David Robbins - New York Run

“This will do,” Blade declared as he opened one of the cans.

“For what?” Geronimo queried.

“Find a hose we can use to siphon the gas from them,” Blade directed.

Geronimo removed a hose from a jeep engine to serve as the siphon.

“What now?”

Blade attended to the task of siphoning the gas, filling all four gas cans.

“I still don’t get it,” Geronimo said as Blade filled the last.

“Take two of these cans,” Blade told him. “Pour the gas over the three jeeps. I’ll do the same to the four trucks. Hurry, before the Zombies come after us.”

Within minutes, all seven Technic vehicles were reeking from the pungent stench of the gasoline.

“Now what?” Geronimo asked.

“Refill the gas cans,” Blade ordered. He covered Geronimo while more gas was siphoned from the jeeps and trucks.

“All done,” Geronimo announced.

“Look in the trucks,” Blade said. “I saw some rags in one of them. Find four rags we can use.”

Geronimo, deducing Blade’s plan, jogged to the trucks and collected the rags.

“Okay. Stick the rags into the top of the gas cans,” Blade instructed.

“Leave about six inches protruding from the can.”

“Enough to light with a match,” Geronimo commented.

“You got it.” Blade ran to the SEAL, unlocked the driver’s door, and climbed in. The transport purred to life as soon as he turned the key. He slowly drove toward the nearest jeep, aligning the SEAL’S grill with the jeep’s rear bumper. He’d never tried this before, and he wasn’t positive it would work. Gingerly, he slowly accelerated, the SEAL’s powerful engine surging as the transport pressed against the jeep. Blade increased his pressure on the accelerator, confident the immense transport could achieve his goal.

“Hold it!” Geronimo suddenly shouted. He ran up to the SEAL. “I just noticed! They left the key in the ignition! Probably wanted to be ready for a quick getaway! I’ll put it in neutral!”

“Go for it!” Blade stated.

Geronimo slid into the jeep and twisted the key. The motor refused to kick over, but he found he could work the gearshift if he positioned the key halfway between Off and On. He shifted the jeep into neutral and jumped out.

Blade eased the SEAL forward, and this time the jeep was easily propelled forward, toward the shaft, up to the rim and over the rim, a rolling, metallic din echoing from the tunnel as the jeep tumbled and crashed to the bottom of the shaft.

Geronimo smiled and held his right thumb up.

Working rapidly, the two Warriors pushed one vehicle after the other into the tunnel. One of the trucks caught on the lip and had to be angled to the side before it plunged over the edge. Finally, the job was done.

Blade leaped to the ground and joined Geronimo at the shaft rim.

“Here,” he said, holding up the box of waterproof matches he’d taken from the SEAL’s glove compartment, a new box recently received in trade from the Civilized Zone.

Geronimo lined up the four gas cans next to the tunnel.

Blade knelt and removed a match from the box. “Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Geronimo responded.

Blade quickly lit each rag, and only after all four were ablaze did he hand the matches to Geronimo. “This is for Hickok,” he stated grimly, and with two swift flicks of his right foot he knocked all four cans into the shaft. Move!”

They sprinted to the SEAL and clambered inside.

Blade gunned the engine and wheeled the transport in a tight circle, heading for the Hudson, gaining speed. Ten. Twenty. Forty. And they were fifty yards from the tunnel when it blew, a fiery column of red and orange billowing skyward from the shaft, as an enormous explosion rocked the underground network.

Geronimo, looking over his right shoulder, whistled. “You should see it! The flames must be two hundred feet in the air!”

“So much for the mind-control gas,” Blade said.

“What did you mean back there?” Geronimo probed. “About Hickok?”

“I doubt the Minister would keep him alive,” Blade declared angrily.

“You don’t think so? But what about the hostage we’re holding at the Home? Farrow?”

“So what?” Blade retorted. “Do you really believe the Minister gives a damn about any of his people?”

“No,” Geronimo admitted morosely.

“If the Minister hasn’t killed Hickok yet,” Blade said, “he will when we don’t show up as expected. We can’t go back there alone.”

“What will we do?” Geronimo asked.

“We’ll go back the same way we came,” Blade stated. “We’ll bypass Technic City.” His fists clenched on the steering wheel. “And when we reach the Home, we’ll call a Freedom Federation Council and urge them to declare war on the Technics.”

“And what if they won’t go along with us?”

“Then we’ll do it alone,” Blade vowed.

“The Family against the Technics? Won’t we be a bit outnumbered?”

Geronimo queried.

“We’ll do it ourselves!” Blade promised vehemently. “We’ll make them pay for their deceit! Their treachery must not go unpunished!” He glanced at Geronimo. “Besides, Hickok would want us to avenge him.”

Geronimo shook his head. “I agree with you, but I can’t accept the idea of Hickok being dead.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to define. But Hickok has more dumb luck than any ten people I know. If there’s a way out of Technic City,” Geronimo predicted, “Hickok will find it.”

“I don’t see how.”

The guard stationed at tower number four on the west side of Technic City turned to his three companions. “Who brought the cards?”

“We’d best hold off,” one of the other soldiers said.

“Why?” the first one rejoined. “The captain made his rounds an hour ago. It’s almost midnight. No one is going to bother us this late at night.”

“I know,” the other agreed. “But we’re still on alert. They haven’t found that Warrior yet, and they might conduct a surprise inspection.”

“Yeah,” chimed in a third trooper. “We’d better wait.”

The first guard sighed. “Okay. Whatever you guys want. But I think you’re making a mistake. You know how boring third shift can be.”

“Better safe than sorry,” opined the second soldier.

The first man shrugged and stared at the darkened city to the east.

Curfew was at ten, and lights out in individual domiciles was set at eleven.

Public buildings could stay lit until midnight. He could see the Central Core on the horizon, brilliantly illuminated by hundreds of lights, the heart of the city, a beacon in the night. He reflected on the day’s news: the escape of the Warrior known as Hickok from the Core. He marveled at the Warrior’s ingenuity. No one had ever busted out of the Central Core before. And he ruminated on the rumors spreading like wildfire through the city, rumors asserting the Minister and his First Secretary were dead.

The paper, radio, and tube hadn’t mentioned the deaths, and the guard doubted they were true. He knew how readily gossip could circulate.

A sharp noise reached the tower, coming from the surrounding darkness, from the vicinity of the mine field.

“Did you hear something?” the first guard asked. “Nothing,” the second responded. “You’re hearing things,” said the third. “Probably,” the first trooper grudgingly conceded. He gazed at the mine field, deliberately blackened to complicate escape attempts. Anyone would think twice before venturing across a mine field at night, never knowing when they might accidentally tread on a mine and be obliterated by a gigantic explosion.

Another sound became audible, the muted rumbling of a motor.