by neetha Napew
“Poison gas?”
“Not quite, but close.”
“Fuses?”
“Nope. Just break the glass and the chems mix.”
“Good. Bastard fuses give away too much.”
“Check.”
“Sounds okay,” Mildred admitted. “It’s us or them, so you know my vote.”
Krysty pursed her lips, then nodded. “Let’s do it.”
“Anybody got a better idea, speak now,” Ryan said gruffly, glancing at the barbed wire and curtains of the makeshift roof. “From the sound of the wind and thunder, the storm is almost gone, so we have to move fast.”
There was no dissent.
“Okay,” he said, “We hit them hard and fast. Don’t give the baron a chance to plan or regroup. Keep him off balance. The sec men outnumber us, but we have automatic weapons and the Hummer. Firepower and mobility.”
A knife appeared from out of nowhere in Jak’s hand, spun on its pommel in his palm, then was slid smoothly back into his sleeve. “Dead meat,” the teenager stated confidently.
Off in a corner by itself, the string from upstairs jerked, making a spoon in a glass tinkle like a tiny bell. The sound startled everybody.
Slowly at first, then faster, Ryan started across the basement to tug back to see if it was a warning, or just Doc asking for a piss break, when there came the stitching zip of the HK G-12 caseless from overhead, followed by screams and the raging snarl of wolves.
“Dark night, they found us!” J.B. cursed, drawing his blaster.
“Already?” Mildred gasped, doing the same.
Weapons out, Ryan and Jak were heading for the door to the stairwell with Jak close behind.
Grabbing his bag of munitions, J.B. stopped at the stairs and turned. “Hey, Millie!” he shouted, and tossed over the M-4000 shotgun.
“Just in case,” the Armorer said softly.
The physician nodded, then reached into a pocket and tossed him a gren. “The last one. Don’t miss, John.”
J.B. tucked it away, threw her a smile and took off at a run.
Bursting out of the stairwell, the companions found Doc behind the reception desk firing the Heckler & Koch at a swarm of sec men climbing over the barricade of file cabinets. Ryan and the others opened fire, and the invaders fell back screaming and cursing. Two bleeding bodies stayed where they were, draped motionless on the metal banks.
Advancing to the barricade, Ryan rested his blaster on top of a cabinet between the dead men. They would give good cover. “Volley fire at the windows,” he ordered softly. “On my mark...now!”
A hellstorm of lead shattered the remaining panes of snowy glass, exposing thirty sec men armed with autofires standing in the sandy street.
“Chill them!” Ryan shouted, riding the bucking Steyr SSG-70 as he worked the bolt and fired steadily.
Their bodies dancing under the impacts, six sec men fell to the ground before the rest could scurry away. A snarling wolf leaped on top of the files, and Jak shot it in the face with his .357 Colt Python, the muzzle-flash igniting the fur as the head exploded and the body tumbled off. In seconds, the street before their building was clear of live targets.
As Ryan shoved in a fresh clip, he scowled at the garage directly across from them where the Hummer was hidden. So bloody close, but it might as well be on the moon for all the good it could do them now.
“Doc, cover fire from the roof and watch for jumpers,” he snapped. “Krysty, take the first floor in case somebody gets past us or tries a window.”
“On it,” the redhead answered.
“Godspeed all,” the oldster rumbled.
As the pair disappeared into the shadowy interior of the predark building, there came the sound of running boots, and a mob of yelling sec men charged into view carrying sheets of glass before them as shields. The companions coolly opened fire, but the rounds simply knocked the men back, becoming embedded in the soft clear material.
“What the... Shitfire! It’s that Plexiglas from the bank!”
Heartened by their apparent invulnerability, the troops rallied and charged again, firing their automatics around the sides of the resilient plastic.
“Shoes!” Ryan shouted, lowering the barrel.
The companions concentrated on the shuffling boots of the sec men. Leather toes erupted, spraying blood. A man fell and was trampled by the others. Another dropped, losing the shield, and his exposed comrades died. Then the rest were inside the building, shouting and whooping like madmen.
