Alan E. Nourse - The Fourth Horseman

by Alan Edward Nourse

  For Jack Dillman, thirty-year-old reactions moved him, rescued him. Without conscious thought he was on one knee in a doorway, sighting, squeezing the trigger, seeing the man on the truck roof topple to the street as the heavy rifle slammed Jack's shoulder. Jack dove for the shelter of Bud's car, caught the fallen man with another shell as he grappled for his rifle. Then the truck moved forward, its New York plates clear in the streetlight. Jack fired at the windshield point-blank, saw a chunk of it fall away, and then the truck swerved into the Betterway lot and roared across it, around the back toward the loading docks.

  Many things happened at once, then. The first truck's rear doors burst open and people poured out—five, six, seven, it looked like. There was an earsplitting crash of glass as the front window of the store went. At the same time, down the block, another screamer went off and then another, and somewhere farther away sirens were sounding. Off to Jack's right a rifle cracked, followed by the crash of broken glass—a near-miss that went into the store. The shot was suddenly answered by a rattle of submachine gun fire from the truck—-and the night air exploded into a barrage.

  The raiders had been ready. The first out had gone into the store and started loading; now half a dozen more poured out and deployed themselves with the truck for cover, commanding a wide semicircle across the store parking lot and the green. At the far side of the green a police car roared down a side street, skidded to a halt amid a spray of bullets and backed abruptly into a protected alleyway to unload three uniformed men.

  From his vantage point, Jack could see the trouble all too clearly. The thing had been planned beautifully; the front truck all but hid the storefront, providing access to the interior for the loading crew and protection for their covering firepower. The truck was doubtless armored—he'd heard accounts of this; it could take a bazooka shell to punch a hole in it, and with snipers and machine gunners protected, the police and townspeople couldn't get close. A pitched battle going on, all kinds of sound and fury in front of the store—but the heavy loading was going on in back at the loading docks where the second truck had gone, where the side meat and flour and sugar and macaroni was stored and where nobody was interfering. When that truck got full it would move out and plow through anything that got in its way, leaving the front truck to follow with rearguard protection, carrying whatever incidental things there had been time to load into it.

  There had to be a tip-off somewhere, Jack thought. This was one of the gangs from the south, working out of the Bronx or Yonkers, hitting stores like clockwork. It wasn't coincidence that they had turned up here tonight just after two days' worth of food shipment had come in. Somebody tipped them—and they were going to get away with it if somebody didn't get back of that store and cripple that truck. . . .

  There was a little time—you don't fill a whole semi full of meat and flour in fifteen minutes. He was safe enough crouched in the doorway with Bud's car for cover, but he was a wide-open target if he moved. The street lighting and the big parking-lot floods had been to the town's advantage before, illuminating the downtown area so the watchers could spot trouble—but now that light was keeping him from where he wanted to go. In the floodlights, he was dead. If he could douse them, he might possibly get back to cripple that truck. . . .

  He had fired four shells from an eight-round clip. He had two more clips in his pocket—why the extra he didn't know. He crouched back in his hidey-hole, sighted the streetlight above him and fired.

  He'd been a top marksman in Korea, and those reflexes carve a crease in the brain that doesn't go away. He was back thirty years—and the light went out. He turned to the first side parking-lot light. Pop! It was gone too. Then to his amazement, two more went, with two sharp reports from his right. He had a friend. . . .

  In the relative darkness he ran an evasive pattern back up the sidewalk toward where those reports had come from. Then he heard a voice: "Jack! In here!"

  It was Angelo Curccio in a store doorway at the far comer of the green. Jack ducked in, backed against the door. "You're a good shot, Angelo."

  "Yeah. So I discover."

  "There's nobody in the back. They're making a big fuss out front."

  "Yeah. I know."

  "That ain't no accident."

  "I know."

  "You got shells? Let's get the rest of those damned lights."

  Two minutes later their side of the Betterway parking lot was dark. "What do you have in mind, Jack?"

  "We've got to kill that truck or it's going to take away three months' food. Let's work around."

