the Mole reiterated, casting frequent glances over his shoulder to ascertain if they were being pursued. “We’ll make it!”

  Rudabaugh nodded once, then blacked out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Blade gazed up at the late afternoon sun, then down at Rudabaugh.

  “How long was I unconscious?” the Cavalryman inquired. He was lying on a green Army blanket, which Orson had placed on the ground outside the concrete command post, to the right of the front entrance. His legs were pointed toward the town square.

  Bertha answered his question. She was sitting with her back to the wall, only two feet away from Rudabaugh to his left, resting her injured right leg. “You’ve been out for hours, honey,” she informed him.

  “What happened?” Rudabaugh queried. He couldn’t remember anything after Orson came to his rescue.

  “Those explosives of yours did the trick,” Blade stated. “They broke and ran after the last three. We haven’t heard a peep out of them since.” He glanced up at the roof of the command post. “Anything?” he yelled. “Hey, Lynx! Do you hear me?”

  Feline features popped into view. “I hear ya, dimples! Don’t you think I’d let you know if I see somethin’? There’s no sign of ‘em!” He vanished from sight.

  Blade frowned. “I don’t like it! It’s been too quiet!”

  “Haven’t you had enough fun for one day, pard?” Hickok asked. The gunman was leaning on the door jamb.

  Geronimo stood to his right.

  Orson was squatting on the ground about four feet behind Blade, absently tugging at his black beard.

  “Any orders?” Geronimo asked.

  “There’s not much we can do except wait,” Blade replied. He looked at Rudabaugh. “You did ring the town square and the command post with charges like I told you to do?”

  Rudabaugh nodded. “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Then we’re all set at your end,” Blade said.

  “Not quite,” Rudabaugh corrected him.

  “What do you mean?” Blade queried.

  “I do have nine charges left,” Rudabaugh mentioned, “but they won’t do us much good if I have to detonate them all by hand. We’ll need to dig them up and replace the caps.”

  “But what about your electric blasting caps?” Blade inquired.

  “They only work with my little box,” Rudabaugh answered, “and I lost it.”

  “Lost it?”

  “Actually, I left it on the roof of that garage,” Rudabaugh elaborated.

  Blade nodded at Hickok. “Go get it.”

  “On my way, pard,” the gunfighter responded, unslinging his Henry.

  “I’ll go with him,” Geronimo offered. “He’ll need a boost onto the garage roof.”

  “Stay alert,” Blade advised them.

  The two Warriors ran around the northeastern corner of the command post.

  Rudabaugh carefully examined the wound in his left shoulder. Someone had cleaned it and applied a bandage while he was unconscious. “Who do I thank for this?” he questioned the others.

  “Thank Bertha,” Blade said. “She took care of you and me before she tended to herself.”

  “Thanks,” Rudabaugh said to Bertha.

  “It’s a clean hole,” Blade went on. “The bullet missed the bone. Bertha took a hit in her right thigh, but it’s stopped bleeding and it isn’t broken.”

  “What about you?” Rudabaugh pointed at Blade’s left side.

  Blade opened his black leather vest, displaying a crude bandage consisting of white strips torn from a sheet in the command post and wrapped around his broad torso. “As near as I can determine,” Blade commented, “the slug penetrated low on my back, deflected off one of my ribs, and exited shy of my sternum.”

  “It must hurt like hell!” Rudabaugh observed.

  “It does keep you on your toes,” Blade admitted.

  “Speakin’ of stayin’ on our toes,” Bertha interjected, “shouldn’t we have someone patrollin’ the outskirts of this dump?”

  Blade shook his head. “We can all use a short breather, and Lynx will spot them if they make a move.”

  “What’s our next move?” Bertha asked.

  “We’ll eat and bed down in the command post,” Blade answered. “We’ll rotate guard shifts tonight so everybody can catch some shut-eye.”

  “I’ll take the first shift,” Orson volunteered.

  “You?” Blade was pleasantly surprised by Orson’s eager-beaver attitude.

  “Sure. I’m a Mole, ain’t I? And we’re used to living underground, which means I can see real good in the dark. I’ll relieve Lynx when you give the word,” Orson said.

  Blade scrutinized the Mole’s bearded visage.

  “You weren’t too keen on this mission a couple of days ago. What changed your mind?”

  Orson glanced at Bertha. “The other night, when all of you were picking on me. It got me thinking. I saw I was being the world’s worst pain in the ass. You’re right, Blade. I don’t want to be here. But I am here now, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m pissed off at Wolfe for making me come along, but there’s no reason why I should take it out on all of you.”

