Armageddon Run

by David Robbins

  Orson reached the apex of the stack first. He leaned down and extended his right hand to Rudabaugh. “Here.”

  Rudabaugh hesitated for an instant, his masculine pride balking at accepting assistance.

  “Hurry it up!” Orson urged him.

  Rudabaugh took Orson’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to the top. The concrete pipes were arranged in the shape of a pyramid, with four on the bottom layer, three in the middle, and two forming the point, placed snugly side by side. Although the conduits were circular in form, they were large enough to accommodate a person lying prone on the summit with extra room to spare. Each pipe was four feet in diameter.

  Orson took the conduit on the left.

  Rudabaugh lay down on the pipe on the right and unfastened his pillowcase from his belt. He took out his pair of charges and his matches.

  Orson was doing likewise.

  “Would you do something for me?” Orson whispered.

  “What?”

  “If something should happen to me,” Orson said, “would you send word to my mom for me?”

  It was the last thing Rudabaugh would have expected Orson to ask.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  “Just in case,” the Mole persisted, “get word to my mom. Tell her I was thinking of her at the end.” He paused. “We’ve always been kind of close.”

  “Will do,” Rudabaugh pledged. He stared northward. “Here they come!”

  G.R.D.’s and soldiers were moving through the yards of the residential neighborhood, alert for trouble.

  Rudabaugh kept his eyes just high enough to note their proximity.

  When the nearest troopers were 20 yards away, he lowered his head and prepared to strike a match.

  Orson was watching Rudabaugh, awaiting his cue.

  Rudabaugh counted to ten, then lit the match and applied the flame to the first charge. He drew back his right arm, and then threw the bundle as hard as he could. Instantly, he curled up, putting his hands over his head.

  Orson followed suit.

  Seconds later, when the twin explosions came, the flatbed shook and shimmied, and for a moment Rudabaugh thought it would collapse under the stress. His ears felt like they were going to burst. Clumps of sod, dirt, grass, and other debris rained from the sky, pelting his body and stinging his skin, even through the fabric of his wool clothing.

  Orson was coughing, choking on the dust.

  Rudabaugh looked up, startled to discover a severed human arm lying on the pipe next to his left elbow, the tattered remnant of a green fatigue sleeve clinging to its shredded flesh.

  A great brown cloud was hovering over the area.

  Rudabaugh rose to his knees, the stock of the Winchester Model 94 Standard pressed against his right shoulder. He detected an indistinct form moving on the ground to his left. The Winchester cracked, and there was a strident screech accompanied by a faint thud as a body toppled to the earth.

  “Where the hell are they?” someone bellowed below.

  “I can’t see them!” another soldier replied.

  There was a slight scratching noise from the right.

  Rudabaugh turned, his eyes beholding a lizard-like G.R.D. climbing the conduits toward him, its baleful gaze fixed on him with malevolent intent.

  He aimed and pulled the trigger.

  The G.R.D. was struck in the forehead. Its arms flung wide, it was catapulted from the pipes and tumbled to the ground.

  The dust cloud was commencing to disperse on the breeze.

  Several dark figures were vaguely visible in front of the flatbed trailer.

  Orson rose to his knees and cut loose with the M-16, his burst attended by screams and shouts and curses.

  “Dammit! Where are they?” a trooper demanded.

  Rudabaugh spotted a pair of G.R.D.’s to his left, slinking in the direction of the flatbed. He fired twice, each shot connecting and slamming them to the ground.

  “I think I see them!” a soldier cried. “They’re up there!”

  Rudabaugh hastily slid backward. “Let’s go!” he called to Orson.

  “Over here!” somebody bawled.

  Orson rose and turned, about to clamber over the side of the uppermost pipe.

  Rudabaugh, already down to the middle row of culverts, glanced up and saw Orson’s right shoulder explode outward as a slug penetrated him from behind. The Mole’s head snapped back, and he was propelled from the pile of pipes, his legs and good arm waving frantically as he dropped to the ground.

  No!

