Every time the President tried to advance and join the force at the foot of the ramp his bodyguards cut him off. So Voss assigned himself the task of dealing with the seemingly endless waves of Drones. But no matter how many of the machines he destroyed, there were always more.
He fired the carbine until it ran dry, reloaded until all of his spare magazines were empty, and switched to the Rossmore. Malikov was firing too. Patrol Drones exploded left, right, and center as empty casings arced away and bounced off the floor.
But there was no cover to speak of, and the floor was slippery with human blood as men fell in twos and threes. Bodies lay everywhere, and the sound of gunfire started to dwindle as the Chimera began to run out of targets.
Voss was convinced he was going to die. He was resigned to that fate, when Mason stepped in to clip a rope to the D-ring at the center of his combat harness. Voss opened his mouth to object, but Kawecki was there to cut him off.
“Mason is going to lower you over the side, sir. We’re sending Malikov down too. Once you hit the floor, unhook the rope so we can use it again.”
Voss said, “Wait just a goddamn minute,” but that was as far as he got when Mason plucked him off the floor and dumped him over the side. There was a sudden jerk as he fell four or five feet, followed by a twirling descent. That was when Voss spotted the seething mass of Leapers waiting below. They made a horrible gibbering sound as the President freed a grenade, pulled the pin, and let it fall. The bomb hit, bounced, and went off with a loud boom.
Voss knew that shrapnel from the explosion could hit him as well but figured that was the chance he’d have to take. He needed a landing zone and got one as the exploding grenade created a bloody 360-degree bull’s-eye for him to put down in. Pieces of hot metal hit him, but he barely registered the pain while his boots hit and he hurried to free the rope. Then the line was gone, quickly snaking upwards, while Mason peered down at him. There was a muted thump when Malikov landed a few feet away. “Ve are supposed to run!” the scientist yelled, as his line was retracted.
“Screw that,” Voss replied, while he blew a half-dozen charging Leapers to bits. “The rest of them need a safe place to land.”
Malikov nodded and began to blast away. Kawecki landed a minute later, quickly followed by Mason and Rigg, all of whom had rappelled from above. Rigg’s nickname was “Pretty Boy.” But it was hard to tell if he deserved the title because of the bloody bandage wrapped around his head.
“How many more?” Voss inquired, shoving shells into the Rossmore.
“There aren’t any more,” Kawecki answered grimly. “Shuck that pack, Mr. President, and follow me. It’s time for us to get the hell out of here.”
Fire lashed down as the humans dropped their packs and zigzagged across the floor, firing while they ran, killing anything that moved. Then they were through the open door, following a well-plowed path east, as Hybrids poured out of the tower and gave chase. “The-East-River,” Kawecki said as they pounded along. “We’ll-look-for-a-boat.”
They paused a few hundred feet farther on, turned to fire on the Chimera, and had the satisfaction of seeing a dozen of them go down before resuming their flight. The snow continued to fall as they followed a well-worn stink-path through the wreckage of FDR Drive and down to the East River. And that was where Voss saw a broad expanse of drifting ice! It was moving at a good three or four miles per hour. Visibility was poor, but they could still spot open channels, as the entire mass drifted towards New York Bay.
“Come on!” Voss shouted, skidding down a slab of concrete to the river below. “It’s our only chance!” And with that, the President of the United States ran for his life.
CHAPTER TWO
HEAD CASE
Deep Home, Colorado
Wednesday, September 23, 1953
The Deep Home Saloon and Pleasure Emporium occupied the lowest level of a parking garage in Burlington, Colorado. The top two levels had been bombed into rubble, a half-dozen vehicles trapped inside. What light there was came from lanterns hung at regular intervals. They conspired to produce a soft, smoky glow and shadows that danced the walls as people moved about.
One corner of the space had been walled off with sheets of plywood to create a kitchen, where everything was cooked over charcoal fires. The mouthwatering odor of barbecued meat wafted out into the larger room, and from there into the ruins above, which acted to trap it.