  He paused and chuckled. “Besides, if I don’t fall in line Hickok just might put a bullet between my eyes, and the last thing I need is another hole in my head.”

  Blade smiled. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Hey! Mighty Warrior!” Bertha chimed in.

  Blade faced her. “What?”

  “Do you still think we can hold out for two days?” Bertha inquired.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “You don’t see!” Bertha sputtered. “Take a look around you! In case you hadn’t noticed, three of us have had our wings clipped. We came awful close to gettin’ racked today.”

  “Racked?” Blade repeated quizzically.

  “Yeah. Racked. Wasted. Dead, dummy!”

  Blade shrugged. “We hold out for as long as we can.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” Bertha declared.

  Blade stared at the western horizon. “It’ll be nightfall soon. You’ll feel better after a good rest.”

  “Bet me!” Bertha retorted.

  Blade grinned and cupped his hands around his lips. “Hey, Lynx!”

  Lynx appeared on the roof. “I ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

  “It’s not that.” Blade said. “You know the Doktor better than any of us.

  Will he try anything before daylight.”

  “It’s hard to outfox the Doc,” Lynx replied. “He took a real beatin’ today, and he may sulk all night and try again come morning. Then again, he may send in some of his pets after dark to assassinate us.”

  Blade placed his hands on his Bowies and began pacing. If he were the Doktor that’s exactly what he’d do: send in some of his best men, or things, to quietly slit a throat or three and reduce the opposition. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, so what action could he take to negate the threat? There was only one logical recourse. “Except for the guard on the roof, we’re going to spend the night in the SEAL,” he announced.

  “Why the SEAL?” Orson asked.

  “Several reasons,” Blade answered. “The Doktor doesn’t know we have the transport here, although he may suspect we do. The SEAL’s impervious plastic body will shield us from a would-be assassin’s bullet.

  Even if one of them stumbled on the transport in the shed, they can’t see inside. We’ll be safer in the SEAL than we would be in the command post.”

  “If we’re so safe in the buggy,” Bertha remarked, “why bother having a guard on the roof? Wouldn’t it be best if everybody was in the SEAL?”

  “We can’t shut ourselves off from the outside completely,” Blade explained. “If the Doktor should be foolish enough to launch a mass assault at night, we’d need to know about it.”

  Rudabaugh had a question. “Did Kilrane say who it was who’d be out there keeping Catlow under surveilance?”

  “Nope,” Blade
said. “Just that it would be someone he could trust, and he’d get word to their column if we were in trouble.”

  “How many do you think we killed today?” Bertha inquired.

  “A lot,” Blade guessed.

  “I’d estimate somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred,” Rudabaugh commented.

  “That many?” Bertha marveled.

  “Maybe more,” Rudabaugh said.

  “And not one of us was racked!” Bertha stated, shaking her head in wonder.

  “But three of us were hurt,” Blade pointed out. “We were fortunate today, but only because the Doktor didn’t know we had the dynamite. Tomorrow will be a completely different story. He’ll be more cautious. He’ll probably come at us from all sides.”

  “Which is why we need my magic box,” Rudabaugh joked.

  As if on cue, Hickok and Geronimo came around the northeastern corner of the command post, their arms empty except for their weapons.

  “Where’s the box?” Blade demanded.

  “Gone,” Hickok laconically replied.

  “Gone? Where?”

  Hickok leaned against the wall, catching his breath. Geronimo and he had jogged both ways. “How should I know?” he rejoined. “We got there and I took a look-see on the roof. No box.”

  “One of the G.R.D.’s must have taken it,” Rudabaugh speculated.

  “What about the charges you placed around the town square?” Blade asked.

  “We’ll have to dig them up,” Rudabaugh said. “I can’t detonate them remotely without the box. We’ll dig them up, and I’ll attach different caps and fuses. Each of us can take a couple of bundles of dynamite, and when the time is right, you just light the fuse, throw your bundle, and run like hell.”

  “But you said you only have nine charges left,” Blade noted.

  “Each charge consists of a bundle containing six sticks of dynamite,” Rudabaugh detailed. “I’ll break down the bundles and make them smaller, say four sticks apiece.”

  “Are you certain you’re up to it?” Blade queried.

  “I can manage,” Rudabaugh assured him.

  “Okay. Tell us where they’re buried and we’ll dig them up for you,” Blade offered.

  “I didn’t count on handling dynamite,” Orson mentioned. “Isn’t it dangerous? I mean, what happens if we light a bundle and don’t toss it far enough or drop it at our own feet?”