  Rudabaugh released his grip, falling the rest of the way and landing on his feet. He quickly knelt alongside Orson.

  The bearded Mole was on his stomach, writhing in torment, his M-16 a few yards away, his shotgun still slung over his left shoulder.

  Rudabaugh grabbed Orson’s left shoulder. “Orson! You’ve got to get up!”

  Orson glanced at the Cavalryman, his face contorted in pain.

  “Can you get up?” Rudabaugh pressed him, looking both ways to insure their foes weren’t nearby.

  Orson nodded, grunted, and heaved to his feet. He swayed for a moment, but recovered, his right arm hanging useless at his side.

  “Hurry!” Rudabaugh led the way, running, bearing due south. Blade’s orders had been explicit: engage the enemy at the perimeter, then retreat to the town square.

  Orson did his best to keep up.

  Rudabaugh adjusted their path, heading a bit to the east. He looked over his right shoulder as they neared a white picket fence.

  Soldiers and G.R.D.’s were pouring around both ends of the flatbed trailer.

  Rudabaugh was almost to a gate in the middle of the fence. He motioned for Orson to continue, then spun and snapped off a shot at their pursuers.

  They ducked for cover.

  Rudabaugh whirled and ran for the gate.

  Orson was already on the other side, crouching behind the fence.

  The troopers near the flatbed darted into view and unleashed a volley from their M-16’s.

  Rudabaugh was framed in the gate opening when the hail of bullets plowed into the fence, splintering wood in every direction, and something tore through his left calf, sending a sharp spasm up his body and causing his leg to buckle. He sprawled onto his knees and rolled to the left.

  He’d been hit again!

  The soldiers and G.R.D.’s were charging across the yard toward the picket fence.

  His fingers trembling, Rudabaugh removed his second charge from the pillowcase and lit the fuse. He didn’t bother counting to ten this time; his only concern was providing them with enough cover to obscure their escape to the town square.

  Orson was doubled over and gasping for air, on the verge of hyperventilating.

  Rudabaugh tossed the bundle of dynamite with all of his strength.

  Predictably, the resultant blast sent a cloud of dirt and dust up, shrouding the picket fence and the immediate vicinity in an ambiguous brown haze.

  Time to get their butts in gear!

  Rudabaugh lurched to Orson and pulled him to a sitting position.

  “Orson! Snap out of it!”

  Orson’s eyes were dazed, his mouth slack.

  Rudabaugh rudely shook him. “Orson! I’ve been hit! I need your help!”

  Orson blinked his eyes, responding to the plea for aid. “You too?” he mumbled.

  “I need you!” Rudabaugh reiterated.

  Orson shook his head, striving to eradicate his wooziness. He glanced at Rudabaugh, noting the crimson hole on the Cavalryman’s left calf.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” Rudabaugh urged him.

  Orson nodded and stood. He slid his left arm under Rudabaugh’s right shoulder and heaved, straining to hold Rudabaugh erect. “I’ve got you,” Orson stated. “We’ll make it.”

  But would they?

  Even as Orson assisted Rudabaugh in limping away from the picket fence at a rapid clip, the Cavalryman could hear the pounding footsteps of their foes on the turf b
ehind them.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lynx, alone on the roof of the command post, was mad as all get out!

  His very genes craved to be in the battle, to be doing what he’d been designed to do: kill and kill again. Gunfire was rising from every direction.

  It sounded as if a veritable war were in progress.

  And here he was, on top of the damn command post, missing all the action!

  That idiot Blade!

  Stay behind, he had said!

  Wait in reserve, he’d said!

  You’ll get your chance!

  That big dimwit!

  Lynx was furiously pacing back and forth above the front door, listening to the shooting and the explosions and chafing to leave his post and join in the fun. He stopped and put his hands on the rim of the roof, about to leap over the side.

  What was that?

  He paused as the roar of a large motor drowned out the uproar of the conflict.

  It was coming from the east.

  Lynx ducked down and peered over the rim.

  Son of a bitch!

  A half-track loaded with soldiers was wheeling into the town square.

  Lynx grinned.

