David Robbins - Dallas Run

Nelson hated border-guard duty.

He squinted up at the bright April sun, mentally cursing the Civilized Zone Army. While he was at it, he also cursed his immediate superior officer, Lieutenant Garber, and the commander of the armed forces, General Reese. For good measure he added in President Toland, the heat wave, and life in general.

Six more months, he told himself.

Six more months and he could kiss the damn Army goodbye! His two-year enlistment would be up and he could return to civilian life. He’d be free again! Free to let his hair grow if he wanted, free to wear whatever clothing he liked, free to stay out as late as he desired or to sleep in until noon without having an officer or a noncom standing over his bunk and bellowing for him to get his lazy butt out of the sack.

Oh, sweet freedom!

Nelson smiled at the thought of his honorable discharge, and shifted his attention to the stark, oddly ominous structures silhouetted against the southern horizon. The skyscrapers of Dallas, even at a distance of 15 miles, gave him the willies. He recalled all the horror stories he’d heard about the savagery reigning in the former metropolis, about the scavengers and the gangs and the mutations, and he wondered why anyone in their right mind would choose to live there, to exist in such squalor and filth amidst such danger. Living in Dallas didn’t make any sense, not when the Civilized Zone border was so close.

He gripped the strap of the M-16 slung over his left shoulder with his left hand and rested his right on the top rail of the gate blocking off Highway 289. Sweat beaded his brow under his helmet and caked his sides under his green fatigue shirt. He longed for a cool drink or a cold bath. In four hours, at six P.M., he would be off duty, and he could hardly wait to strip off his uncomfortable uniform and sink into a tub of icy water.

“Daydreaming about Cindy, Art?”

Nelson started at the sound of the familiar voice and pivoted to his left to find Sergeant Whitney emerging from the white hut at the side of the road. “No,” he blurted out.

“What’s with you?” Sergeant Whitney asked, and grinned. “Why are you so jumpy?”

Nelson shrugged. “Didn’t realize I was, Bob.”

“I could understand a case of nerves if we were pulling the night shift,” Whitney mentioned, stretching and staring at the far-off skyscrapers. “But it’s the middle of the afternoon, for crying out loud.”

“I guess pulling sentry duty at this post gives me the creeps,” Nelson said.

“Me too,” Sergeant Whitney admitted. “Those screams an hour ago were some of the loudest I’ve heard. It sounded like some poor woman was being torn limb from limb.”

Nelson remembered and shuddered. Screams and wails from the direction of the decrepit, crumbling city were not uncommon, but during the past week all of the men pulling shifts at Sentry Post 17 had noticed an increase in the number of such cries, as if an unidentified terror stalked the inhabitants and was slaying them one by one. “Potts told me that on his shift last night he heard someone screeching for nearly an hour.”

“You can’t believe Potts. You know how that turkey likes to exaggerate,” Sergeant Whitney said.

“Yeah,” Nelson agreed, glad he was on duty with a reliable, disciplined man like Bob Whitney. The two had known one another for seven months, ever since Nelson had been assigned to the Southern Perimeter Command, the unit responsible for manning all of the sentry posts along the southern border of the Civilized Zone. Despite their difference in rank and career status, with Whitney planning to stay in the Army for 20 years and hoping to eventually become an officer, they had developed a mutually respectful friendship. Nelson had taken his sweetheart, Cindy Hampton, over to the Whitneys on several occasions.

“One of these days General Reese will get his wish and be allowed to take a battalion into Dallas to clean out the scavengers and the other grungy riffraff,” Sergeant Whitney remarked.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t already,” Nelson responded.

“General Reese can’t make a move into the Outlands without President Toland’s permission, and Toland is a politician.”

“So?”

Whitney made a snorting noise. “You must not know much about politics. Politicians, Art, always take the path of least resistance. When faced with a crucial problem, they’d rather cower in a corner than take the bold stand necessary to solve the problem.”

“I still don’t understand,” Nelson said.

“Permit me to educate you,” Sergeant Whitney said, and pointed toward the city. “Out there lies the Outlands. Any and all territory lying outside of the boundaries of the organized factions is considered part of the Outlands.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Okay, smartass. There are those who advocate assembling a huge force composed of a regiment from the Civilized Zone and elements from each of the other six factions in the Freedom Federation. They want this super detachment to venture into the Outlands and eliminate the raiders, the mutants, the gangs, and anyone or anything else that stands in the way of progress.”

“Sounds like a great idea to me,” Nelson commented.

“There are many people who don’t agree,” Whitney noted. “They believe our armed forces are overextended as it is, what with maintaining the peace and protecting our borders. Any large-scale excursion into the Outlands might leave us open to attack from one of our enemies. There’s also the issue of governmental control. Some people don’t think the Civilized Zone, or any other Federation faction, has the right to annex additional land without the consent of the inhabitants of the Outlands.

These people even have a motto.” He paused. “Government by the people, not over the people.’”

“So you’re saying that President Toland won’t authorize a military strike into Dallas or any other part of the Outlands because a lot of voters would be upset with him?” Nelson queried.

“Give the man a gold star,” Sergeant Whitney quipped.

Nelson pondered the implications for a moment. “But who knows what’s going on out there? For all we know, there could be someone in the Outlands organizing an army to invade us.”

“Could happen,” Whitney acknowledged.

“What will it take to bring President Toland to his senses?” Nelson wondered.

“A brain transplant.”

They both started laughing, but the laughter died abruptly seconds later when a high-pitched shriek rent the sluggish air, arising from a cluster of dilapidated buildings less than 200 yards from the sentry post, on the right side of Highway 289.

“What the hell!” Nelson exclaimed, unslinging his M-16.

Sergeant Whitney placed his right hand on the butt of the Browning semiautomatic strapped to his right hip. “Damn! I’ve never heard one that close before.”

“Do we check it out?”

“You know better,” Sergeant Whitney replied. “We stay put.”

Nelson listened with bated breath, the short hairs at the nape of his neck tingling. Between the gate and the buildings stretched a field of brush and scrub trees in which nothing moved. On the left side of the roadway an expanse of field extended for over 500 yards before ending at a row of abandoned frame homes, many of which were partly collapsed. “I don’t see anything.”

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Sergeant Whitney directed. “I’m going to call this in.” He turned and entered the sentry hut.

A drop of sweat trickled onto Nelson’s left eyelid, and he mopped at his brow with the back of his left hand, feeling annoyed at himself for his excessive nervousness. Why was he so antsy? He’d pulled guard duty more times than he could count, and he’d never felt so apprehensive before. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or was it trying to warn him of impending peril? He took a few deep breaths to steady himself.