by C K Burch
Jack looked in the rearview mirror and her eyes became wide as dinner plates. “What is that?”
“Don't ask, drive!” Dust turned the attention of his pistol onto the rocket man and fired. Bullets glanced off of the metal side and the man was forced to duck back into the shell. As this happened, the turret opened fire once more, and Jack swerved away, dancing with the jeep to avoid the damage. But the path of its destruction was not aimed solely at the jeep – with a motion of sudden interest, the turret's trail swept upward sharply and decimated the wall above them on the right. Dust looked upwards to catch the reason why, and saw yet another shadow leap between buildings. This time he caught some definition: pale orange fur, an impression of brightly-colored leggings, a slender length of tail that slid through the darkened window at the very end. Nimble, but muscular; he'd caught a glimpse of broad shoulders. It had appeared to be less of a primate and more of a man. More and more oddities.
Dust looked back towards the street and aimed his gun at the turret. He pulled the trigger twice and caused the man to duck down behind the protective safety of the shield. The rocket man reemerged from his position, having completed his reload, and he lifted the launcher to fire.
Jack saw this and quickly turned hard to the right. Beside them the building had an open first floor with no walls, save for the columns that held the second floor aloft. She curved their path between the columns and cut across the mezzanine, nimbly dodging a dry fountain and a pair of statues.
Another explosive thunder lit up behind them, but the roaring did not fade. Above them, the temple began to collapse, brick by brick, falling in a cascade of dust and glittering gold. Waves of destruction crashed down in collapse behind them, creating a dark cloud that swirled and enveloped their sight. Dust attempted to shout a warning, but there was no use: the crescendo overcame his voice and encompassed all.
Jack frantically pulled left to get to the street and away from the chaos, but the left collapsed before she could. Then she aimed the jeep straight on, where the light of the day could still be seen between the remaining pillars. Pieces of debris landed in the jeep; one bounced off of Jack's skull, and for a moment Dust worried that she was done for. Her resilience stayed and she drove harder.
As they emerged into the street once more, Dust looked back at the building and watched in terror as it leaned towards them. The last of the support columns gave way and it pitched forward like a drunkard; the full height of the stupa cast a shadow over the jeep as it tumbled towards the street. Rogue bricks dropped and struck the ground, spinning and bouncing past and over the jeep. Jack swung the steering wheel madly back and forth to avoid the violence. The stupa struck the ground at last, a wide swatch of dust billowing up around the impact, coating the buildings around and choking off the lane.
Once the cloud had blown over and past, Jack slowed down as the cacophony came to a rest and both she and Dust looked back to assess the damage. Mountainous rubble layered the street, effectively cutting off any access. What once had been a proud monument of a former civilization was little more now than a pile of garbage, laid to waste by an inconsiderate missile. Despite his anger over the mistreatment of the ruins, Dust felt a small surge of relief that they were not currently beneath said rubble. Jack, pausing for breath, touched the apex of her head and her fingers came back bloody.
“Are you all right?” Dust asked.
Jack nodded distantly. She blinked and shook her head as though she'd been fading away towards somewhere within her own mind, and then she nodded again. “Yes. I mean, I believe so. I don't – ” She shook her head for clarity.
“The bleeding isn't bad,” Dust said, examining her. “You might have a concussion, though. Swap with me.”
She glared. “I know the map of this place, I'll continue to drive.”
“Uh, not after a head injury. That's – ”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Look, in my experience – ”
“Save your experience for another time. We still must weave our way about to regain the caravan. Cairn is counting on us, and it'll be swifter if I continue to drive.”
Dust opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted. Behind the rubble came the surge of a straining engine.
They wouldn't, Dust thought.
They did: the truck came around the lowest point of the remains, bouncing wildly over the edge of the slope. The man on top behind the turret held on for dear life, shouting something at the driver below, who was also shouting in a panic. Perhaps they were faced with the reality of utilizing rocket launchers in the close confines of the ruins and were chastising their fellow for its usage. Regardless of the reasoning, the truck dangerously flew over the slope, precariously perched, and landed with a hearty shudder onto the pavement of the street.
“Drive, please,” Dust requested.
Jack floored the accelerator, and once more they were off. She quickly pulled hard to the left and down the next lane as bullets zipped past, the turret's echoes chasing them.
To hell with this, Dust thought to himself. He looked up and saw a streetpole ahead. Upcoming on the left was a larger building with a domed upper half; multiple windows went round the circumference. If he timed it right, he could ensnare the pole and possibly swing up and into one of them, capturing a fair firing position with which to distract the truck.
“Chase after Cairn!” he ordered. “I'll ward off the truck!”
“How?” Jack demanded.
Dust looked in the back of the jeep and saw that one of the former occupants had dropped a Tommy gun between the seats. He quickly lifted the strap around his shoulders and took his whip in hand.
“Just keep driving!” he replied.
He stood in his seat and as they passed beneath the streetpole he unfurled the bullwhip. Once more he swung over the street, but this time his arc took him high and upwards towards one of the windows. For a brief moment it appeared as though he wouldn't actually make it, and as he approached the apex of his swing he kicked to the side for added momentum. Dust just barely managed to snag his right arm and leg over the lip of the window, and he quickly rolled himself over the edge and inside.