An improvised bar was set up along one wall. The rest of the furnishings consisted of mismatched tables and a wild assortment of chairs. They sat willy-nilly on top of the diagonal parking slots and the grease spots centered between the white lines.
The saloon’s clientele came in all sorts of shapes and sizes, but they all had certain things in common. They were dressed for the outdoors, they were heavily armed, and they were doing business. Most of it consisted of straightforward “I’ll give a John Deere ‘Trapper’ jack-knife for your magnifying glass” type of barter. But darker bargains were being struck as well, at packed tables where burly men and hard-faced women eyed each other over drinks.
One man sat alone. His name was Joseph Capelli. He wore a knit cap pulled down over his ears, a black sweater, and military-style wool pants. A pistol rode in the shoulder holster under his left arm. His shotgun was within easy reach, too, as was the Marksman rifle he wore strapped to a pack frame.
Capelli was finishing a huge steak as a waitress delivered a second mug of home-brewed beer. She had blond hair, steely blue eyes, and was wearing a short skirt. The latter being a surefire tip-getter. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No. What do I owe you?” Capelli’s voice was hard and inflectionless.
“A box of .22s, five twelve-gauge shotgun shells, or half a dozen rifle rounds,” she said in a singsong voice. “The boss prefers 30-06 cartridges, but 30-30s are okay, and he’s willing to consider .303s.”
Capelli’s sage-green Type N-3 military parka was hanging on the back of his chair. He slipped a hand into a pocket, felt for the bottle, and pulled it out. “How ’bout this? One hundred tablets of Bayer aspirin. Never opened.”
The waitress accepted the bottle and examined it more closely. “How do I know they’re real? The boss’ll take it out of my pay if they aren’t.”
“They’re real,” he assured her. “And so is this.” The lipstick appeared as if by magic. It was one of six tubes he had come across in a previously looted five-and-dime. A look of greed appeared on the woman’s face as the bottle of aspirin went into the sack that hung at her side and the bribe disappeared into her bra. “Thanks, mister.” Then she was gone.
Having paid for dinner, it was time for Capelli to enjoy his second mug of home-brewed beer. It was full-bodied, and reasonably smooth, but a little too sweet for his taste. Capelli’s thoughts were interrupted as a little boy in a plaid coat dashed into the room and went over to speak with the man behind the bar. The bartender had slicked-back hair and two days of salt-and-pepper stubble. He listened, nodded, and rang a silver bell, which made a gentle, tinkling sound. “Quiet! Two Hunter Drones are sniffing around outside.”
The Chimeran machines could detect heat. Capelli knew that. But sound? That wasn’t entirely clear. It was a good idea to play it safe, though. So all of the customers were careful to minimize their movements, and keep their voices down, until the bartender rang the silver bell again.
That was when Capelli heard a rustling sound and turned to find that a big, bearlike man was standing next to his table. “Mr. Capelli? My name’s Locke. Alvin Locke. Mind if I sit down?”
Capelli opened his mouth to reply, but the other man had already dumped his pack on the floor and taken a seat. “I’m looking for a runner,” Locke announced. “And people tell me that you’re one of the best.”
“I’m still alive.”
Locke chuckled. “And that’s a mighty fine recommendation. Especially these days.”
Locke opened his mouth as if to continue, but stopped when he heard a low and
very menacing growl. He turned to discover a large dog looking up at him with teeth bared. The animal looked a lot like a German shepherd but had a Mohawk-like ridge of fur that ran the length of his spine. “Is that your dog?” Locke inquired nervously.
“Nope. Rowdy belongs to himself.”
“Then why is he growling at me?”
“Because you’re sitting in his seat.”
Locke got up, circled around the table, and sat down.
After jumping up onto the vacated chair, the dog sat on his haunches and yawned. “What’s so special about that particular chair?” Locke wanted to know.
“I’m right-handed,” Capelli replied, tossing a chunk of steak up into the air. With an audible snap, Rowdy intercepted the piece of meat and gulped it down.
Locke grinned. “Makes sense. So, like I was saying, I need a runner.”