Maintaining steady fire, the companions fell back to the receptionist desk as the sec force tried to shove aside the cabinets. But filled with books and with every handle lashed together with spare barbed wire, the barrier was immovable.
“Gren,” Ryan ordered, dropping the rifle and drawing his handblaster, working the slide to chamber a round.
Holding the Uzi with both hands, J.B. carefully aimed at the ceiling on the other side of the barrier.
“No need for that yet,” he spit, and fired.
The ceiling tiles broke apart, displaying a dozen plastic bottles tied to the rafters. Riddled with bullets, the containers poured out their pale blue contents onto the sec men. Shrieking with pain, the horrified men dropped their weapons and shields, beating insanely at their melting flesh, white bones and pulsating organs already in plain view.
Advancing, the companions slaughtered the dissolving victims, and caught a couple of unhurt men trying to leave the hellish lobby. Two shots and the cowards fell face first into the sizzling puddles.
“What was that?” Ryan asked, backing away from the cabinets. The pungent smell was horrific, beyond description; his nose was running and eye watering. “Acid rain water?”
Moving to a safe distance, J.B. grinned without humor. “Liquid drain cleaner, spiced with a little of my brew. I found a whole carton in the janitor’s closet. Great stuff. They won’t hit here again for a while.”
“Got more?” Jak asked, snapping off a shot at a dashing wolf and missing. He cracked the cylinder, dropped the brass and reloaded.
“No,” J.B. said solemnly. “Got a bunch of stuff cooking downstairs, but it’s not ready, and this is it for traps. We’re on our own.”
DOWN IN THE BASEMENT, a scratching noise drew Mildred’s attention from the commotion upstairs. Grabbing a lantern, the physician moved through the fast-food restaurants, tracking the disturbance until finding a manhole cover in the floor of a back utility room. The round disk was rotating, as if unscrewing, and faint voices murmured on the other side.
Turning off the lantern, she took a position behind a cold furnace and patiently waited. Finally, the cover was gently lifted and a face peeked out of the hole, eyes glancing quickly about.
“See anything?” asked somebody deeper inside the access shaft.
“Looks clear,” the first sec man replied, glancing about.
Mildred stretched out her arm and neatly shot the man in the temple. His head jerked, and he dropped out of sight down the shaft, the heavy iron lid slamming back into position. Dim cries came from below as the falling corpse apparently knocked several sec men off the access ladder.
Holstering her ZKR .38, Mildred ignored the water heater and furnace as too heavy for her to move, and passed by a stack of spare doors as too light to be of any use. Ramming her shoulder into the side of an upright freezer, the woman managed to shove the piece of equipment forward one foot at a time. The manhole cover was starting to move again, when Mildred strained against the awful weight, but managed to topple over the freezer to resoundingly crash on top the sewer hatch. If there was any reaction from the other side, it was muffled by the four hundred pounds of steel and ceramic lying across the lid.
Searching the shelves, the woman placed a few cash registers on top of the sideways freezer, along with a fifty-pound bucket of floor wax. The container didn’t feel that heavy. The ages had to have stolen every drop of moisture from the compound, lightening it considerably, but even twenty extra pounds of we
ight was useful.
Leaving the door to the utility room jammed open, Mildred went back to her post at the fountain basin where she could keep a watch on the back room and the stairwell. Suddenly, the mammoth freezer shifted a bit with a muffled thump, and she knew there would be no more trouble from below. The physician could only imagine the awful mess in the sewer when the explosion failed to penetrate and the back-blast hit the unsuspecting sec men. They had to have been instantly pulped. The basement was secure again.
Just then, a violent explosion rocked the building to its very foundation. Reclaiming the shotgun and laying it on her lap, Mildred glanced skyward and wondered just how badly the battle upstairs was going.
Chapter Twenty-Two
On the rooftop, Doc emptied the HK, raining death from above on the sec men as they scampered about for safety. Drawing the LeMat, he heard a thump and, leaning way over the roof, saw a group of men ramming a park bench against the metal door on the side of the government building. He ignored them and watched for others in the streets. That weak point in their defenses was blocked by an entire room jammed full of office furniture. Even if they got inside, it would take them an hour to dig through the mess. Then again...