  Together they worked to the right, around against storefronts until they could see the rear loading area of the store. The fire barrage went on in front. Then Angelo stopped. "Hey. Wait a minute."

  Jack stared across at the rear loading area. There wasn't one truck. There were two, side by side. "That delivery this afternoon—looks like the truck didn't leave, and we didn't notice it. They could have been loading all evening, and nobody saw them. They could be ready to bolt."

  "Yeah." Angelo leaned alongside Jack to peer. "Then we gotta cripple both trucks. How?"

  "Front axle. Tires. That's the only thing that will stop them. They'll run rims on the rear. Let's go."

  They started across the darkened lot toward the trucks in a broken field pattern, crouching low, heading for the side of the building, where they would be momentarily out of sight. Men were still loading the truck nearest the loading dock, totally oblivious to anything but their work. Jack didn't see any gunmen covering the trucks under the huge spotlight over the loading dock, but he saw the light. No chance to get near the trucks with that light blazing away. The light had to go. But there was another obstacle before they could reach the loading docks: a small-truck ramp leading down to a basement unloading area, for bread trucks and beer trucks to get in and out fast when a semi was occupying the loading dock for half a day. If they went out around the ramp, they'd be wide open to fire, no cover of any sort. If they went down into it, they'd have cover at least momentarily and they'd be closer, able to see better to make a rush. . . .

  He felt Angelo's hand on his shoulder, a hoarse whisper in his ear. "We're going to have to rush them to get those front tires. There's no other way."

  "I know."

  "If you could get down into that ramp, you could cover me. Then I could rush, get both trucks fast and keep on going. There's cars for cover on the other side."

  "It could work if I could douse that big light," Jack said. "I'll kill it if I can, and run for the ramp. Then you go."

  He edged to the corner of the building, rifle at ready. For an instant it seemed to him he was transported in time, slipped a cog back to thirty years earlier in a little town in North Korea, when he and another Angelo and a dozen other men were moving from building to building in pitch-darkness, facing sniper fire they could only pin down by the muzzle flares of their rifles, trying for an ammo truck that had to be blown. They'd gotten the ammo truck at the cost of four men, and then been pinned down in bombed-out rubble for three days before their backup finally came in. There'd been a big floodlight there, too, guarding the approach to where the ammo truck was housed. He'd taken that light. . . .

  He stepped out from the corner, flinching at the light hitting his face, took fast aim and blew the light. Then he ducked and ran at top speed, low to the ground, for the ramp. He heard a rattle of fire as he reached it, heard slugs thunking the corner of the building, and dove headfirst into the slot of the ramp, rolling downward as he landed, right back onto his feet, his heart hammering. He froze, listening. No more fire, but they had the corner pinned; Angelo would have to wait a little. Angelo had better wait.

  Jack glanced down the ramp, checking for a possible escape-way, and realized suddenly that there was a car parked there, not two feet down the ramp from where he'd landed. He peered through the darkness, caught the shadow of the grill work. He knew that car, a big Chrysler wagon. For an instant he thought someone was in it and ducked down, but on
e step and one quick glance told him different. Nobody in it—but it was packed to the roof, fairly stuffed full with flour sacks, rice sacks, large irregular lumps that looked like sides of beef. . . .

  The discovery had taken only seconds, but it was enough. Jack raised his head over the far edge of the ramp, searching the gloom around the trucks for some shadowy movement. The men loading were cursing the darkness now and flashlights were appearing. He thought he saw a dark form around the rear corner of the outermost truck, but he couldn't be sure, and then it seemed to be gone. He brought the M-l up, rested the barrel on the edge of the ramp. Okay, Angelo. Any time now. Go!