Below, Jack rounded the next corner as the truck came around the first. They drove straight on without signs of slowing, indicating that they hadn't seen his little move – perfect. Taking firm grasp of the Tommy, Dust waited until the truck passed neatly below his perch, and he leaned outward and peppered the top of the shell. The machinegun wouldn't be enough to do damage to the metal, but the crewman on the turret was caught in the spray and fell over onto the street. Screeching brakes cut the air as the truck skidded to a halt; shouts from within the truck told Dust that they were rather cross about his actions. From out the rear, two crewmen spilled out, one holding a Tommy gun, the other moving around the vehicle for cover, obviously headed to re-man the turret.
He ducked down and moved towards the adjacent window. Behind him, his previous position was assaulted by bullets from the Tommy. Dust popped up in his new position and fired below, catching the offending crewman in the chest with his barrage. Two down out of however many, which was still a question as the truck appeared to hold as many miscreants as a circus car. Dust remembered Ryder's men being cleverer than this once, and felt that somehow this was too easy for his own good.
Ducking out of sight, Dust changed positions again and reemerged to see that the crewman who'd gone for cover was now standing a few feet back from the truck, pointing the rocket launcher towards the dome, just to the side of where he currently stood.
“Shit!” Dust hissed. He turned and dove for cover.
From the left came a brilliant orange blossom of heat and smoke as the rocket erased the side of the building's dome. A wide, gaping hole revealed itself as the smoke swept away, allowing the day to illuminate the surroundings. Ringing sensations filled Dust's hearing and he crawled away from the blast, covered in soot and stone, cursing his overconfidence. Just as he'd crossed over to the other
side of the floor, another explosion lit up behind him and licked his back with flame. He rolled to extinguish the fire and turned back crossly. Now instead of a gaping hole there was a chasm torn from the dome, and half of the floor was missing. A plane could fly through the yawning recess that now existed where he'd been standing moments before. He truly had underestimated the intelligence of Ryder's men – clearly, they were incalculably stupid. At this rate they'd drop the entirety of the city upon them all and no one would make it out alive.
For a brief moment he considered leading the truck around so that subsequent rocket strikes would cause the buildings to collapse onto the men and settle this nonsense. Then the floor began to crumble and slide, vanishing below like a row of dominoes tumbling.
Dust ran to the opposite side, ditched the Tommy, and retrieved his whip just as the floor took the ceiling down with it. He clumsily leapt from his position and aimed the bullwhip at the streetpole closest to him; his aim was true, but the momentum was not. He briefly swung over the street before the whip's grip gave way and he landed on his knees, attempting to roll. His elbows tore and he knocked the back of his skull before he came to a halt, cursing the bastards and their goddamn missiles and their insipid tactics.
Behind him, the temple fell to the level of the street, declining away from where he lay. A large, golden cloud of debris puffed up and rose over the buildings from the next street over, and within the thunder of the collapse he could hear the truck's engine gunning. The cretins would not give up. Dust was beginning to doubt the wisdom of leaving Jack.
Considering his options, Dust decided that in order to combat stupid, he would have to match their stupid equally with his own. He sighed and wondered, as he sometimes did, if he wasn't too young to retire.
Grimacing and pushing past the sharp pain in his knee, Dust stood as the truck came round the corner, turret manned, rocket launcher leaning out of the back. Now the crewmen were screaming and shouting, not as frantic as before, but high on adrenaline. Dogs of combat, barking and snarling and engaging in their own fuel of battle.
“Okay. Let's dance.” Dust turned and ran into the first building beside him.
An open floorplan greeted him, as it was becoming more and more obvious that the Shambhalans had enjoyed this kind of architecture. To the right were decorative columns, some of them broken at the halfway mark, surrounding an altar for worship that was still encircled by remnants of wax candles. A shallow pool was on the left, three feet deep and surrounded by statues which appeared to have once served as waterspouts to fill it with. Slim ripples of standing water from the morning rain was all the pool was filled with now, and would not serve as proper cover should the Venture crew decide to give chase. Stairs led upwards, but anything above ground floor felt as though it would be asking for more missiles, which Dust was frankly exhausted of dealing with.
A loud crash made Dust jump and spin round: he turned just in time to see the truck finish plowing through the wall of the temple, bricks bouncing off of the hood and the shell. The driver had ducked down behind the wheel as he'd driven through, and now that the truck was inside, he popped back up, spotted Dust, and pounded on the back of the driver's cab. Up top, a crewman returned to position to man the turret, brushing aside pieces of stone and gold. The driver cackled manically.
Dust turned and quickly dove behind the altar as the turret rained down bullets.
Candlewax erupted and chipped stone blurred past as Dust hunkered down as close to the floor as possible. Even as he did he felt the heat of the tracers zip over his body, some of them catching cloth. Laying flat on his belly, Dust awkwardly reached down and drew his pistol, biding his time whilst chewing on his lower lip. He had an exceedingly stupid idea, which flew in the face of logic and strategy. Considering his foe, it would probably work.
