Survivalist - 14 - The Terror

by Ahern, Jerry

  “John—about thirty yards up—there’s some sort of valve control—one of them is there—on your side.”

  Rourke squinted into the darkness—he could barely see the figure. He edged closer to the tables, slowly, silently, unslinging the M-16, not even resetting the safety tumbler lest the click be heard. Rourke reached to his left boot top, withdrawing the Russell Black Chrome Sting IA—he chose it over the Gerber because there was no snap built into the sheath, no snap to open and be heard.

  His eyes focused tight to the ground, looking for shards of pottery or other objects which might be crushed by his body weight and make a betraying noise. The occasional close bursts of artillery or mortar fire and the muffled sounds of the more distant discharges and explosions would help, he knew.

  He could see the figure clearly now, on guard it seemed, what appeared to be a silenced SMG in its hands, the muzzle wavering right to left—as long as the muzzle moved, the subgunner held no definite target, Rourke realized. Once it stopped moving, either he or Paul would be in trouble.

  Rourke kept moving, hearing Michael’s voice in his earpiece. “Dad—we got them, all of them. One of them—Hammerschmidt put a knife to the man’s throat and the guy threw up and then he told us about the gas. It’s something totally new—but you were

  right, Karamatsov stashed it five centuries ago just after the Night of The War. It has a biological effect once it’s inhaled—it’s not skin absorptive, but it’s colorless, odorless, and tasteless so no one will know it’s being used until it’s too late. It affects male hormones—triggers unbridled aggression. Karamatsov could have turned every man in the Underground City into a homicidal maniac.”

  Rourke didn’t answer his son—to have used his voice would have betrayed his position. He had narrowed the distance to the subgunner to ten yards. With his left hand, his right clutching the Sting IA, he picked up a pottery fragment, hurtling it well ahead of Paul’s estimated position on his left, the subgunner wheeling right, firing, Rourke to his feet in a dead run, hurtling his body against the subgunner—it was a woman. The impact of Rourke’s body slammed the woman into the glass wall and through. Rourke’s right hand thrusting forward, the knife cutting into her throat, the subgun still firing in her dead hands, shards of glass streaming around Rourke as Rourke pushed himself up and back, a massive piece of glass falling, impaling the woman through the throat.

  Natalia’s voice in his ear as Rourke drew back against the plant tables, still without his rifle, wiping the blood from his bladcby stabbing it into the dirt of an overturned rubber plant. “John—are you all right?”

  “Yeah—fine. You heard Michael?”

  “I’m going to be airborne in less than a minute.”

  “Be persuasive—if you can’t get them to lay down their arms, at least get them to withdraw from the field. We’ve got two more here to get.”

  Paul’s voice. “John—I found ‘em—hurry!”

  Rourke was to his feet, resheathing the knife, no

  time to go back and grab his rifle, no time to reach for the submachinegun in the hands of the dead Russian woman and search her for spare magazines. His fists found the butts on the Detonics Scoremaster .45s in his belt, ripping them free, thumbing down the safeties, running.

  Assault rifle fire—the answering report of Paul’s submachinegun. Rourke said into his microphone, “Michael—you and Hammerschmidt get out with the gas cannister—get it airborne to Argentina fast. That tank they dug up out of the desert would have held thousands of gallons of the stuff in liquid form— probably concentrated. That’s the primary objective—get it out.”

  “Right—on the way—good luck.”

  Rourke reached the end of the long row of tables, the gunfire again, distinct, just ahead and to the left. He jumped onto the table to better see what was happening, the sound of a blower starting, Paul locked in combat hand-to-hand with a man at least a head taller, another man working the valves on a silver colored metallic cylinder attached to a pipe stem. Rourke thrust both pistols up to eye level and fired, then again and again and again, the body of the person beside the cannister rocking with the hits, spinning, falling. Rourke took a running leap, bypassing Paul and the man Paul fought, lunging for the cannister valves.

  “Jesus—” The valves were wide open—he started turning them closed—but the valves, he realized, were threaded so the handle would slip off the stem after opening, so the valves could not be closed.