Leaning way over, Doc pumped a few rounds from the LeMat their way, blowing a slat out of the bench and sending a bald sec man down for the count. The group broke ranks and fled, firing wildly in return. A chance ricochet chipped the stone lintel of the roof and bit his upper arm.
Staggering back, Doc dropped the LeMat and tried to staunch the wound with his handkerchief. There was little blood, the wound didn’t hurt much and his fingers could still move, which meant a small-caliber bullet that hadn’t hit bone or artery. Thank God, just a flesh wound. The sick feeling in his stomach was just a natural reaction to being hurt. Perfectly ordinary. However, he knew that the numbness would soon wear off and his arm would ache like the dickens. He had to move fast.
“Come on, Theophilus,” he granted, trying not to pay attention to the red stain spreading down his shirt. “No pain, no gain.”
Biting a corner of the cloth, Doc managed to tie off the wound, then slid his cold right hand into his belt to help keep it still. Clumsily lifting the powerful .44 LeMat revolver in his bloody left hand, Doc experimented with the weight, trying to get a feel and balance for the weapon again. The stickiness was making things awkward, but he felt confident if the target was close enough he could handle the handcannon. Well, hopefully.
Unfortunately, there was no way he could reload now, or even change the selector pin to discharge the shotgun. Five more rounds and he was out. Feeling a bit dizzy, Doc sat on the concrete roof and tried to catch his breath.
He just could not faint, he thought. He could not die yet. He had to stay awake.
WHILE THE BARON’S TROOPS peppered the defenders with steady blasterfire, a sec man sneaking along the wall of the pawnshop lurched forward and hurled himself at a ground-floor window of the government building. The glass shattered and he fell back, bleeding from a dozen spots. The nails sticking through the wooden boards covering the inside of the window now dripped with his blood. Then from the opposite side of the building, another man stumbled into view, an eye dangling on his cheek, blood pumping from his wounds with every heartbeat.
In an alleyway between a paint store and a ramshackle garage, Leonard stood on a box behind a metal trash bin and watched the battle. His personal guards, the last members of the Wolf Pack, stood close to the youth to protect him from ricochets or any other dangers.
The young baron smiled as his men charged the building again, then frowned as they retreated, clothes smoking, faces bleeding and with more bodies lying on the ground. He had no idea if they were killing any of the people inside the building, but his men were being slaughtered. He was already down to twenty men in a matter of minutes. Who were these people?
“Enough!” the teenager stated, and turned to the men beside him. “Okay, Jarmal, we gave it a try. But this is going nowhere. Burn them out.”
“My lord, this is the dry season,” the captain said patiently for the tenth time in an hour. “We could lose the whole city, and the flames could even spread to the ville. The river has caught fire before.”
“Damn the river, damn the ville and damn you!” Leonard shouted. “I want those people dead. Do you understand? Dead at any cost!”
Touching the blaster on his belt, Jarmal debated killing the teenager right here and claiming it was a chance shot from the defenders. But the Wolf Pack watched him with knowing faces, their autofire blasters already drawn. It would be best to get the young baron mixed into the fighting, then Jarmal could safely frag the lunatic. Most of the sec men stayed loyal because of the food, and the threat of the Machine being used on their families. They wouldn’t give a shit about who was in charge. But the Wolf Pack and others followed the baron because he gave them the authority to kill in safety, allowed them to wallow like drunkards in human blood. Cowards hiding behind a madman. But cowards with blasters who were damn good shots. Perhaps an assassination wasn’t going to work.
Jarmal snapped a salute. “Yes, my lord. Of course. At once, Baron.”
The boy seemed to notice a difference in the sec man, then dismissed it, attributing the change to combat. Killing made some men uneasy. Personally, he enjoyed it immensely. “How many Molotov cocktails do we have?”
“Only the six, my lord. Lots more bottles but no more fuel. This is every drop that survived the alley fire.”
