David Robbins - Chicago Run

“If you want my opinion, Sarge, these patrols are a waste of our time,” Corporal Lyle Carson commented while trudging along a secondary road located five miles southwest of Technic City. He squinted up at the bright January sun, glad he was wearing his thermal combat fatigues. Even with the sunshine the temperature hovered only in the twenties. If he didn’t have the thermal protection he’d be freezing his butt off after seven hours of patrol duty.

“I didn’t ask your opinion, Carson,” the sergeant responded stiffly from his position at the head of the six-person column. He glanced over his left shoulder, his weathered features creasing in a frown. “And from now on keep them to yourself.”

“Sorry, Sarge,” Carson said, and leaned forward to whisper to the dark-haired woman in front of him. “What’s eating the sarge today, Lavender?”

“I don’t know,” the woman replied. “And it’s Private Lavender to you.”

“Boy, what a bunch of grumps,” Carson mumbled, adjusting the strap to the Dakon II slung over his left shoulder. He patted the fragmentation rifle affectionately, thankful for its devastating firepower. Who knew what they would run into outside the city? Mutations. Scavengers. Raiders.

Monsters. There were endless possibilities. They might even run into him .

Soon the patrol came to a junction, and the seasoned sergeant held aloft his right hand, signifying a halt. He moved to the center of the intersection and gazed in each direction.

Carson consulted his watch. “It’s two P.M. Four more hours and the sun will be down,” he commented softly so the sergeant wouldn’t hear.

“Afraid of the dark, are you?” Lavender said sarcastically.

“Of course not,” Carson countered. “But they say the Shadow does most of his dirty work after the sun sets.”

“Most, but not all,” Lavender reminded him.

The sergeant returned. “At ease, people. Take five.”

“At last,” Carson said, pushing his helmet back on his head and scratching his brow.

Private Lavender removed her helmet, displaying her short, curly red hair, and rubbed the nape of her neck. “I can’t wait to get back to the barracks and take a nice, hot shower.”

“Care for some company?” Carson asked.

“Dream on, asshole.”

The three other soldiers laughed.

“Sergeant Sikes,” Carson said to cover his embarrassment, “do you think there’s any chance this Shadow character will hit another patrol?”

“The higher-ups wouldn’t have squads patrolling outside the perimeter fence if there wasn’t,” Spikes replied. He extracted a map from a shirt pocket and unfolded it.

“I heard tell the Shadow has killed thirty-seven already,” Carson mentioned.

“Then you know more than I do,” Sikes said, studying the map. “The top brass isn’t about to reveal the exact figure. You’ve been listening to too much scuttlebutt again.”

Lavender chuckled and poked Carson in the arm. “As usual you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Oh?” Carson snapped. “Shows how much you know, Ms. Stuck-Up. I happen to be good friends with Jessie Malovich, and I bet you’ve heard of him.”

All the rest now focused on the corporal.

“Malovich was the guy mentioned on the news,” one of the men remarked. “The only grunt who survived the Shadow’s first attack.”

Carson squared his shoulders and nodded, pleased at being the center of attention. Despite his stripes the others, except for the crusty sergeant, tended to look down their noses at him because he was career military and they were young brats who were begrudgingly pulling the two-year stints required of all Technic City citizens. Once they’d put in their time they’d go on to lucrative civilian jobs. “That’s right,” Carson declared, sticking his thumbs under his web belt.

“You really know him?” Lavender asked.

“I don’t make it a habit of lying,” Carson said.

Sikes stepped closer. “What did Malovich tell you, Lyle?”

“I went to visit him in the hospital,” Carson disclosed, automatically lowering his voice although they were in the middle of the Clear Zone, the ten-mile-wide uninhabited strip bordering Technic City. By executive decree, handed down initially by the very first Minister approximately a century ago, not long after the global Armageddon referred to in the history books as World War Three, no one was permitted to reside in the Clear Zone. Whenever squatters moved in, an army patrol immediately went out and an officer offered them the opportunity to reside in Technic City. If the squatters refused, they were expeditiously eliminated.

“They let you in?” Lavender inquired skeptically.

“I got there the day after it happened, before the bigwigs clamped a security net around him,” Carson explained. “He’d been part of a ten-man unit assigned to escort the Director of Intelligence to a Gypsy camp located twelve miles northwest of the city.”

“Why would the Director of Intelligence be visiting a bunch of lousy Gypsies?” wondered one of the men.

“Who knows?” Carson said. “My buddy and the soldiers with him had to wait outside a wagon while the Director went in and shot the breeze with the head Gypsy. The meeting took about an hour, and the Director headed back.” Carson paused and let his voice drop even more. “The attack took place just four miles from the west gate.”

“Did Malovich actually see the Shadow?” Lavender queried, caught up in the narrative.

“Yes, but not a good look,” Carson said. “He told me this big son of a bitch appeared out of nowhere, blocking their path. He asked if they were Technics. The Director informed him they were.” He stopped.

“What happened then?” a stocky man asked.

“Yeah, don’t keep us in suspense,” Lavender added.

Suppressing a grin, Carson said, “The big guy spoke four words and cut loose, mowing them down where they stood.”

“What four words?” Sergeant Sikes asked.

“This is for her,” Carson quoted.

“Her? Her who?” Lavender asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Carson answered. “I’m only relaying what Malovich told me. He swore it was the truth.”

For half a minute none of them bothered to speak. At last Sikes cleared his throat.

“Well, even if the bastard is still lurking out here, sooner or later a patrol will nail him.”

The stocky man frowned. “If this Shadow is so damn dangerous, why don’t they send out the Elite Squads instead of common grunts like us?

Why use fifty patrols made up of ordinary troopers when the Elite commandos are ten times better?”

“Because there are only ten Elite Squads and they can’t be everywhere at once,” Sikes replied, and touched the radio clipped to his belt above his left hip. “Why do you think we have this? If we spot anyone suspicious, all we have to do is call in and an Elite Squad will be out here to help us within two minutes.”

“I just hope that’s enough time,” the soldier said.

Sikes folded his map. “Okay. Enough gabbing. We have a lot of territory to cover before we can head back, so let’s get our butts in gear.”

“The sooner we’re in Technic City, the better,” Carson stressed. He watched Lavender replace her helmet, wishing she would be friendlier, longing to have her accept just one of his many advances. She gazed past the sergeant and suddenly froze, her mouth slackening. Puzzled, he looked in the same direction and his breath caught in his throat.

“We go left, people,” Sikes informed them, and turned, discovering the stranger.

He stood calmly in the middle of the intersection, a huge man with penetrating blue eyes, striking silver hair, and a sweeping silver mustache.