  He heard footfalls and Angelo went, a gray blur in the darkness, out around the end of the ramp toward the trucks. Jack saw the dark form reappear at the corner of the truck and he fired instantly, saw the form crumble, his rifle going off in the air as he hit the ground. Then Angelo was between the trucks. Another black form moved; Jack saw a muzzle flare at the same time he felt a heavy blow to his right shoulder. He got two more shells off, then heard more rifle shots echoing from the loading dock, near the front of the trucks, but he couldn't get his arm to move to his pocket to get his other clip of shells. Vaguely he could hear somebody bellowing, "Let's get this mother moving," vaguely heard truck motors starting up, saw one truck move and then veer insanely left into the very path of the other, the cab listing badly. And Jack was talking to his arm, repeating the words, "Let's get this mother moving," but his arm wouldn't move. Once again he saw the wagon parked down the ramp, realized his vulnerability, and groped with his left arm for a grip, hauled himself out of the ramp, out of the direct path of the car and onto the tarmac of the parking lot. And then suddenly everything was dim and spinning and he saw himself turning a giant cartwheel as he went over on his face on the pavement, and that was all he saw or heard.

  Sometime later there were bright lights and voices and movement. A spotlight from the fire-station aid car was in his eyes and two men, vaguely familiar, were trying to hoist his considerable bulk onto a stretcher. His right shoulder was throbbing violently and his hand was still numb, but he could move the fingers and the arm again. The men moved back when they saw him tiying to struggle up onto his left elbow, move his right arm. "I think you just fainted or something," one of them told him. "The slug went through high in the biceps and under your shoulder. Must have hit a rib and ricocheted behind. Tore up some muscle and gave your brachial plexus quite a jolt but it didn't get bone, or anything vital. Lucky."

  "Angelo?"

  The man shook his head. "Truck got him when they tried to take off. Creamed him. They didn't get the rig out of the lot, but they got Angelo. Bastards."

  "What about them?"

  "Got fifteen of them down at the station. Four took off on foot, but they won't get far. Now we've got to get you down and X ray that shoulder—"

  "Hold it," Jack struggled upright, peered around at the people milling around the parking lot, patrol cars here and there, the ramp. The Chrysler wagon was gone. "Where's a cop? I've got to tell him something.''

  "The Sergeant was here a minute ago." The man gave a shrill whistle, motioned to somebody, and a cop loomed out of the dark, crouched down by Jack. "Look, there was a station wagon down that ramp," Jack told him. "It was Hal Parker's. Now it's gone."

  "Yeah, a couple of guys saw it go, just after Angelo hit the truck. He must have gone for more ammo or something, he was on patrol.''

  "No. That wagon was full of food. I saw it. And he wasn't on patrol. I took his place."

  The Sergeant frowned. "Then what was his wagon doing here? I don't follow."

  "Don't even try. Just check out his basement good and fast and see what you Find."

  The officer stood up, hesitated, looked back down at Jack. "You sure it was his?"

  "It was his. Hidden down the ramp, there, packed full of food. Look, somebody had to tip that gang, Sergeant—they didn't just happen by—and somebody got paid off. He drove in early, they loaded him, and he took off when he thought he had a chance. All the action was supposed to stay out front—and I wasn't supposed to be telling anybody anything, either."

  Later, in the emergency room, Carmen was waiting when he came out of X ray, arm splinted, walking unsteadily. She was wearing an old bathrobe and pink slippers. She caught his arm and steadied him, warm pressure in her grip. "You goddam fool. Come sit down someplace before you go over on your face." Not harshly. She guided him like a mother guiding a blind child.

  "Just a little brush fire, kid."

  "Yes, so I heard. We've got a town full of heroes. That crowd has been hitting stores all over the East. Five in one week."

  He sat down, still holding her hand. He looked up at her. "And I was wrong."

  "This time, yes.' She gave him a weak smile.

  "He had it double-loaded. He was sure I'd be nailed."

  "I know. The putrescent bastard. But you weren't, and that's what matters to me."

  "He did have a little motivation," Jack said.

  "I know—but not anymore. Jack, let's go home. We can take care of that shoulder there."

  "Is that what you want?"

  "Yes. That's what I really want."

  61

  In Wichita it was just after midnight when Frank Barrington was jarred awake by somebody shaking his shoulder. He saw Running Dog's sad spaniel eyes and drooping mustache in the flashlight beam. "Okay, Frank. Time to head north."

  "Maclvers? When'd he call?"

  "Midnight. Ten minutes ago."

