David Robbins - Armageddon Run

Bertha’s brow creased. “I may not be too bright sometimes, but even I can figure out you don’t intend to use the SEAL in our fight with the Doktor, do you?”

Blade shook his head. “Not during the first two days. We’ll hide it in the big shed behind the command post.”

“Hey!” Orson yelled down from the roof again.

Blade glanced up. “What?”

Orson pointed to the south. “We’ve got company!”

Everyone tensed.

“What do you see?” Blade asked.

Orson had the binoculars pressed to his eyes. “A lot of vehicles coming over a low hill about a mile south of town. Ten, twelve, fourteen…” Orson looked down at Blade “A hell of a lot of “em!”

“Keep watching!” Blade ordered. He stepped up to the transport and grabbed the door handle. “I’m going to hide the SEAL in the shed. You all know where your posts are. Remember, each of you is to take an M-16 and as much ammunition as you can carry from the collection we took from those dead soldiers. It’s piled inside the command post, in the first room to your left.”

Hickok patted his right Python. “I’m partial to these, pard.”

“We’ve already covered this,” Blade reminded him. “Save your favorite weapons until you really need them. Use the M-16s as much as you can.

We have ample ammunition for them.” He grinned at each of them. “Hop to it!”

Lynx watched Blade climb into the SEAL and drive the transport around the western corner of the command post.

Rudabaugh started into the building to claim an M-16. “Do you want me to get one for you, Lynx?” he offered.

Lynx shook his head. “Thanks, chuckles, but I don’t go in for firearms.”

“Then what’re you gonna fight the Doktor with?” Bertha inquired.

“Spitballs?”

Lynx chuckled and raised his right hand. One by one, he extended his fingers and thumb, revealing the tapered nails, in reality iron-like claws, on the end of each digit. “These little beauties will do just fine, thanks.”

“Your claws against guns?” Rudabaugh queried doubtfully.

“If the Doc has brought his G.R.D.’s with him,” Lynx said, “it’ll be even-steven, ’cause us genetic misfits don’t go in much for guns. And as far as the soldiers are concerned,” Lynx said confidently, “if you don’t think I have a chance against guns, why don’t you walk over to the fountain and tell that to Captain Reno? I’m sure he’ll be tickled pink at the news.”

Rudabaugh had seen the gory remains of the hapless officer. “No, thanks. I get the point.”

Lynx clicked his nails. “So will they, bub! So will they!”

The Doktor waited until the next morning to launch his assault on Catlow.

The night was cold, with the temperatures dropping down into the upper 30s. A stiff breeze blew in from the northwest. Geronimo, huddled in a blanket at his post behind a wooden fence in a yard just to the southeast of U.S. Highway 85, spent the long hours reflecting on his wife, Cynthia Morning Dove, and the likelihood of his being able to continue the family tree given his present situation. He thought of Plato, and Joshua, and Rikki, and all of his other close friends and loved ones in the Family, and wondered if he would ever experience the joy of seeing them again.

Toward morning, when the first tinge of pink suffused the eastern horizon, he roused himself and placed the blanket on the ground.

It would be soon.

He could feel it in his blood.

Geronimo peeped between the slats in the four-foot-high wooden fence, which was painted white and badly in need of repair, and gazed southward. U.S. Highway 85 was to the west of his position, running north and south. North of the yard it entered Catlow, making a beeline through the town. In the center of Catlow, to the west of 85, was the town square.

Blade had scattered the seven of them at strategic locations designed to maximize their concerted firepower.

South of Catlow, the highway proceeded for about 500 yards in a straight line and then traversed a small rise.

Had something moved near the top of the rise?

Geronimo squinted, scanning the rise. He held an M-16 in his hands; his FNC Auto Rifle was slung over his right shoulder. The Arminius was snug in its holster under his right arm, and his tomahawk was angled under his belt.

Figures were slowly advancing over the rise.

Geronimo flattened, keeping his eyes on the approaching forms. He counted at least two dozen, even more.

Surprise! Surprise!

They all appeared to be troopers.

What gives? Geronimo mused. Surely the Doktor had brought some of his genetic horrors with him. So why would he send in ordinary soldiers?

Geronimo could think of only one reason: the Doktor was saving his G.R.D.’s, and the patrol coming in now was sent to test the defenses the Doktor would have to face.

The troopers were cautiously heading toward Catlow, strung out in two lines on either side of the highway, their weapons at the ready.

The eastern sky was rapidly brightening.

Geronimo could see their faces, their intent expressions and worried eyes. Many of them were young, and he felt a twinge of sorrow for the families they had left behind. Mourning a dearly beloved was a devastating experience, and he didn’t wish it on anyone. He vividly recalled his own grief when his parents had died; such misery should be kept to an absolute minimum.

The soldiers were halfway across the straight stretch.

Geronimo glanced to the west. He was in the southwestern corner of the fence, two yards from the road. Orson was supposed to be on the other side of U.S. Highway 85, waiting at the upstairs window of a green frame house.

Would the Mole pull his weight when push came to shove? Orson had performed admirably during the fight in the town square, but they had—

Wait!

Two of the soldiers had detached themselves from the patrol and were racing toward Catlow at top speed.

The point men.

Geronimo inched forward and squinted between two of the slats. This would complicate matters. He would have to let the two point men pass his position.

Would they spot him?

Geronimo froze, immobile, holding his breath, as the two soldiers came abreast of his station. They were nervously looking in every direction, their fingers on the triggers of their M-16s.

Geronimo could see their legs and boots as they passed by. There was less than a half inch of space between each wooden slat, and it was unlikely they would detect his presence unless they gazed directly at him.

Otherwise, his prone body, dressed as it was in dark green, would simply appear to be part of the shadows at the base of the fence.

The point men entered Catlow and kept going.

Geronimo shifted his attention to the patrol. They were 30 yards out and closing. His nose began itching, and he suppressed an impulse to sneeze.

Then it was 20 yards.

Geronimo risked a hasty glance to his right, at the dilapidated home the fence was attached to, calculating the distance he would need to cover once the firing began.

Ten yards.

He mentally debated the wisdom of opening up as soon as they neared the fence, or waiting for some or all of them to go on by. If they went past, he would be shooting them in the back, and he found the idea morally distasteful. Hickok would have no qualms about doing it, he knew, but he wasn’t Hickok.

Thank the Spirit!

His dilemma was rendered moot by Orson.

The burly Mole abruptly appeared, framed in the second-floor window of the house on the other side of the highway. His M-16 burped, shattering the glass in the window, and three of the first soldiers in line went down.

Almost immediately, the patrol swung their automatic rifles on the window and started firing.