David Robbins - Armageddon Run

Damn!

The enemy had them surrounded!

They were trapped!

“It sounds like the others are already in the thick of it,” Rudabaugh commented.

“Should we go help them?” Orson inquired.

Rudabaugh debated the wisdom of deserting their post. They had heard gunfire to the west and shots to the southeast, which meant the Doktor was assaulting Catlow from every direction this time. “No,” he replied. “We’ll wait a while and see if any of the Doktor’s troops show up here.”

They were stationed behind a small shed on the extreme northern outskirts of Catlow. U.S. Highway 85 was 11 blocks to the east, Orson hefted his M-16. “I don’t mind telling you,” he said nervously, “I’ll be glad when this is over.”

“So will I,” Rudabaugh admitted, leaning against the shed and cradling his Winchester in his arms.

“Can I ask you something?” Orson queried tentatively.

“What is it?”

“Do you think your boss, Kilrane, would mind if I came to live with the Cavalry after this is done?” Orson asked hopefully.

Rudabaugh eyes narrowed in surprise. “You want to come live with the Cavalry?”

“If they’d have me,” Orson said.

“Why in the world would you want to do that?” Rudabaugh probed.

“I know I don’t want to go back to the Mound.” Orson stated, referring to the huge subterranean city inhabited by the Moles.

“Why not?”

“Because Wolfe will continue to make my life miserable for me,” Orson remarked.

“What’s Wolfe got against you?” Rudabaugh inquired.

Orson sighed. “It goes a long way back to when we were kids together.

You see, Wolfe always was a bossy bastard, even before he became ruler of the Moles. We had a lot of fights when we were kids, because I was one of the few who wouldn’t take his crap.”

“And he’s held it against you all these years!” Rudabaugh commented.

“The man sure knows how to hold a grudge.”

“You don’t know Wolfe,” Orson began. “He’s—”

A booming explosion punctuated his sentence, coming from the west.

“Hickok and Geronimo,” Rudabaugh mentioned, facing in the direction of the explosion.

A cloud of dust was spiraling into the air.

“They may need us,” Orson stated.

Rudabaugh was about to concur, when he glanced at the field to the north of the shed.

It was swarming with troopers and G.R.D.’s, about 200 yards off and closing.

Rudabaugh pulled Orson further behind the shed.

“What is it?” Orson asked.

“Take a look.”

Orson did, and immediately drew back, whistling softly. “Uh-oh. I’d say we’re going to have company.”

Rudabaugh surveyed the buildings to the south, a collection of brick and frame homes separated by marginally tidy yards and narrow streets, a typical residential neighborhood.

“Are we going to stay here?” Orson wanted to know.

“No, we’re not,” Rudabaugh answered. “Follow me.”

They sprinted southward.

Rudabaugh searched for an ideal spot to make a stand. The homes weren’t very practical; they afforded scant protection from a concentrated attack, and he didn’t relish the idea of being caught inside a building.

But there had to be something!

Two blocks south of the shed he found what he was looking for.

“What the hell are those?” Orson questioned curiously.

“I don’t rightfully know,” Rudabaugh confessed, “but they’ll serve our purpose.”

There was a flatbed trailer parked next to the curb on the north side of the street. Stacked on the trailer, and secured by sturdy metallic lashings, were ten huge concrete pipes or culverts.

Rudabaugh abruptly recalled a visit to Pierre many years before, and a construction site he had seen. The Cavalry, because of its reliance on horses as its mode of transportation, wasn’t particularly concerned with maintaining the highways and roads constructed prior to the Third World War, except in the cities where chronic flooding produced by intermittent heavy rains was a problem. “I think they’re called drainage conduits,” he speculated. “Come on!”

They ran around the trailer and started ascending the pile of pipes.

“What’s your plan?” Orson asked.

Rudabaugh was finding the climbing extremely difficult, what with his left shoulder hurting every time he moved. “We’ll get to the top,” he said, “and wait for them to catch up.”

Orson reached the apex of the stack first. He leaned down and extended his right hand to Rudabaugh. “Here.”

Rudabaugh hesitated for an instant, his masculine pride balking at accepting assistance.

“Hurry it up!” Orson urged him.

Rudabaugh took Orson’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to the top. The concrete pipes were arranged in the shape of a pyramid, with four on the bottom layer, three in the middle, and two forming the point, placed snugly side by side. Although the conduits were circular in form, they were large enough to accommodate a person lying prone on the summit with extra room to spare. Each pipe was four feet in diameter.

Orson took the conduit on the left.

Rudabaugh lay down on the pipe on the right and unfastened his pillowcase from his belt. He took out his pair of charges and his matches.

Orson was doing likewise.

“Would you do something for me?” Orson whispered.

“What?”

“If something should happen to me,” Orson said, “would you send word to my mom for me?”

It was the last thing Rudabaugh would have expected Orson to ask.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“Just in case,” the Mole persisted, “get word to my mom. Tell her I was thinking of her at the end.” He paused. “We’ve always been kind of close.”

“Will do,” Rudabaugh pledged. He stared northward. “Here they come!”

G.R.D.’s and soldiers were moving through the yards of the residential neighborhood, alert for trouble.

Rudabaugh kept his eyes just high enough to note their proximity.

When the nearest troopers were 20 yards away, he lowered his head and prepared to strike a match.

Orson was watching Rudabaugh, awaiting his cue.

Rudabaugh counted to ten, then lit the match and applied the flame to the first charge. He drew back his right arm, and then threw the bundle as hard as he could. Instantly, he curled up, putting his hands over his head.

Orson followed suit.

Seconds later, when the twin explosions came, the flatbed shook and shimmied, and for a moment Rudabaugh thought it would collapse under the stress. His ears felt like they were going to burst. Clumps of sod, dirt, grass, and other debris rained from the sky, pelting his body and stinging his skin, even through the fabric of his wool clothing.

Orson was coughing, choking on the dust.

Rudabaugh looked up, startled to discover a severed human arm lying on the pipe next to his left elbow, the tattered remnant of a green fatigue sleeve clinging to its shredded flesh.

A great brown cloud was hovering over the area.

Rudabaugh rose to his knees, the stock of the Winchester Model 94 Standard pressed against his right shoulder. He detected an indistinct form moving on the ground to his left. The Winchester cracked, and there was a strident screech accompanied by a faint thud as a body toppled to the earth.

“Where the hell are they?” someone bellowed below.

“I can’t see them!” another soldier replied.

There was a slight scratching noise from the right.

Rudabaugh turned, his eyes beholding a lizard-like G.R.D. climbing the conduits toward him, its baleful gaze fixed on him with malevolent intent.

He aimed and pulled the trigger.

The G.R.D. was struck in the forehead. Its arms flung wide, it was catapulted from the pipes and tumbled to the ground.