  “Michael—Otto—don’t work the cannister valves—they’re one way valves. The cannister has to be bled into another container under controlled condi

  tions.”

  “Understood.”

  Rourke wheeled—Paul’s right fist was crossing the jaw of his opponent, the man falling back, the pistol sailing from his hand, his body lurching toward John Rourke. Rourke upped the safeties of his pistols and stabbed them into his belt, grabbing at the falling Russian, twisting the man around, Rourke’s right fist finding one of the Scoremasters again.

  He put the pistol to the man’s half glazed right eye. “Can the cannister be closed, or the pipe cut off?”

  The man laughed through his protective mask. Rourke laced the Scoremaster across the top of the man’s head and let the body sag.

  To his feet—Rourke cursed himself for not thinking of it a moment earlier. The blower. He reached the controls—the dials had been twisted off. Pliers—he needed pliers—had no pliers. Wire cutters—no time. His eyes followed to the base of the blower unit—the power cable connecting it to the electrical output. “Paul—outa here—quick!”

  Rourke stabbed the Scoremaster that was in his right fist toward a cable and fired, the 185-grain JHP severing the cable, sparks flying, then suddenly flames erupting from the machine in a loud whoosh. Rourke jumped back.

  He upped the Scoremaster’s safety and ran, back the way he had come, vaulting over the potting table, to the concrete block walkway, running as he rammed both pistols into his belt. “Paul—we’ve gotta get into the Underground City—see what can be done—see the effects of the gas. It’s our only defense against it now.”

  Rourke passed the M-16 he had left behind, snatching it up, running still, Paul waiting beside the

  blown out portion of a wall for him, changing sticks in the MP-40 subgun.

  Rourke reached the opening, both of them running now, Natalia’s voice ringing through the air overhead from a lightless, soundless helicopter in the night sky. She spoke in Russian, her voice pleading, clear, emphatic. “Comrades—you have been betrayed—by my husband, Vladmir Karamatsov. He is not a hero, but a traitor, to you, to Russia, to all the people of the world, to Russia’s history. He is unspeakably evil. He has you fighting, brother against brother, father against son—all to serve his own ends of power. He has used commando teams to reach the greenhouses between the front lines of the attacking forces and the entrance to the Underground City. The commando teams carried a deadly gas unlike any ever used before, even in the most vicious of fighting. It affects only men—it works with male sex hormones to activate feelings of violent aggression deep within the brain, to turn every man inside the Underground City into a madman, blood-crazed, turning on his comrades, male and female alike, to kill children, the old, the sick—just to kill. Fall back, Comrades—don’t fight and die so Vladmir Karamatsov can make himself your dictator. Fall back, Comrades. This is Major Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna of the Committee for State Security—in the name of the Soviet people, fall back!”

  John Rourke and Paul Rubenstein ran toward the tunnel entrance of the Underground City, the artillery fire slowing, howls of rage and madness filling the night air, and behind them, as Rourke wheeled to check their rear, Soviet troops from Karamatsov’s command were running forward, their rifles not in assault positions, some of them without rifles at all,

  casting their helmets to the ground. A man was screaming the name of his wife, running with his arms outspread—a burst of automatic weapons fire from the barricades to t
he Underground City cut him down and he fell, his face slipping down into a shell hole.

  Natalia’s words again from the helicopter overhead over the loud hailing system—“Two men move among you—they are dressed all in black—but these men are not your enemies, but rather helped to prevent one of the cannisters of this deadly gas from being released into the ventilation system of the Underground City— they are your comrades. The second cannister was released—the gas does its evil work now. Men of Karamatsov’s Legions—do not enter the Underground City even to save your families unless you wear gas masks. Women are safe to enter, but there is madness in the Underground City. This is Major Natalia Anastasia Tiemerovna of the Committee for State Security of the Soviet—”

  And there was madness, men at the barricades fighting swarms of attackers streaming from the tunnel of the Underground City entrance.