  Happy days were here again!

  He laughed and lowered himself completely out of sight. No sense in letting them know he was there. They might turn tail and split before he got in his licks.

  The rumble of the engine grew louder, until the building itself trembled. There was the grating squeal of brakes applied rather abruptly, and the motor was turned off.

  Lynx peeked over the rim of the roof.

  Will you look at this!

  The driver of the half-track had parked the vehicle within a few feet of the front door!

  Perfect!

  Lynx smiled in anticipation. He calculated the angle and jumped, his sinewy muscles lifting him over the rim and down onto the cab of the half-track in one fluid motion. His legs coiled under him as he landed, and he leaped, clearing the cab and plunging into the midst of the shocked soldiers in the rear section.

  The advantage was all his.

  Packed into the back of the half-track with little space to spare, the troopers were unable to bring their M-16s to bear.

  With a flashing swipe of both arms, Lynx dispatched two of the six soldiers by ripping open their throats. He pounced on a third and jammed the sharp claws of his right hand into the man’s eyes. Blood spurted from the burst eyeballs and the trooper jerked backward, attempting to escape.

  One of the soldiers pulled a bayonet from a sheath in his belt.

  Lynx grinned as he bounded onto the joker with the bayonet and sank his pointed fangs into the jerk’s neck. He twisted and yanked, and a large portion of the trooper’s throat was sheared off in a red geyser of blood and gore.

  Four down and two to go!

  One of the remaining soldiers was trying to scramble over the tailgate to safety.

  Lynx went for the other trooper, who foolishly tried to punch him in the face. In a blur, Lynx dodged under the futile blow and drove his left hand up and in, his fingers and claws rigid, spearing the man in the throat and gouging open a hole the size of his fist.

  The final adversary was precariously perched on the edge of the tailgate, prepared to spring to the ground.

  He never made it.

  A gun thundered, and the soldier was struck in the center of his back, between the shoulder blades, and toppled over the tailgate.

  Lynx vaulted to the roof of the cab, ignoring the moaning, thrashing forms on the floor of the rear section. For a second, he believed one of his friends had returned and helped him.

  But he was wrong.

  Lynx landed on the cab and froze, his hair bristling.

  “Surprise, surprise!” said a tall figure in black outside the cab to his left, the man’s cape covering his left arm, a 45 automatic pistol in his right hand with tendrils of smoke drifting upward from the barrel.

  “Hello, Lynx,” greeted the apish hulk outside the cab to his right. “Long time no see.”

  The Doktor and Thor.

  Lynx glanced from one to the other in astonishment. They must have just gotten out of the cab of the half-track!

  “What’s the matter, Lynx?” the Doktor chortled. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Thor laughed and raised his right hand, revealing his sledgehammer.

  “Got a little present for you, Lynx,” he said baiting him.

  Lynx glared at the Doktor. “This must be my lucky day.”

  “And why is that?” the Doktor queried.

  “Because,” Lynx growled, “I’ve been looking to rip you to pieces, and here you are, delivered on a silver platter!”

  The Doktor waved the 45 in his hand. “You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?”

  “You think that peashooter of yours will stop me?” Lynx taunted.

  “It stopped him,” the Doktor noted, nodding at the tailgate.

  “Why’d you waste your own man?” Lynx asked, stalling.

  “I can’t abide cowards,” the Doktor said, “and he was fleeing.”

  Lynx started to inch forward.

  “Hold it right there!” the Doktor warned, his voice hardening.

  “Why don’t you shoot?” Lynx teased him. “What are you waiting for?”

  The Doktor sneered. “I want to savor this moment. And there are a few things I want to say to you.”

  “It figures,” Lynx quipped. “You’re plannin’ to talk me to death.”

  Smiling, the Doktor shook his head. “I’ll be brief. First, I want to compliment you.”

  “Compliment me?” Lynx asked incredulously. “Have you been sniffin’ glue again?”

  “Do you have any conception of the damage you’ve caused?” the Doktor inquired. “You have set my work back decades.”

  “I tried my best,” Lynx said.

