David Robbins - Armageddon Run

Rudabaugh jumped up again, another stick of dynamite clutched in his right fist. His arm swept down, then up, and he threw the explosive underhand.

One of the troopers spotted the man in black on the roof and tried to get off a hasty shot.

A second blast rocked the town square. Soldiers were screaming in pain and fear. Three of the troopers broke from the rest and ran toward the east side of the command post.

Orson leaped into view at the corner of the structure, his shotgun thundering.

The three troopers went down in a bloody heap.

Hickok held his fire, waiting for an enemy to show himself. The air was choked with dust and dirt, obscuring both sides in the clash. The area near the fountain was still relatively clear, and the gunman clearly saw Blade and Reno thrashing inside along the rim. What was taking Blade so long to finish off that wimp?

Lynx rose up next to the struggling pair, his lips contorted in a feral snarl. His right hand flicked out, and his claws closed on the back of Reno’s squat neck. Lynx heaved, yanking Reno away from Blade and shoving the officer under the water. His pointed teeth exposed, Lynx piled on top of Reno.

Something was wrong with Blade. He was leaning on the rim of the fountain and gasping for air.

Hickok started toward his friend.

Bertha beat him there, reaching Blade and lifting his head in her left arm.

What the blazes was the matter with Blade? Hickok was less than ten yards from them when the dust and dirt dispersed enough for the soldiers to see their opponents. Without warning, the remaining troopers bore down on the fountain.

Geronimo was providing covering fire.

Rudabaugh entered the fray, using a Winchester from the roof of the command post.

Orson added to the carnage from the corner of the building.

Caught in a withering cross fire, the soldiers were getting the worst of the battle, littering the ground with their dead and dying. A small cluster was racing toward the fountain, determined to reach their commander.

Hickok perceived there was no way Bertha could hold them off, that some of them might even reach the fountain. He dropped his Henry and drew his Pythons, running at full speed now, firing as he ran, going for the head as he invariably did, his shots spaced so closely together it was almost impossible to tell them apart. He reached Bertha’s side, the two of them shoulder to shoulder.

Blade suddenly wrenched free of Bertha and rose, the Commando chattering, swinging the machine gun in an arc. Four charging troopers jerked and danced as the heavy slugs stitched a crimson patchwork across their chests.

The ensuing silence seemed unnatural.

Bodies filled the area between the fountain and the command post.

Some of the injured were moaning. Pools of blood dotted the square.

Hickok took hold of Blade’s right arm. “Are you all right? You look a mite pale.”

“I’m fine,” Blade replied, his voice ragged.

“What happened?” Hickok asked.

Blade ignored the question. He pointed at the fallen troopers. “Bertha! Geronimo! Check on them! See if any are faking. Be careful!”

Bertha and Geronimo began their circuit of the bodies.

“What happened?” Hickok repeated.

Blade doubled over, grimacing. “The bastard kneed me in the family jewels.”

“You mean he got you in the nuts?” Hickok said, snickering.

“It isn’t funny,” Blade stated. “Jenny and I may never have kids!”

“Yeah, I know how that can hurt, pard,” Hickok agreed sympathetically.

He glanced at the pool of water in the fountain. “What happened to…” He stopped, shocked.

Blade turned.

Lynx was standing near the center of the fountain. Floating next to his left leg was Captain Reno’s body. Floating next to his right leg was Captain Reno’s head, the neck a jagged ring of red flesh, the captain’s eyes open and seemingly alive as the head bobbed in the murky water. Blood dribbled from Lynx’s mouth and over his hairy chin. He walked to the rim of the fountain and stepped over it to firm ground. “That was my idea of a fun time,” he quipped. “I can’t wait for the Doc to show his ugly face so we can do it again.”

Hickok scrutinized the genetic deviate. “You like doing what you just did?”

Lynx nodded. “It’s in my blood.”

Hickok gazed at the grisly corpse in the pool. “Lynx, I’ve been accused of being trigger-happy now and then. But you, pard, plumb take the cake.”

“You gotta understand something, Hickok,” Lynx said earnestly. “The Doktor created me from a test-tube. He did whatever he does to a human embryo and, presto, I’m the result. He created me, and all the others like me, for only one purpose: to kill. We’re his personal assassin corps. Oh yeah, some of us in the Genetic Research Division perform other functions, but primarily we’re bred to kill. It’s what I do best. I only feel comfortable when I’m fightin’ or killin’. You, more than any of the rest, should be able to appreciate that.”

Hickok slowly nodded. “I reckon I do.”

Blade strode several yards from the fountain, scanning the town square.

The residents of Catlow were wisely staying in their homes. Earlier in the day, just before sunrise, when Blade and his strike force had surreptitiously entered the town, they had inadvertently bumped into several of the local citizens. Without exception, each one had gawked for a few seconds, then wheeled and fled.

Geronimo and Bertha were still verifying the status of the soldiers sprawled on the square.

Blade looked at Hickok. “Take Lynx with you. Bring the SEAL here.”

Hickok nodded and ran off, Lynx in tow. They had left the vehicle parked behind a dilapidated shack four blocks to the north.

Rudabaugh and Orson jogged up to Blade.

“We made a quick sweep of the command post,” Rudabaugh reported.

“It’s all ours.”

“What’s inside?” Blade inquired.

“Not much,” Rudabaugh detailed. “Two big rooms with cots for sleeping, a smaller room with a bunch of tables and a stove, an office, and a room with a lot of electronic equipment.”

“What type of electronic equipment?” Blade asked.

Rudabaugh shrugged. “Beats me. We don’t have anything like it in the Cavalry. All the fancy stuff we had like that wore out years ago. 1 did see an old shortwave set once, and I think this stuff inside could be a radio of some kind.”

“Stay here and keep alert,” Blade ordered. “I’m going to have a look.”

He took two steps, then paused. “You both did a good job,” he praised them.

“Even me?” Orson asked.

“Even you,” Blade confirmed.

Orson grinned sheepishly.

Blade headed for the command post. He sincerely hoped there was a radio inside. Unless they could find a trooper relatively unscathed, capable of driving an extended distance, they would need to devise another method of contacting the Doktor. A radio might be just what the… doctor… ordered.

Grinning at his thoughts, he entered the concrete structure and found himself in a hallway. There was a door to his left, partially open, and he walked to it and shoved.

One wall of the room was filled with sophisticated electronic equipment. There was a wooden table aligned against the wall, and several pieces of equipment were on top of the table. In front of the table was a swivel chair, and in the chair, slumped forward so his forehead was resting on the edge of the table, was a trooper, a pair of headphones on his ears.

Blade crossed to the chair and touched the trooper’s left shoulder.

The chair swiveled to one side, causing the trooper to begin to slide toward the cement floor. There was a neat hole in the back of the soldier’s head, and a larger cavity where his right eye had once been.