Гарри Гаррисон - The Jupiter Plague

Sam finished securing a dressing on a policeman’s arm, then sent him to the ambulance, and when he turned back he noticed a new arrival leaning against one of the pillars with both hands over his face. He was in the shadows and when Sam pulled him gently forward into the light he saw that the soldier was wearing a turban on his head and had the chevrons of a havildar; one of the Pakistani brigade that had been flown in early that morning. His hands were clamped to cover his face but blood was oozing out from between his fingers and dripping steadily to the ground.

“Over here,” Sam said, guiding him to an empty stretcher and helping him to lie down. “If you’ll move your hands away, Havildar, I’ll take care of that.”

The soldier opened the one eye that was not covered by his hands. “I dare not, Doctor,” he said in a strained voice. “If I do my face shall fall away.”

“You just let me worry about that, it’s my job.”

Sam pushed at the man’s hands gently and they reluctantly moved back. Fresh blood welled up and he could see the curving, almost circular laceration that cut through the cheek to the bone and had torn one nostril away from his nose: broken bits of glass still stuck in the flesh.

“A broken bottle?” Sam asked, making an injection with a morphine syrette.

“Yes, Doctor, he came on me suddenly and pushed it into my face before I could stop him. Then I–I’m afraid, contrary to orders — I hit him full in the stomach with the butt of my rifle, he fell down and I came here.”

“I would have done the same myself.”

Sam took the last of the visible glass out with tweezers — if there was more they would find it in the hospital — and set the width and depth of the stitch on the battery operated suturator. Holding the edges of the wound together with the fingers of his left hand he pressed the tiny machine over the cut. Each time it touched it secured the cut edges with a rapid suture — sewn together, tied and cut free in a fraction of a second. He moved it on, making a few large stitches that would secure the wound until the surgeons could attend to it. No large blood vessels had been cut and the bleeding had almost stopped.

When the Pakistani had been dispatched by ambulance with the other cases needing immediate attention Sam found two soldiers waiting for him. The sergeant saluted.

“We have some wounded up there on the top deck, Doctor — can you help us?”

“How many — and what is the situation?”

“Just two — now, a pair of the men hit by thrown metal, but we are expecting more trouble. We’ve set up a second blockade there because we haven’t enough men to hold all the entrances. The others will be falling back on it soon and then you’ll have your work cut out for you.”

Sam didn’t hesitate; swinging his bag onto his shoulder he pointed to two emergency medical boxes that had been unloaded from the ambulance.

“Let’s go then, and bring those with you.” A big, double-vaned combat copter was waiting for them, jets whistling softly. Once they were in, it lifted straight up with an ear-shattering howl, swung over the top deck of the bridge and dropped gently behind a barrier of overturned trucks and cars. Nervous-looking soldiers manned the barricade — the mob couldn’t be seen from here but its raw sound beat at the air. Sam watched the boxes being unloaded, then turned his attention to the two casualties. One man had a brain concussion and would probably lose his eye, the other had a lacerated wound that a field dressing took care of. There were shouts close by as the soldiers attached thick fire hoses to the standpipes on either side of the bridge and unrolled them up to the barrier. Running footsteps splatted on the concrete from the other side of the barricade and more soldiers, many with torn uniforms and bandages, began climbing over.

“Get ready!” a captain shouted. “They’re through the first barricades. Into the line you men, stand ready with the mortars.”

Sam stood up on the fender of the command car, behind the officer, and had a clear view down the wide expanse of roadway. It was empty, outside of the scattered handful of soldiers running toward them, but they were followed by a swelling, victorious roar. This grew and grew like the cry of a great animal and then, suddenly, the road was no longer empty. From the ramps they came, and up the stairways, a solid, black, frightening mass of humanity, a mob without leadership or plans but driven on by fear and the need to survive. They came swiftly, the first rank already visible as individuals waving clubbed lengths of metal and wood; their mouths gaped open redly but whatever they were shouting was lost in the roar of the masses behind them.

A whistle shrilled behind Sam and was followed instantly by the smacking thud of the mortars: they were zeroed in nicely and the shells fell in a neat row across the width of the roadway exploding outward with gray arms of gas. The crowd shivered to a stop before it came to the expanding clouds and its voice rose in a frustrated howl.

“Will the gas stop them?” Sam asked.

“It hasn’t before,” the captain said tiredly.

More of the gas shells were popping into the growing haze, but a strong breeze down the river rolled the cloud away. Some people were already coming through it, staggering and falling and holding their streaming eyes. Then there were others, more and more, and the mob was upon them.

“Hoses!” a hoarse voice shouted and columns of solid water leaped out, sweeping the legs from under the rioters, bowling them over and over. Again the wordless howl rose up as they retreated from the barlike streams of water.

“Look out!” Sam shouted, but he couldn’t be heard five feet away in the din.

A man had climbed up one of the supports from the lower level and was hauling himself over the balustrade. He had a large kitchen knife clamped in his teeth, pirate style, and it had cut the corner of his mouth so that the blood trickled down his chin. One of the soldiers saw him and turned down; they fell together. The attacker rose, the knife now darkened with blood, but before he could move the nearest soldier had caught him on the side of the neck with the flat edge of his hand, a wicked judo blow, hitting him again on the same spot as he was falling, then kicking the knife away. The attacker was groaning, rolling over and over clutching his throat, when Sam ran up, while the soldier who had been knifed was climbing unsteadily to his knees, looking mystifiedly at his blood-drenched arm.

“Sit down,” Sam said, easing him back in the roadway, then cutting his shirt open. There was a deep gash in the upper arm, more painful than serious, and Sam bound it with an antiseptic pressure bandage. The roar of the-mob still beat in his ears and it seemed to have changed tone; was it more excited, with a note of elation? And behind it, low-pitched but throbbing louder was a new sound. And through it cut the shrill of a whistle.

Sam looked up to see the captain waving wildly from the command car, urging on the noncoms who were pulling the soldiers from the barricade. Then he jumped down too and ran toward the outer rail near Sam as the throbbing rumble grew to a vibrating roar.

The large trailer truck must have been doing sixty miles an hour when it hit the barrier, knocking it aside. One of the front tires blew and it began to skid sideways across the roadway, the black bulk of the trailer folding up on the cab of the tractor while all sixteen wheels squealed in agony, brakes locked tight, dragged along and spewing pieces of burned rubber. It crashed into the guardrail on the far side of the road and shuddered to a stop, the cab tilted forward and one wheel hanging into space.

That was all that Sam saw before the mob burst through the gap, unstoppable and victorious. They ignored the soldiers, even the remains of the two who had been caught and crushed like ants by the plunging truck, and rushed headlong down the bridge. Fear drove them on and ahead was freedom.