David Robbins - Citadel Run

“Do you think these trucks can carry all of us to the Home?” Geronimo queried.

“Jarvis intended to take them all the way to Denver,” Blade reminded him. “Check. One of these trucks must have a spare supply of gasoline.”

“How long do you reckon it will take us?” Hickok asked.

Blade calculated aloud. “It’s about three hundred and seventy miles from the Twin Cities to our Home. If we push it, we can make a hundred miles a day, possibly more. So we could conceivably reach the Home within three or four days. The sooner the better. We’ll be sitting ducks on the open highway.”

“You figure the Army will try and stop us?” Hickok questioned.

“You can count on it,” Blade affirmed. “Like Jarvis said, Samuel doesn’t want us getting any stronger than we already are. I don’t know how many troops they can muster between here and the Home, but whatever they’ve got they’ll throw at us.”

“Should be a mighty interesting trip,” Hickok remarked.

“You’ve got that right,” Blade concurred.

“Aren’t you sorry now?” Hickok inquired.

“Sorry? About what?”

“Sorry that you didn’t send Yama with us and go on that spying assignment yourself, instead of having all the Warriors draw lots? Just think! Instead of going through all of this aggravation, you could be doing just what Yama is probably doing right now. You could be taking it easy, strolling through downtown Cheyenne and enjoying the sights.” The gunman sighed wistfully. “Yes, sir. Some folks get all the luck!”

Yama ducked to the right, pulling Lynx after him. He leaned against the wall and shoved Lynx in the direction of the stairs.

“Ahhhh, Mom!” Lynx protested. “I wanna stay here and play!”

“Move!” Yama commanded, marveling at Lynx’s levity in light of the dire circumstances.

Lynx chuckled and hastened down the hall.

Yama counted to three, then swung into the junction, the Wilkinson leveled.

The two men in white were only five yards away, racing at full speed.

The Wilkinson burped, the nine-millimeter bullets, traveling at over two thousand feet per second, catching the two men in their chests before they could hope to react. Both went down as Yama leaped for cover.

The troopers advancing along the hallway began firing, their M-16’s chattering, the slugs striking the walls and ricocheting wildly.

Yama ran, hugging the right-hand wall, passing closed doors on both sides of the hallway.

Lynx was twenty yards ahead, holding the door to a stairwell wide open and gesturing for Yama to hurry.

The klaxons ceased wailing.

Yama was almost abreast of a large machine of some sort, a rectangular affair with a photograph of a drink covering the upper half and a row of glowing buttons aligned along the center, when his headlong rush was derailed by two simultaneous events. The soldiers reached the junction behind him and started shooting at the fleeing Warrior, even as a door directly in front of him opened and an elderly woman walked out.

Yama was unable to stop in time.

The woman shrieked as he plowed into her, the force of the impact spinning him around and knocking him into the drink machine.

Yama stumbled and fell to his knees, his gaze on the woman as she staggered, her mouth widening for a scream, a scream never heard because at that instant her forehead exploded outward as she was struck by the M-16 fire.

“Come on!” Lynx shouted encouragement.

Yama dropped to his elbows and knees and twisted, facing the junction.

The soldiers were just leaving the junction and bearing down on him.

Yama aimed and pulled the trigger, the Wilkinson recoiling against his shoulder, his shots finding their mark. Three of the men in uniform went down and the rest hesitated.

Lynx slid into the concealment of the stairwell.

Yama rolled, finding cover behind the drink machine as it was racked with gunfire from the M-16’s.

Had Lynx deserted him?

Yama discarded the troubling thought as he popped out from behind the machine and pumped more rounds into the troopers.

One of them fell, his face bloody, screeching in torment.

Four down, eight to go.

Yama jerked behind the drink machine again as the soldiers intensified their assault. He glanced at the stairwell. If he tried to reach it, he knew he’d be cut to ribbons before he managed to go four feet.

The sound of the bullets striking the drink machine made it seem as if it was being attacked by a giant woodpecker.

Yama prepared to give them another blast.

“Spread out!” one of the soldiers yelled. “We’ve got him pinned down!”

That they did.

Yama attempted to lean out and fire, but a withering spray from the M-16’s drove him back.

“Hey, chuckles!” someone called, and there was Lynx in the stairwell doorway, holding a circular object in his right hand. “Duck!”

Yama obeyed, flattening as Lynx lobbed the metallic object in an overhand motion toward the troopers.

The hallway rocked with a deafening detonation and concussion.

Smoke choked the corridor and the agonized cries of the soldiers filled the air.

Yama rose and sprinted to the stairwell.

Lynx was waiting for him. “About time,” he said. “I know you said you wanted a tour, but I had no idea you were going to take the scenic route!”

Yama looked over his left shoulder.

No indication of any pursuit.

“What was that?” Yama asked Lynx.

“A grenade,” Lynx replied. “There’s a munitions room one flight up for the auxiliaries. Only contains M-16’s, some pistols, ammo, and a few grenades.”

Yama noted that Lynx was still unarmed. “Why didn’t you get an M-16 for yourself?”

“Not my style,” Lynx answered, grinning. “Besides, guns make me nervous.”

“Your choice. Now get me to that records room, and fast!” Yama directed.

Lynx started up the stairs, the Warrior right behind him. “You did pretty good back there,” Lynx commented.

“Lots of practice,” Yama responded.

“Not as good as I would have done,” Lynx said amending his compliment.

Yama smiled and stayed on his newfound companion’s heels as they jogged up the stairwell and reached the desired floor.

Lynx paused at the door. “This place will be crawling with enforcement types, human and otherwise. We’re outnumbered, but we have two elements working in our favor. These morons will be running around like chickens with their heads chopped off without the Doc to direct ’em, and I happen to know he’s out, attending a big feed with Sammy. And also, I know this place better than most. So stick with me, pal. I’ll hold your hand until we’re out of this mess.”

“Just get me to the records room,” Yama stated.

“Here we go.” Lynx winked at the Warrior and eased from the stairwell into the hall.

Yama kept his back to the wall as he stepped out. This corridor was forty yards in length. At the opposite end was clustered a crowd consisting of humans and creatures from the Genetic Research Division.

“Bluff the bozos,” Lynx suggested, and boldly walked into view in the middle of the hallway.

Yama stayed by his side, expecting one of the group at the end of the hall to suddenly voice an alarm. Several of them did look his way, but they resumed their conversations without evincing any concern. Why should they? he reasoned. To them, Lynx and he seemed like any ordinary genetic deviate and soldier.

At the fourth door they reached Lynx stopped and grasped the doorknob. “Gee, chuckles, I forgot my key. Did you bring yours?” Without waiting for a reply, Lynx twisted the knob.

Yama heard a sharp snap and a grating, crunching noise as Lynx twisted the doorknob, and the lock mechanism, into scrap metal.