  Guns, knives, fists, rifle butts—Rourke hissed into his face mask microphone, “Paul, what was the diameter of that pipe do you think?”

  “Two inches—maybe a little more—you’re thinking—

  “With the airflow cut off, it’ll take longer for that gas to filter through the pipe, won’t it? What if we make it through the tunnel and block the pipe before it hits the ventilation system, or shut off the ventilation system entirely—let’s do it!”

  They were near the metallic defense shields now, soldiers at the barricades fighting enemies from behind them now, female defenders having the worst of

  it, men from the Underground City still pouring from its bowels, attacking women as the women ran into the city to rescue loved ones.

  Rourke clambered up onto the barricade, the screams of madness, the sporadic gunfire, the howls of pain everywhere around him. Two men fought, their eyes wide, their lips drawn back like animals, their teeth bared, in their hands knives—they were stabbing each other but still grappling, their bodies splashed with each other’s blood. Rourke jumped from the barricade, seeing a blur of black against the metallic shields—Paul Rubenstein right beside him.

  Rourke shoved past the dueling men, running, his assault rifle in his right fist tensioned tight against its sling, his eyes darting left and right.

  A horde of men poured from the Underground City, their uniforms tinged with blood, madness in their eyes. A blond haired woman in full battle uniform except for her helmet which was nowhere in evidence—six of the men charged her and she backed away. “Paul!”

  “Right!”

  Rourke angled right, the M-16 falling to his side on its sling, his hands reaching out, grappling the nearest of the six men to the ground with a simple shoulder grip, his right foot going out behind the man’s right knee, Rourke’s right fist hammering outward, slamming into the man’s jaw, the head snapping back. The blow would normally have put a man of average size down unless he were a boxer and his jaw toughened. The man was of average size—but instead he growled, rolled, drew a pistol from his belt and raised it to fire as Rourke sidestepped, drawing one of the Scoremasters, his thumb working down the safety, his first finger touching to the trigger, the Scoremaster buck

  ing once in his hand, the center of the man’s forehead suddenly splotched red with blood, the top of the head—because of the angle of the shot—erupting outward, blood oozing from the exit wound.

  John Rourke didn’t know if the gas induced condition were temporary or permanent—he had no desire to kill someone who was already a victim.

  He wheeled right, Paul Rubenstein hammering down another of the men with the butt of his Schmiesser, swinging it like a battle hammer.

  The blond haired girl—the other four men had cornered her, ringed her, were forcing her back against the tunnel wall.

  She raised her rifle—but in her eyes, Rourke saw that she would not shoot until it was too late.

  Rourke launched himself toward the four men, throwing his body in a body block against the backs of two of the men, throwing the men in turn into their comrades in madness, the four going down, Rourke rolling away, his wind gone for an instant.

  To his feet—he lurched back, shaking his head to clear it, Paul Rubenstein stepping in, wrestling an Animov assault rifle away from one of the men, swinging it like a baseball bat, the stock splitting as rifle contacted jaw bone, the man’s head snapping back.

  Rourke shook his head again, taking two long steps forward, wheeling on his right foot, his left foot snapping up and out, a double kick to the chest of one man, his left foot swinging downward as his upper body pitched slightly, his right foot snapping up and out and back, into the chest of another of the men.

  Rourke wheeled forward, his left fist snaking out, hooking the jaw of the man he had just kicked in the chest, hammering the man down. Paul was on the

  fourth man now, the battered Browning High Power in his right fist, the butt of it hammering into the skull of the fourth man.

  Rourke wheeled a full 360 degrees, his assault rifle coming up, the Scoremaster he realized unconsciously shoved back into his belt—mechanically, with his left hand he felt for the safety. It was upped. The Russian girl stared. “Who are—” In Russian, he answered her back. “John Rourke. Paul here and myself—we couldn’t prevent them using the second cannister. You can help us—help your people. The gas is coming from the greenhouse nearest to the barricades through a pipe maybe two inches in diameter. The pipe feeds to the ventilation system for the Underground City somehow. If we can block the pipe or close off the ventilation system, we can stop some of the gas, maybe as much as half of it. Help us.”

