David Robbins - Chicago Run

The opportunity to execute the turn came and Yama spun the steering wheel, swinging the gigantic vehicle to the left, and not until the turn was completed and he saw the wall of trikes before him did he realize his mistake. He’d turned onto a one-way avenue the wrong way! Automatically he slammed on the brakes and slewed the truck to the left, trying to miss the startled riders who leaned on their horns in frantic horror.

Yama missed the foremost row of trikes and brought the truck to a lurching halt at the curb, his vehicle now blocking the intersection. He went to throw the transmission into reverse, but a check of the mirror showed trikes behind him.

More drivers applied their horns, creating a strident din.

Looking to his right, Yama spied the policeman coming back. To the left was a military jeep bearing down on him. Yama rolled down his window, letting them draw near, planning to bluff his way out of the predicament. If he made his move now, he might not live to reach the Central Core, and reach it he must.

The officer got there first, halting near the truck’s passenger door and hurrying around the cab to demand, “What the hell is going on?”

Smiling, Yama shrugged and put just the right amount of irritation in his tone. “Beats me. One minute I was driving along daydreaming about the meal I’m going to eat at Windy’s after I get off work, and the next thing I know this heap of junk whips to the left all by itself. I tried turning the wheel but there was nothing I could do to stop it. Thank goodness I didn’t run over someone.”

“Sounds like your steering box went out on you,” the cop declared. “I’ll call for a tow. In the meantime, try to move it out of the intersection. Otherwise, you’ll have traffic blocked up for miles and I’ll have to issue you a ticket for obstructing a public artery.”

“I’ll try,” Yama promised. “Can you clear those trikes out from behind the truck?”

“Will do.” About to hasten off, the patrolman paused when the jeep screeched to a stop and out jumped an army captain.

“What’s going on?”

“I have everything under control,” the policeman stated testily. “This guy’s gear box is giving him problems.”

“I’m Captain Herrick. We have an arms convoy coming along here in about five minutes and we can’t afford any delays.”

“Understood,” the policeman said. He looked up at the Warrior. “Do as I told you,” he ordered, and ran to the rear of the trash truck, where he began directing the traffic out of the junction.

Yama’s curiosity was aroused. Both men envinced a slight nervousness at the prospect of the convey being stopped. Why? What difference could a few extra minutes make? He shifted into reverse, and when sufficient space presented itself he backed up and pointed the truck due south again.

The policeman ran over and called out, “How’s it working now?”

“Seems to be okay,” Yama responded.

“Good, but we can’t take any chances,” the cop stated, and looked to the north, as if seeking any sign of the convoy. “There’s a parking lot fifty feet straight ahead. Nurse it there and a tow truck will arrive shortly.”

“On my way,” Yama promised, and pulled out slowly, watching in the side mirror as the efficient cop continued to direct the traffic. The military types waited on one side of the road, their impatience apparent.

Although tempted to keep on going and ditch the truck elsewhere, Yama drove to the almost vacant parking lot and pulled in. He leaned out the window and stared back at the junction. Almost immediately he spotted the convoy, consisting of six trucks, approaching at a brisk clip in the passing lane and using their horns to clear trikes and whatnot from their path.

The policeman had the intersection free of traffic, and all converging vehicles were stopped at the appropriate white lines to give the convoy unhindered passage.

Captain Herrick climbed in the jeep and it moved away from the curb to take the lead.

Still puzzled, Yama opened his door for a better view. From the west arose a distinct whomp! and a millisecond later the jeep exploded and was promptly engulfed in flames.

Spinning, the patrolman clawed for his service revolver, but a burst of automatic fire cut him in half.

The drivers of the convoy frantically braked, almost too near to the intersection to avoid it.

With the setting sun as their backdrop, three blue trikes roared down the sidewalk and closed on the first truck like wolves on a bear. Two men were astride each trike, all dressed in blue, and the back man on each carried a Dakon II. The gunners opened fire, pouring fragmentation rounds into the cab.

Yama saw the soldier driving the first truck dance and thrash about as the rounds perforated his body. Predictably, the truck slanted to the left, out of control, an enormous battering ram that plowed into the idling trikes and four-wheelers to the east and mowed them down in droves. The riders screamed as they were squashed and their vehicles reduced to so much scrap metal.

The men in blue swarmed around the second truck and repeated their maneuver. This time the truck lumbered to a halt in the middle of the intersection, the driver’s bloody corpse leaning on the steering wheel.

Who were these guys? Yama wondered, and the obvious occurred to him. They must be with the Resistance Movement, and if so the implications were delightfully staggering. Because if the rebels in Technic City were this organized, this effective, then the Technics’ days were numbered. He grabbed the Wilkinson and dropped to the asphalt.

Meanwhile the men in blue had taken out the third truck and were going after the fourth, which was in the act of grinding into reverse. The fifth and sixth convoy trucks were also doing clumsy U-turns, their ability to execute the about-face hindered by all the trikes around them and the confined roadway.

Yama ran toward the intersection. If he could link up with the Resistance Movement it would make his task a lot easier.

To the south arose the sound of engines whining at top speed.

Stopping, Yama whirled and spied four jeeps coming to the convoy’s rescue, each conveying four soldiers armed with the inevitable Dakon II.

The jeeps were strung out in a line, using the shoulder of the highway, all the troopers intent on the conflict at the intersection.

The Warrior came to an instant decision. He ran to the road and started across, threading a path through the tightly spaced trikes, raising eyebrows and drawing shouts of alarm. But no one tried to stop him, and he burst into the clear when the foremost jeep was still 30 feet away.

One of the Technics saw him and pointed.

Dropping onto his right knee, Yama tucked the Wilkinson against his side and stroked the trigger, drilling the windshield with over a dozen holes and stitching the soldiers in the front seats with 9mm manglers.

Dead in the blink of an eye, the driver lost control and the jeep swerved into the vehicles on the highway, the collision loud enough to be heard for a mile.

One down, three to go. Yama rose and backpedaled as he fired at the second jeep, duplicating his success. This time the jeep went to the right, smashing into the side of a building.

Unfazed by the fate of their comrades, the remaining two jeeps never slowed.

Yama refused to give ground. He emptied the Wilkinson into the third jeep, which was 50 feet away and going at least 70 miles an hour, then drew the Browning and sighted on the driver. Before he could fire, however, one of the soldiers in the back straightened and hurled a spherical metallic object.

There could be no doubt as to what it was, and Yama spun and ran, taking several strides before he dove for the ground, knowing he was already too late a heartbeat prior to the near-deafening detonation. An invisible hand picked him up in midair and flipped him end over end with the force of a tornado. He tried to relax his body, to be ready to roll with the impact, but the next moment his head slammed into something as unyielding as steel and his consciousness fluttered into a void.