  “I want to thank you for what you’ve done,” the Doktor stated.

  Lynx looked at Thor. “What’d you do? Whack him on the head with that hammer of yours?”

  “Initially,” the Doktor went on, as if Lynx had not spoken, “I viewed the destruction of my Biological Center as a great calamity. It wasn’t until last night that I recognized the real significance of what you had done.

  Certainly, you’ve delayed the implementation of some of my plans, and you’ve ruined my laboratory, my precious laboratory!” The Doktor paused.

  “But, as Clarissa said, I can always rebuild my laboratory. I’ll continue to live on indefinitely, so long as I have access to a fresh supply of blood and can synthesize my unique dehydroepiandrosterone sulfate—

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lynx interrupted. “What’s all of this got to do with me?”

  “Don’t you see?” the Doktor replied. “You’ve taught me an invaluable lesson. I had grown complacent over the years. After ten decades without any resistance or competition, I’d allowed my sense of self-preservation to atrophy. To utilize a quaint colloquialism, what good is it to be king of the hill if there’s no one around to challenge your kingship? Do you understand?”

  “I understand, all right,” Lynx snapped. “I understand that you’re looney-tunes! You think the whole world should do what you want it to do. You believe you can do anything you want.”

  “I can,” the Doktor stated smugly.

  “And hang the consequences, huh, Doc?” Lynx retorted.

  The Doktor appeared puzzled. “Consequences?”

  Lynx pointed at his own chest. “Consequences, you bastard! You fiddled with the laws of nature, and look at what you’ve done! Look at what you’ve done to me!” Lynx hissed.

  “Is that what’s bothering your meager intellect?” the Doktor asked. “Is that why you rebelled against me? Because I created you as a special being with exceptional talents?”

  “Special?” Lynx exploded. “You made me into a freak! Me and all the rest of your misfits!”

  The Doktor sighed. “You fail to see the light.”

 
Lynx leaned forward. “Oh, I see it, all right! I see that you’ve got to be stopped, no matter what it takes!”

  “And you think you can do it?” The Doktor laughed.

  Lynx noticed Thor was grinning. “What’s with you, lunkhead? Do you like being the Doc’s pet monkey?”

  The Doktor stiffened. “Thor is my close associate,” he said, correcting Lynx.

  “Your ass!” Lynx snapped. “Thor is an expendable flunky, just like all the rest of us test-tube freaks!”

  “He is not,” the Doktor declared indignantly.

  “Oh, yeah?” Lynx pointed at Thor. “Tell me you wouldn’t kill him in a minute if it suited your demented mind!”

  “Don’t listen to him,” the Doktor said calmly to Thor. “He’s raving.”

  “Am I?” Lynx gazed at Thor. “Think! Use your pitiful excuse for a brain! Do you really think the Doc gives a damn about you?”

  Thor glanced from Lynx to the Doktor, his sloping brow furrowed.

  “This conversation is terminated,” the Doktor said brusquely. “Thor, finish him off.”

  Thor hesitated.

  The Doktor’s left arm moved under his cape.

  Thor suddenly clutched at the metal collar around his squat neck, his powerful body arching, as a jolting surge of electricity jarred his senses.

  The Doktor’s left hand emerged from under his cape, his fingers grasping an odd black box about six inches in length and four inches wide.

  There were a number of silver toggle switches and blinking lights on the upper surface of the black box.

  Thor dropped his sledgehammer and fell to his knees, his lips curled back from his prominent teeth, his entire frame quaking.

  “When I give an order,” the Doktor said, “I expect it to be obeyed.”

  Lynx was staring at the black box. It had to be one of the portable control units the Doktor was known to secret on his person. Without it, the Doktor would be unable to activate the transistorized electronic circuitry in the collars. Without it, the Doktor would not be able to compel his genetic aberrations to passively submit to his commands.

  A crackling sound arose from the metal collar as Thor continued to tremble.

  Lynx was thankful his own collar had been removed weeks before, shortly before the Warrior known as Yama had rescued him from the Citadel.