  The girl licked her lips. “Yes—come with me— hurry!”

  She started into a run, almost seeming to spring along the length of the tunnel, Rourke telling Paul through the microphone, “Come on!”

  “Right behind you, John.”

  Rourke threw himself into the run, his assault rifle in his right fist by the pistol grip, Paul at the edge of his peripheral vision, the Schmiesser in an assault position but held high.

  Men, their hands dripping blood—three of them started for the blond haired Russian girl a few paces ahead of Rourke, Rourke stepping into them, blocking them, his rifle butt snapping up and out, Paul wheeling, kicking a second man in the crotch, then hammering the man to the floor of the tunnel with a blow from his Schmiesser across the back of the neck.

  The third man drew a knife, lunging for the girl, Rourke snapping the rifle butt outward, missing the jaw, the man wheeling away from the girl, toward him. Rourke drew back, letting the rifle drop to his side on its sling. He drew the big Gerber Mkll from his belt, telling the man, “I am your friend—put down the knife and I will try to help you. Believe me—” The man lunged, Rourke sidestepping. He was running out of time. John Rourke whispered, “God forgive me,” and snapped his right arm out to full extension, the spearpoint of the fighting knife driving into the right side of the madman’s neck just beneath the ear.

  The blond haired woman looked at him. “Hurry,” she almost whispered.

  “Yes,” Rourke nodded.

  Paul was already running, a few yards ahead, the stream of madmen running along the tunnel not seeming to ebb, but Rourke realizing that apparently as the madness grew there was no selectivity, all was lost around the men—they killed each other.

  Rourke dodged past a knot of the unfortunates, the end of the tunnel just ahead, a group of women there, fighting off a group of male attackers. Rourke angled toward them, the blond woman beside him, Paul Rubenstein turning toward them, Rourke throwing himself into the knot of attackers, rifle butting them down, his feet kicking them away as they tried to rise.

  The Russian girl shouted to the other women. “These two men—they help us. We must reach the main ventilation system controls—if we must fight our way every step of the way, by the time we reach the controls it will do no good. Help us!”

  One of the women, then another and another—they picked up rifles and knives from the unconscious men around them. One of the women—big, overly large in

  every p
roportion, her face plain, heavy glasses over her eyes, shouted, “Comrades! To battle!”

  And the woman started to run, a wedge ahead of Rourke and Paul Rubenstein and the blond haired girl, the beefy looking woman using an inverted rifle like a club, swatting away attackers as they lunged for her or the others.

  A man jumped from behind a stacked row of crates, a blood dripping knife in his right fist—Rourke chopped the flash deflector of the M-16 down and across the right side of the man’s head, wheeling as he made the blow, putting the madman down.

  They ran on, past the secondary barricade shields, most of them turned over. Fires raged within the cavern just beyond the tunnel, vehicles overturned, sporadic gunfire everywhere.

  John Rourke understood the concept of Hell.

  Men in the same uniforms attacked each other, beat each other mercilessly, their uniforms already blood drenched.

  Karamatsov—“Mother fucker,” Rourke hissed. “What?”

  It was Paul’s voice.

  “Karamatsov—I’ll get him, so help me God.”

  They ran on, turning right down a small corridor, some of the women who had joined them falling back, one of the women, small by comparison to the blond girl, miniscule by comparison to the bulky woman, shouting, “It is this way—hurry!”

  The big woman shouted, “Comrades—we shall hold them here—form a line! On me—hurry!”

  Rourke glanced back at the woman—the big woman’s eyes met with his. Behind the glasses the eyes were pretty and they smiled.

  Rourke shouted at her, “We’ll make it-^Comrade! “

  He threw himself into the run, nearly outdistancing the blond girl, turning a corridor left, then a right, massive double doors swung open, the ventilation room sprawling before them, as huge as the generator rooms he had seen in power plants, the ceiling a hundred feet high at least, steel catwalks and narrower girders lacing the airspace.