David Robbins - Armageddon Run

Rudabaugh started to bend over, to reach for the plunger, when a scorching, searing pain shot through his left shoulder, wrenching his body sideways and causing him to totter, lose his balance, and fall on his right side as his feet dropped out from under him and he endeavored to catch himself before he slid off the garage roof.

He’d been hit!

He couldn’t afford to waste precious seconds examining the wound. His left arm was tingling, strangely unresponsive and useless, so he lunged for the plunger with his right.

The 60-yard charge exploded.

Frantically, Rudabaugh took off the wires for the spent charge and replaced them with the set for the next bundle.

There was a peculiar scraping noise coming from the other side of the garage.

Rudabaugh depressed the plunger and the air vibrated with the concussion of the 40-yard charge.

Hurry! his mind screamed.

Hurry!

In a twinkling, he had the third set of wires fastened to the contacts.

The odd scraping was louder.

Rudabaugh fell on the plunger.

Only 20 yards from the seventh charge, the garage was buffeted by the tremendous blast, its walls shaking and swaying. For a moment, it seemed as if the building would collapse. Dirt, rocks, and tiny pieces of mushy flesh showered from the sky.

Rudabaugh grimaced as a large stone glanced off his temple. His left shoulder felt cold and clammy, and he backed up, scrambling down the roof. He looked up at the box, regretting he had to leave it behind, and the act saved his life.

Perched on the top of the garage roof was one of the Doktor’s genetic deviates. Decidedly reptilian, this one had bulging red eyes and scaly green skin. Instead of four fingers and a thumb, the creature had three abnormally long digits, each capped by a razor-like claw. It hissed and leaped.

Rudabaugh went for his right pistol, his draw impeded by his awkward position. He managed to clear leather, but not before the G.R.D. slammed into him, driving him backward, both of them hurtling from the roof and falling to the ground.

Rudabaugh twisted as they fell, hoping the creature would bear the brunt of the impact, but they both landed on their left side. A lancing spasm racked his body, and he forced himself to respond, to roll away from the G.R.D. before it could recover. He lurched to his knees and brought the 45 automatic up.

The thing was already on its feet.

Rudabaugh fired, the 45 booming, the bullet catching the deviate in its chest and jerking it rearward. But it recovered almost immediately and sprang, snarling, its claws outstretched. He fired again and again, each slug stopping the creature in its tracks, but each time it kept coming. His fingers abruptly became weak as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

The G.R.D. towered above him, its fangs gleaming.

Rudabaugh attempted to use his pistol, but his sluggish body refused to respond to his commands. He flinched, expecting the claws to slash into him, to rend him apart, but instead a volley of lead crashed into the creature and flung it against the garage.

“Hang on!” someone exclaimed.

Rudabaugh felt an arm encircle his waist and he was forcibly hauled to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged in the general direction of the command post. He turned his weary head, anticipating he would see Blade or Hickok or Geronimo.

It was Orson.

“Hang on!” the Mole reiterated, casting frequent glances over his shoulder to ascertain if they were being pursued. “We’ll make it!”

Rudabaugh nodded once, then blacked out.

Blade gazed up at the late afternoon sun, then down at Rudabaugh.

“How long was I unconscious?” the Cavalryman inquired. He was lying on a green Army blanket, which Orson had placed on the ground outside the concrete command post, to the right of the front entrance. His legs were pointed toward the town square.

Bertha answered his question. She was sitting with her back to the wall, only two feet away from Rudabaugh to his left, resting her injured right leg. “You’ve been out for hours, honey,” she informed him.

“What happened?” Rudabaugh queried. He couldn’t remember anything after Orson came to his rescue.

“Those explosives of yours did the trick,” Blade stated. “They broke and ran after the last three. We haven’t heard a peep out of them since.” He glanced up at the roof of the command post. “Anything?” he yelled. “Hey, Lynx! Do you hear me?”

Feline features popped into view. “I hear ya, dimples! Don’t you think I’d let you know if I see somethin’? There’s no sign of ‘em!” He vanished from sight.

Blade frowned. “I don’t like it! It’s been too quiet!”

“Haven’t you had enough fun for one day, pard?” Hickok asked. The gunman was leaning on the door jamb.

Geronimo stood to his right.

Orson was squatting on the ground about four feet behind Blade, absently tugging at his black beard.

“Any orders?” Geronimo asked.

“There’s not much we can do except wait,” Blade replied. He looked at Rudabaugh. “You did ring the town square and the command post with charges like I told you to do?”

Rudabaugh nodded. “Yesterday afternoon.”

“Then we’re all set at your end,” Blade said.

“Not quite,” Rudabaugh corrected him.

“What do you mean?” Blade queried.

“I do have nine charges left,” Rudabaugh mentioned, “but they won’t do us much good if I have to detonate them all by hand. We’ll need to dig them up and replace the caps.”

“But what about your electric blasting caps?” Blade inquired.

“They only work with my little box,” Rudabaugh answered, “and I lost it.”

“Lost it?”

“Actually, I left it on the roof of that garage,” Rudabaugh elaborated.

Blade nodded at Hickok. “Go get it.”

“On my way, pard,” the gunfighter responded, unslinging his Henry.

“I’ll go with him,” Geronimo offered. “He’ll need a boost onto the garage roof.”

“Stay alert,” Blade advised them.

The two Warriors ran around the northeastern corner of the command post.

Rudabaugh carefully examined the wound in his left shoulder. Someone had cleaned it and applied a bandage while he was unconscious. “Who do I thank for this?” he questioned the others.

“Thank Bertha,” Blade said. “She took care of you and me before she tended to herself.”

“Thanks,” Rudabaugh said to Bertha.

“It’s a clean hole,” Blade went on. “The bullet missed the bone. Bertha took a hit in her right thigh, but it’s stopped bleeding and it isn’t broken.”

“What about you?” Rudabaugh pointed at Blade’s left side.

Blade opened his black leather vest, displaying a crude bandage consisting of white strips torn from a sheet in the command post and wrapped around his broad torso. “As near as I can determine,” Blade commented, “the slug penetrated low on my back, deflected off one of my ribs, and exited shy of my sternum.”

“It must hurt like hell!” Rudabaugh observed.

“It does keep you on your toes,” Blade admitted.

“Speakin’ of stayin’ on our toes,” Bertha interjected, “shouldn’t we have someone patrollin’ the outskirts of this dump?”

Blade shook his head. “We can all use a short breather, and Lynx will spot them if they make a move.”

“What’s our next move?” Bertha asked.

“We’ll eat and bed down in the command post,” Blade answered. “We’ll rotate guard shifts tonight so everybody can catch some shut-eye.”

“I’ll take the first shift,” Orson volunteered.

“You?” Blade was pleasantly surprised by Orson’s eager-beaver attitude.

“Sure. I’m a Mole, ain’t I? And we’re used to living underground, which means I can see real good in the dark. I’ll relieve Lynx when you give the word,” Orson said.