Mack Reynolds: Rolltown

The knoll was perhaps three hundred meters away. Al’s marksmen were going to have to be on their merit to do much in the way of covering. However, any fire at all was better than none, just so it didn’t hit Bat or Jeff Smith.

Bat kept the car at as high a speed as was consistent with the terrain and their air cushions, but they were doing fifty kilometers an hour at best. Occasional bullets continued to rain off their armor but thus far there had been no stirring of opponents on the knoll which was their destination. Bat began to wonder if they had guessed wrong. But no, it was more than a guess, the closer they got the more obvious was the antenna, stretching its evil feelers up into the sky, robbing them of contact with the outside world.

As they got nearer it became obvious that the car would never make it up to the summit.

Bat groaned, “These things are impossible on non-horizontal surfaces. They slip off in every direction except the one you want to go.”

Jeff Smith bit out, “Get as far up as you can and then cover me. I’ll make a run for it.”

“Why not me?”

Smith said, “Because you know how to drive this contraption and I don’t.”

“All right.”

Just as they hit the bottom of the slope, a half dozen Mexicans materialized at the summit and began firing down at them in great excitement.

Smith muttered, “Amateurs!” and activated the window. He steadied the Chinese automatic rifle on the sill and let loose a sweeping burst. Several went down, screaming pain, the others ducked for cover.

Jeff Smith was out of the car, gun in hand and. zigzagging up to the crest.

“Go it!” Bat yelled. He popped from the side of the car, both Gyro-jet pistols in his hands.

Jeff Smith scrambled, slid, fell, was on his feet again. Up he went.

At the top, one of the Mexicans who had fallen got to his knees. He was holding some sort of automatic weapon with which Bat Hardin was unfamiliar. It stuttered and Jeff Smith fell off to the side and to the ground.

Bat fired twice and brought the gunner down. He started up the hill after his companion. From the perimeter of the mobile homes came a hail of supporting fire, sweeping the top of the small mesa.

Bat Hardin went to the smaller man. He jammed his pistols into his belt, swearing uncontrollably. “Bad?” he snapped, reaching down.

Jeff Smith groaned, “Yeah. Nailed me at least twice. Belly.”

“Oh, Christ,” Bat groaned. He hiked the other up over his shoulder, reached down and swept up the automatic and started staggering and stumbling down the hill.

A blow struck him in the right hip and he all but fell.

“Hit?” Jeff Smith groaned.

“Yeah.”

He continued on, stumbling. He could feel the blood running down his leg.

They got to the car, on Smith’s side. Bat dumped him in, tossed the Chinese weapon in after him, then hurried around the car, limping, dragging his leg, to his own side. He lifted his right leg by grabbing hold of the cloth of his pants and swung it into the cab. He wedged himself in, pulled Smith to a position so that he could close the door on that side. He swerved the car and headed back. He would have liked to make his own try for the crest but he doubted that his leg would allow him and, besides, Jeff Smith had to be gotten back to Doc Smith soonest. The Southerner was bleeding like a stuck pig.

Bullets were again caroming off the surface of the vehicle. They retraced their route. Twice, Bat Hardin recognized the whoosh and trail of bazooka rockets but he had been right, they were far off the mark. Whoever was on the old-time rocket launcher was no marksman.

Luke Robertson’s vehicles were still drawn out of the way and Bat Hardin maneuvered through.

He yelled out the window, “Jeff’s been hit. Where’s Doc Barnes?”

Barnes came hurrying forward, physician’s bag in hand.

Jeff Smith, his face drained as death, looked over at his companion.

“Hey, man.”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry about that nigger thing… Bat.”

Bat shook his head. “Nothing to it… Jeff.”

Doc Barnes wrenched open the door of the car and bent over Smith.

He looked up at Bat. “He’s dead.”

Bat Hardin didn’t say anything for a moment. Two men were hauling Jeff Smith from the car, ridiculously gently in view of the fact that pain would never come to the small feisty Southerner again.

Bat said, “I’ve copped one too, Doc. See if you can patch me up a little.”

“We’ll get you out of the car and up to the hospital where I can do a better job.”

Bat shook his head. “Can’t. If I do, I’ll never be able to get back in, and I’m the only one who can drive this thing. It takes a certain know-how.” He looked at Luke. “Somebody in here tipped them that we were coming in this vehicle. Find Nadine Paskov. Have her check in the computer banks and find out who voted against me in that hassle I had with Jeff.” He added sourly, “She’s probably under some bed, somewhere. A change for her. I suspect that whoever cast that vote against me is our traitor. If she refuses to tell you, for whatever reason, slap her around a little.”

“Got it,” Luke said. “What’ll I do if I find the traitor?”

Bat looked at him levelly.

“Got it,” Luke said, and was off.

“Hold still, damn it,” Doc Barnes said. “Let me get this bandage on you. You need plasma; you dripped too much ink, Bat.”

“Oh, great,” Bat said. “Have you got some kind of pep pill instead?” He looked out over the crowd and called, “Ferd, you’re next.”

“Coming up,” Ferd Zogbaum sang out, pushing his way through the assembled men. He caught up the automatic rifle that had fallen to the ground when the men had taken Smith’s body out, and scrambled into the bloody seat next to Bat.

Bat called, feeling himself already weaker, “There’s an extra clip of ammo in Jeff’s pocket.”

Somebody brought it.

Bat Hardin activated the lift lever again and they started forward.

He explained as they went. “I can’t get the car to the crest. You’ll have to make it on foot. All hell is breaking loose over there. Don Caesar is sending new men over as fast as they can make it to defend the point. They know damn well, now, that we know it’s there, and they’ve got to defend it.” He felt his voice going weaker.

Next to him, Ferd Zogbaum was checking the clip in the gun. Jeff Smith had nearly emptied it. Ferd threw it and rammed home the spare full clip with the heel of his hand.

Bat said weakly, “Where did you get checked out on the Chinese Am-8?”

Ferd said, “I was in the big one too.”

They were approaching the knoll. From behind, the full barrage of all that New Woodstock could mount in the way of long-range rifles was firing over them, attempting to pin down any of the enemy forces on hand.

Bat ground to a halt. He pulled his two pistols out.

“Okay, Ferd. It’s all yours.”

Ferd was out of the car, automatic in hands and scurrying up the hill, slipping, sliding on the sandy terrain, going three feet up, sliding back at least one. A continual fire kicked up the dust around his feet but he miraculously remained erect. Bat, his eyes fogging, leaned out the window of the car and blasted away at anything that moved#longdash#save Ferd.

The freelance writer achieved the top, fired twice, thrice, in this direction and that, on full automatic, and finally immediately down as though toward his feet. He turned and began retracing his steps, running dangerously. He fell, rolled a score of feet, staggered erect, came on again.

“Come on boy, come on!” Bat pleaded.

Suddenly, Ferd Zogbaum stopped dead in his tracks. The automatic rifle dropped from his hands. He grabbed his head desperately and began to waver.