David Robbins - Armageddon Run

The dust cloud was commencing to disperse on the breeze.

Several dark figures were vaguely visible in front of the flatbed trailer.

Orson rose to his knees and cut loose with the M-16, his burst attended by screams and shouts and curses.

“Dammit! Where are they?” a trooper demanded.

Rudabaugh spotted a pair of G.R.D.’s to his left, slinking in the direction of the flatbed. He fired twice, each shot connecting and slamming them to the ground.

“I think I see them!” a soldier cried. “They’re up there!”

Rudabaugh hastily slid backward. “Let’s go!” he called to Orson.

“Over here!” somebody bawled.

Orson rose and turned, about to clamber over the side of the uppermost pipe.

Rudabaugh, already down to the middle row of culverts, glanced up and saw Orson’s right shoulder explode outward as a slug penetrated him from behind. The Mole’s head snapped back, and he was propelled from the pile of pipes, his legs and good arm waving frantically as he dropped to the ground.

No!

Rudabaugh released his grip, falling the rest of the way and landing on his feet. He quickly knelt alongside Orson.

The bearded Mole was on his stomach, writhing in torment, his M-16 a few yards away, his shotgun still slung over his left shoulder.

Rudabaugh grabbed Orson’s left shoulder. “Orson! You’ve got to get up!”

Orson glanced at the Cavalryman, his face contorted in pain.

“Can you get up?” Rudabaugh pressed him, looking both ways to insure their foes weren’t nearby.

Orson nodded, grunted, and heaved to his feet. He swayed for a moment, but recovered, his right arm hanging useless at his side.

“Hurry!” Rudabaugh led the way, running, bearing due south. Blade’s orders had been explicit: engage the enemy at the perimeter, then retreat to the town square.

Orson did his best to keep up.

Rudabaugh adjusted their path, heading a bit to the east. He looked over his right shoulder as they neared a white picket fence.

Soldiers and G.R.D.’s were pouring around both ends of the flatbed trailer.

Rudabaugh was almost to a gate in the middle of the fence. He motioned for Orson to continue, then spun and snapped off a shot at their pursuers.

They ducked for cover.

Rudabaugh whirled and ran for the gate.

Orson was already on the other side, crouching behind the fence.

The troopers near the flatbed darted into view and unleashed a volley from their M-16’s.

Rudabaugh was framed in the gate opening when the hail of bullets plowed into the fence, splintering wood in every direction, and something tore through his left calf, sending a sharp spasm up his body and causing his leg to buckle. He sprawled onto his knees and rolled to the left.

He’d been hit again!

The soldiers and G.R.D.’s were charging across the yard toward the picket fence.

His fingers trembling, Rudabaugh removed his second charge from the pillowcase and lit the fuse. He didn’t bother counting to ten this time; his only concern was providing them with enough cover to obscure their escape to the town square.

Orson was doubled over and gasping for air, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Rudabaugh tossed the bundle of dynamite with all of his strength.

Predictably, the resultant blast sent a cloud of dirt and dust up, shrouding the picket fence and the immediate vicinity in an ambiguous brown haze.

Time to get their butts in gear!

Rudabaugh lurched to Orson and pulled him to a sitting position.

“Orson! Snap out of it!”

Orson’s eyes were dazed, his mouth slack.

Rudabaugh rudely shook him. “Orson! I’ve been hit! I need your help!”

Orson blinked his eyes, responding to the plea for aid. “You too?” he mumbled.

“I need you!” Rudabaugh reiterated.

Orson shook his head, striving to eradicate his wooziness. He glanced at Rudabaugh, noting the crimson hole on the Cavalryman’s left calf.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Rudabaugh urged him.

Orson nodded and stood. He slid his left arm under Rudabaugh’s right shoulder and heaved, straining to hold Rudabaugh erect. “I’ve got you,” Orson stated. “We’ll make it.”

But would they?

Even as Orson assisted Rudabaugh in limping away from the picket fence at a rapid clip, the Cavalryman could hear the pounding footsteps of their foes on the turf behind them.

Lynx , alone on the roof of the command post, was mad as all get out!

His very genes craved to be in the battle, to be doing what he’d been designed to do: kill and kill again. Gunfire was rising from every direction.

It sounded as if a veritable war were in progress.

And here he was, on top of the damn command post, missing all the action!

That idiot Blade!

Stay behind, he had said!

Wait in reserve, he’d said!

You’ll get your chance!

That big dimwit!

Lynx was furiously pacing back and forth above the front door, listening to the shooting and the explosions and chafing to leave his post and join in the fun. He stopped and put his hands on the rim of the roof, about to leap over the side.

What was that?

He paused as the roar of a large motor drowned out the uproar of the conflict.

It was coming from the east.

Lynx ducked down and peered over the rim.

Son of a bitch!

A half-track loaded with soldiers was wheeling into the town square.

Lynx grinned.

Happy days were here again!

He laughed and lowered himself completely out of sight. No sense in letting them know he was there. They might turn tail and split before he got in his licks.

The rumble of the engine grew louder, until the building itself trembled. There was the grating squeal of brakes applied rather abruptly, and the motor was turned off.

Lynx peeked over the rim of the roof.

Will you look at this!

The driver of the half-track had parked the vehicle within a few feet of the front door!

Perfect!

Lynx smiled in anticipation. He calculated the angle and jumped, his sinewy muscles lifting him over the rim and down onto the cab of the half-track in one fluid motion. His legs coiled under him as he landed, and he leaped, clearing the cab and plunging into the midst of the shocked soldiers in the rear section.

The advantage was all his.

Packed into the back of the half-track with little space to spare, the troopers were unable to bring their M-16s to bear.

With a flashing swipe of both arms, Lynx dispatched two of the six soldiers by ripping open their throats. He pounced on a third and jammed the sharp claws of his right hand into the man’s eyes. Blood spurted from the burst eyeballs and the trooper jerked backward, attempting to escape.

One of the soldiers pulled a bayonet from a sheath in his belt.

Lynx grinned as he bounded onto the joker with the bayonet and sank his pointed fangs into the jerk’s neck. He twisted and yanked, and a large portion of the trooper’s throat was sheared off in a red geyser of blood and gore.

Four down and two to go!

One of the remaining soldiers was trying to scramble over the tailgate to safety.

Lynx went for the other trooper, who foolishly tried to punch him in the face. In a blur, Lynx dodged under the futile blow and drove his left hand up and in, his fingers and claws rigid, spearing the man in the throat and gouging open a hole the size of his fist.

The final adversary was precariously perched on the edge of the tailgate, prepared to spring to the ground.

He never made it.

A gun thundered, and the soldier was struck in the center of his back, between the shoulder blades, and toppled over the tailgate.

Lynx vaulted to the roof of the cab, ignoring the moaning, thrashing forms on the floor of the rear section. For a second, he believed one of his friends had returned and helped him.