“More than enough. Take your strongest men and firebomb the front door and roof simultaneously. Let’s see them stop that!” Leonard scoffed in triumph. “Ha!”
“If this fails, sir, will we leave?” Jarmal asked.
“Wh-what was that?” the youth asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Leave. Depart. Go. We’re getting slaughtered and for no reason!”
The teenager stared. “Are you mad? They killed my father!”
“After he kidnapped and almost raped the woman.” Then, unable to stop the words, Jarmal said, “The crazy old bastard had it coming for years! Served him right!”
Leonard grabbed his blaster, then released the weapon. “Captain, you’re relieved of rank,” the new baron said in an icy tone. “You will lead the troops in the next rush on the building. Take his blasters.”
The Wolf Pack closed on the man, and under the muzzles of their blasters he was stripped of weapons.
“Haven’t got the guts to just shoot me here, eh?” Jarmal snarled, with nothing more to lose. “That’s a death sentence and you know it.”
Calmly, the youth returned to watching the losing battle. “Do as you are told, or your children will beg for the mercy of the Machine.”
Sporadic blasterfire continued from the building, and the sec men shot back from behind mailboxes, vending machines and inside the paint store.
“How did we ever let you get in charge?” Jarmal asked woodenly. “What the fuck were we thinking? You’re worse than Gunther.”
Leonard smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now go die.”
“You heard the boss-git,” one of the Wolf Pack said, sneering, jabbing the former captain with a rifle. “And make us proud, or else I’ll take care of your wife myself.”
“Mebbe we will anyway,” another stated, and the rest agreed, making vulgar suggestions.
Outraged, Jarmal tensed to charge them, then forced himself to calm down. Ignoring their catcalls and taunts, he turned on his heel and marched into the ranks of the sec men. Too furious to think clearly, Jarmal almost registered surprise when somebody pressed a knife into his hand. Keeping his expression neutral, he slid the weapon away quickly. Then a revolver was slapped into his palm, and the troops closed around their old sergeant, hiding him from sight as he checked the load on the blaster and tucked it into his shirt.
“You there, Private,” Leonard snapped, crossing his arms and posing as if on the display in the ville and not in the middle of a firefight.
&nbs
p; The sec man turned slowly. “Sir?” he managed to croak.
“You’re in charge now. Firebomb that rad-blasted pit into rubble!”
“Yes, sir,” the sec man replied with a salute. If the baron noticed it was with his forbidden left hand, he didn’t comment on the fact.
Shouting orders over the blasterfire, the new captain directed men to take positions and six Molotov cocktails soared into the air. Two of the bottles streaked right into the open front of the building, spreading fire across the metal cabinets. The other four arched high, going for the rooftop.
STRUGGLING TO STAY CONSCIOUS, Doc jerked awake as he saw the Molotovs soaring through the cloudy sky. As he grabbed the blaster with both hands, fresh blood gushed from his wound, but the old man took careful aim and fired the LeMat again and again. The first shot missed completely. So did the second. But the third and fourth hit. Two of the bottles burst in midair, forming burning blossoms that rained harmlessly to the ground. The third Molotov impacted dangerously near Doc, and he dragged himself away, the gasoline spreading across the concrete but finding no pursuit to feed the hungry flames. The fourth hit the skylight and shattered, raining fire and glass into the building. The burning debris landed on the curtains and barbed wire of the third floor. But dry as dust, the predark cloth instantly ignited and the interior of the structure was harshly illuminated with hellish light. Soon red-hot embers floated downward, drifting harmlessly onto the terrazzo floors, and elevator cage. But several reached the first floor. Now only yards away from the basement, tendrils of smoke rose from the hot flakes on the carpeting, tiny glowing specks that pulsed with every breeze as if living things.
GRABBING THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER from the wall niche, Krysty sprayed carbon dioxide foam over the whole expanse of the material. The canister died quickly, but all of the hot spots were quenched. However, more and more embers were drifting downward. Already the woman could see huge sections of bare wire above, the strands snapping from the accumulated heat. The next Molotov would drop through, falling straight to the basement, and she had nothing but blasters to stop the advance of the deadly fire.