David Robbins - Chicago Run

Angling the rifle at the brutes, Yama walked to within a yard of the man he had traveled eight hundred miles to topple.

“You must be the one Corporal Carson told us about, the Warrior named Yama,” the Minister said, studying the big man from head to toe.

“I am,” Yama confirmed, watching the beasts. He felt confident the Dakon II would slay both should they attack. The scientists barely deserved notice; they were no threat whatsoever.

“Fascinating,” the Minister stated. “And what do you propose to do now?”

“Hold you hostage until the appointed time.”

“Me? A hostage? How quaint.” The Minister pressed his hands together and laughed, genuinely delighted.

From beyond the tinted windows came the sounds of a city at war: crackling gunfire, explosions, screams, and cries.

The Minister nodded toward the windows. “I take it that is your doing?”

“More or less.”

Shaking his head and clucking, the Minister walked over to a chair and casually took a seat. “I should thank you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve learned an important lesson today. I’ve learned never to underestimate the influence a single person can have. When that idiotic corporal informed me that a lone Warrior had come here to destroy our fair city, I almost laughed in his face. I was certain you must be insane.”

“You were wrong,” Yama declared.

“So I see,” the Minister said. He sighed and glanced at the dogs, then at the Warrior. “There’s an aspect to this affair I don’t understand, and perhaps you would consent to providing an explanation?”

Yama simply waited.

“You allegedly told the corporal that you were doing this for Lieutenant Alicia Farrow. I ran a records check and learned Farrow had been sent to the Home about two years ago. She was supposed to aid a demolition team in gaining entry so your accursed compound could be destroyed.

Something went wrong, though. Nothing was ever heard from Farrow or the team again,” the Minister said, and made a tent of his fingers in his lap. “Tell me.

How does she fit into the scheme of things where you’re concerned?”

“We were in love. She sacrificed herself to save me from the demolition team.”

The Minister scrutinized the Warrior’s face. “Incredible. So all this is because you blame the Technics for her death?”

“I blame the system, not the people. For a century the Technic political and educational systems have produced the equivalent of robots, virtual slaves who don’t even know the definition of true freedom. The citizens have regarded the government here as benevolent and concerned with the welfare of the common people, when we both know that governments are only interested in perpetuating more and stricter controls over those being ruled.”

“You’re not at all what I expected,” the Minister said. “Here I thought you were a muscle-bound oaf, when you actually possess a keen mind.”

Yama wasn’t about to thank the man for the compliment. He aligned his finger snug with the trigger and listened to the warfare in the streets.

“It’s most interesting that you should bring up the subject of robots,” the Minister commented.

“Why?”

The Minister indicated the beasts with a curt nod. “Do you know what they are?”

“Dogs, but different from any dogs I’ve ever known.”

“In more ways than you realize,” the Minister said, and chuckled.

“Those exceptional creatures are biomechanical constructs, Cy-Hounds we call them.”

“I met one a few minutes ago,” Yama disclosed. “They’re not very friendly.”

The Minister glanced at the Warrior. “What happened to it, if I may ask?”

“It developed a bad case of indigestion.”

“You must be a remarkable man to have defeated a Cy-Hound all by yourself,” the Minister said. “And I can’t help but wonder if you can do equally as well against two.” He suddenly jabbed his finger at the beasts.

“Release them.”

Yama crouched, his finger tightening, but the pair of fierce Cy-Hounds were already in rapid motion, their rapier-lined mouths opened wide to tear into his body.

“Beats me why you’re so ticked off, pard,” Hickok commented, grinning. “This way you don’t have to worry about whether we should blow her brains out or give her a spankin’.”

Blade halted and glared at the gunfighter. The three of them had been in pursuit of Isabel Kaufer for ten minutes and not yet overtaken her.

Geronimo, in the lead, was on one knee examining the ground; if anyone could find her, it would be him. When it came to tracking Geronimo had few equals.

“Why are you lookin’ at me like that?” Hickok asked the peeved giant. “I figured you’d be tickled pink that she vamoosed.”

“Sometimes, Nathan. Sometimes,” Blade said, and faced Geronimo.

“How far behind her are we?”

“Wait a blamed second!” Hickok interjected. “Sometimes what? You didn’t finish.”

“Yes, I did,” Blade said.

“Bull patties. You can’t just say ‘sometimes’ to someone and let it go at that. What the blazes did it mean?”

“It meant that sometimes you can be a royal pain in the butt.”

“Oh. Was that all?”

Straightening, Geronimo pointed to the northwest. “My guess would be she’s heading home, back to that house, and making good time. We’re about three or four minutes behind her.”

“Then if we push it we should catch her easily,” Blade stated.

Geronimo looked at him. “Are you sure you want to catch her?”

“Don’t you start. Head on out.”

“Okay.”

The Warriors moved swiftly through the forest, covering hundreds of yards in three times the speed of an average person. They came to a gurgling, shallow stream and halted on the small bank.

Squatting, Geronimo indicated hand prints in the soft mud at the water’s edge. “She knelt here to get a drink.”

“I wouldn’t mind wettin’ my own whistle,” Hickok remarked, and started to bend down.

Abruptly shattering the tranquility of the woodland, a terrified scream arose on the other side of the stream, coming from a dense stand of saplings.

“That was her!” Geronimo exclaimed.

Blade sprinted to her rescue, splashing through the ankle-high water and vaulting onto the opposite bank. He grasped the Commando securely and plunged into the stand, threading between the slender young trees. A feral growling and snarling guided his footsteps to Kauler and a monstrosity straight out of a madman’s nightmare, a mutation spawned by the radiation and chemical toxins polluting the land.

The woman had clambered up a ten-foot-high sapling, and was clinging for dear life near the top. Her weight bent the tree, and her legs were within inches of the slavering genetic deviate trying to eat her.

Stopping, Blade raised the Commando and tried to get a bead on the thing.

Perhaps the animal’s ancestors had been common weasels. In its general shape the mutant resembled such small carnivores. But this specimen reared nearly seven feet high on its short hind legs, and had a thick but sinuous body a yard in circumference. Isolated tufts of brownish fur dotted its dark, leathery hide like weeds jutting from a parched plain.

A scruffy tail a yard long jerked spasmodically as the mutant weaved this way and that, its green eyes fixed on its intended meal. Large yellow claws on all four feet appeared capable of ripping any prey to shreds. A small, rounded head perched on a long, thin neck gave the weasel a snakelike aspect. As it tried to tear the woman from the tree, snarls and hisses issued from its mouth, revealing scores of tiny daggers for teeth.

Try as Blade might, he couldn’t keep the thing’s head in his sights for more than a second at a time. The mutation kept moving, its head bobbing and darting right and left. He didn’t want to fire until he was certain he could slay it, so he held his fire and heard his friends race up beside him.