  The Indian retired to the little kitchen to heat up coffee. Frank shook Monique awake, then pulled on warm clothes and went out for coffee too, cradling the heavy mug in his cold hands. Tom Shipman and Sally came down from their sleeping loft. Sally looked small and untidy and childlike. She also looked frightened. "This is going to put you in Willow Grove about five-thirty a.m.," she said. "Why's he calling so late? Why not six hours ago—or in the morning so you could drive in daylight?"

  "Beats me," Frank said. "Did he have any message?"

  Running Dog shook his head. "He just said to make tracks, now was the time."

  "Then 1 guess that's the message. Well, the van's loaded, and you've got extra gas in the pickup. We'd better move out. It's going to be a long, cold trip, 1 think."

  Monique set her coffee Cup down, looking huge and bearlike in her goosedown jacket and trousers. "Are you still sure you want me to go along? I've got cultures growing—"

  "Tom knows what they are, doesn't he? He and Sally can tend them for you for the time being. We're going to need a competent microbiologist where we're going, and I don't think

  we'll Find any in Willow Grove, Nebraska. Anyway, if you think I'm going up there without you, you're out of your wits. We've got a hell of a lot riding on this little deal. I'm going to need all the help I can get."

  "You think there's going to be trouble tonight?" Sally said.

  "I sure do."

  "Well, whatever happens, for God's sake don't let that cargo get away from you. This thing has got to work. If that stuff doesn't get to Willow Grove, we might as well fold up and go home."

  "Don't worry, Sal. The stuff is going to get there, and it's going to work. It just may not be all hearts and flowers along the way, that's all."

  Outside it was an even four degrees below zero. Frank checked signals with Running Dog for a final time. Then he and Monique climbed into the van, Running Dog into the pickup. The van was packed to the roof with cases of Tom's antibiotic; the whole vehicle smelled like rotting hay. They wove through the dark city and headed north on 1-235, the pickup in the lead. At the interchange they caught 1-35 West and moved up across flat country, the van lagging just enough to keep Dog's tail-lights in view. There was an icy wind coming out of the northwest, and the Fields were still spotted with patches of last week's snow, but the highway was bare and dry.

  At Salina they stopped for coffee, then headed due west on 1-70. It was a desolate drive through desolate country, fl
at, flat, flat, the only sign of life the occasional barnyard light of a distant farm, a rare truck blaring past in the night. Frank drove in silence, felt Monique curl up against his shoulder and presently begin snoring softly. Frank was feeling as bleak as the countryside, a sense of desperate grayness growing in his mind. It was all very Fine to assure Sally that the goods would be delivered, but the one signiFicant thing that Dr. Sam Maclvers hadn't told Running Dog over the phone was that everything was clear.

  So what can they do? Frank thought. We aren't running contraband. This stuff doesn 't carry a dangerous-drug classification. Unapproved and totally illegal to use, maybe, but not dangerous. Until it's actually distributed, we've broken no laws, and with a licensed physician actually doing the prescribing and dispensing, they'd need a court injunction and some muscle for enforcement to stop us. So he kept telling himself, but it didn't make him feel any better. Actually, if they got their hands on the stuff—whoever or whatever "they" might be— they could do any damned thing they chose to, and there was the rub. Anything anybody did to delay things at this point would be absolutely fatal. Maclvers's call meant that plague was in Willow Grove, Nebraska, now. If their plans to stop it and turn it back were blocked, Willow Grove, Nebraska, was dead in the water, and the Shipman antibiotic along with it.

  At a place called Wa Keeney, Kansas, they stopped for gas and coffee and a final warming-up. Frank asked Dog if he needed some rest from driving, but the man shook his head. "Might as well just plow on through and get there," he said. "We turn north through Wheatville, right? Any particular place you're looking for trouble?"

  "If somebody's really trying to nail us," Frank said, "it'll probably be right at the Nebraska border, just north of French River—but we'll make our move about ten miles this side of the town just in case." He opened up a map, pointed with a huge finger. "This little road off to the left—there's a big white barn and some willow trees right at the junction. We'll stop there. You go on. Just play it cool—you know what to do."