High-caliber bullets cut the altar down to a nub just barely larger than the width of his body. Then the turret rapidly clicked empty and needed to reload.
Dust stood and shot from the hip; his bullet bounced off of the turret and caused the man to dive back down into the shell for protection. He continued to fire, slowly, taking measured shots one after the other, all of them clear misses. The driver ducked below the wheel again as the windshield cracked and became a spider-web. Then Dust paused as though he'd run out of bullets – the driver righted himself, and as the gunner reloaded the turret, the driver hit the gas and plowed onward, bearing down on Dust as if to run him over.
Dust turned and ran quickly to the side, drawing the driver's attention. Matching Dust's movement, the driver spun the wheel to turn and follow – only for the truck to pitch sharply forward as it fell into the pool, crashing all the way in by the momentum of the engine. The truck kept going and succeeded in ramming into the far edge and crashing bumper to stone. The lip was too high – the truck could not get out. Dust grinned like schoolboy. One must not underestimate the power of stupid plans.
On top of the truck, the gunner finished reloading the turret.
Dust smiled to himself once more and aimed for a clean shot.
It clicked empty.
His face fell and he tried again for effect; still empty. Twice in one day.
The gunner brought the turret round to exterminate him.
To hell with this, Dust thought, and he leapt forward instead of away. His free hand fell to the bullwhip and cracked it outward. The distance was greater than the length of the whip, but the crack was sharp enough to make the gunner flinch, which was enough for Dust's work. He continued forward and hop-stepped onto the hood of the truck and then the roof of the cab. Stunned, the gunner saw what was coming too late to aim his mount, and Dust dove over the turret and tackled the crewman from his perch. Both of them nearly rolled off the back of the vehicle. Dust managed to grab onto the base of the gunner's seat, and the gunner grabbed him by the ankle. Dust shook his leg harshly to rid himself of the devil, but the gunner was more stubborn than he. Drawing a knife with his free hand, the gunner reached out to shank Dust's calf.
The truck lurched wildly beneath them, reversing course, and Dust nearly lost his grip. The gunner's strike missed and shot sparks as metal blade met metal shell. Again the truck lurched, this time forward, until it slammed against the lip of the pool once more and came to a stirring halt. Now the gunner slid forward along the roof on top of Dust and the two men came chest-to-chest in a rather intimate position. Both of them realized this, and blinked at one another for a brief moment.
“Not my type,” Dust quipped, then smiled and cracked his forehead against the gunner's nose, snapping the cartilage.
The gunner shouted something unintelligible as he grabbed at his face, attempting to stop the gout of blood streaming from his nostrils. Dust reached out for the knife now clumsily held in the man's hand, but the truck reversed and then came forward again, crashing against the edge of its entrapment, and Dust wondered what the hell the bloody idiot below was attempting. It hadn't gone up over the edge the first two times, why on earth would it do so the third?
The gunner renewed his grasp on the knife and swung blindly, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain in his face, and to counter this Dust swiftly shoved his knees up between their bodies and kicked. As the truck reversed and braked one more time, the inertia of the stop sent the gunner tumbling along the roof and over the edge.
This time, as the truck rammed the pool's edge, the stone gave way enough for the front tires to catch onto the crumbling material, and it jerked with a frightful bounce out of the pool and continued. Dust held onto the base of the turret for dear life, cursing whoever had decided to give the relentless fool the driver's wheel. But the driver pushed forward, ignorant of the gunner's fall, and from below Dust heard the driver pound on the roof of the cab. Perhaps it was a communication. Dust responded by slapping his palm twice on the roof in kind. As nothing more happened, he assumed that the pounding meant All is well. Which, of course, it very much was so.
Dust pulled himself upwards and sett
led into the gunner's chair. He gripped the control and studied the chain which fed into the twin barrels – fifty caliber rounds. He wished he'd been paying better attention on the Venture as he would have insisted upon this vehicle being his chariot. Wonderful piece of machinery.
Dust realized the truck was going to crash through the other wall.
“Hot damn!” he shouted, and ducked behind the turret's shield. Bouncing debris and dust flew about as the whole of the truck shuddered and shook from the impact. Again with this relentless fool and his harsh driving techniques. It was a wonder that the truck was still in one piece.
Down the street they drove, turning left in the direction of echoing gunfire. Dust ensured that the loaded chain on the turret was secure, and he giddily prepared himself to utilize the turret against its fellows. There were times when he rather enjoyed his line of work.
Below him, a sliding door for access to the turret opened up, and the surprised face of a crewman looked up to find Dust in the gunner chair.
Dust smiled and kicked the man in the face.
Shouting and chaos came from below as the remaining men scrambled to get up through the access door. Dust turned and continued to kick at them as they made for the roof, cursing himself for not reloading his pistol. For the moment the crewmen were kept at bay, none of them seeming to remember that they had guns as well, confounded by Dust's boots. This wouldn't last long – already the driver had caught on to the antics, and was swerving wildly in an attempt to shake Dust from the roof. He maintained his hold on the turret's grip, determined to retain his seat, but at last one of the buggers below him had regained his wits and now aimed a Tommy up through the access door. Bullets shot through the opening, forcing Dust backwards.