Capelli nodded. The U.S. Mail was a thing of the past, so anyone who wanted to send a letter or package badly enough hired a runner. And that was the way he’d been making his living ever since the Army kicked him out. So people knew about him. That was how most clients came his way—through referrals. “How big is the package? And what’s the destination?”
“I’m the package,” Locke replied. “And the destination is Haven, Oklahoma.”
Capelli opened one of the pockets on his pack, withdrew a well-worn Texaco road map, and opened it up. Then, after a minute or so, he put it away again. “Sorry, Mr. Locke, I can’t help you. I specialize in short runs. No more than a couple hundred miles or so. Your destination is at least twice that. Plus we’re talking about thirty-five or forty days of travel through territory I’m not familiar with. That adds more danger. So, I suggest you find someone else.” As if to signal the end of the conversation, a piece of gristle soared into the air and disappeared with a snap.
“I see,” Locke replied thoughtfully. “My sister and her family live in Haven and, since I have no family of my own, I plan to join them. It was a nice little town back before the Chimera shot it up. And it could be again, because what the stinks don’t know is that people still live there. Not on the surface, mind you, but underground, where a network of tunnels tie their homes together.
“I had a good hiding place and enough supplies to last me for ten years up near Glenwood Springs,” Locke continued. “But, after spending the last couple of years in hiding, I came to the conclusion that mere survival isn’t enough. I want to be part of something, I want to help make life better, and if that means walking a few hundred miles, then so be it. But I’m a businessman, Mr. Capelli, or was back before the shit hit the fan, so I lack the skills to make the journey on my own. That’s why I need a runner. I hope you’ll reconsider. If you’ll take me to Haven I’ll give you ten of these right now—and ten more when we arrive.”
Locke pushed a 1920 gold piece through a puddle of beer. It came to rest next to Capelli’s mug. The runner pushed it back.
“Put that away. Half the people in this saloon would slit your throat for a tube of Ipana toothpaste.”
Like so many other things, the American monetary system was a thing of the past. Most business transactions were handled via barter. But precious metals still had value to those willing to bet on some sort of future. Locke smiled as he made the coin disappear. “But not you, Mr. Capelli, or that’s what I hear. They say you’re an honest man.”
Capelli took a sip of beer and pushed his plate to the right. Three squares of carefully cut meat were waiting for Rowdy and the dog hurried to lap them up. “You could join a community here in Colorado. New ones start up all the time.”
“And they fail just as frequently,” Locke replied. “Usually because of internal dissention, a communicable disease, or an attack of some sort.”
“So what makes Haven different?”
Locke was quick to follow up on a possible opening. “They have elected leaders, some of whom were smart enough to see what was coming, and lay in supplies before the stinks took control of North America. The soil under the town is reasonably easy to dig through, they have a good source of water, and a doctor! A young one, thank God. The place isn’t perfect, of course, nothing is, but there’s a chance. And that, my friend, is better than nothing.”
The little boy came scooting into the room and to the bar. He said something to the bartender, who then rang the bell and brought a double-barreled shotgun out from under the counter. “It looks like the stinks are on to us,” the bartender announced grimly. “Follow the signs to the emergency exit and good luck! We’ll set up somewhere else if we can.”
With a great deal of shouting people sprang to their feet, swung packs up onto their backs, and grabbed their weapons. Then, like a herd of spooked cattle, they stampeded towards a door with the words “Emergency Exit” scrawled on it. Only one person could pass through the doorway at a time, so there was an immediate backup.
Rowdy jumped off the chair and barked. Capelli’s movements were casual as he stood and slipped his arms into the parka. “No, boy. Not yet.”
Locke was on his feet, his pack was on his back, and he held a .30-30 Winchester in the crook of his arm. He gestured towards the crowd. “Shouldn’t we get in line?”
“Keep your eye on the bartender and his son,” Capelli replied, as he hoisted the pack frame onto his back. “We’ll follow them.”
Locke looked and saw that rather than head for the emergency exit with the others, the bartender and the boy were headed towards the main entrance. And, judging from the pack on the bartender’s back, he was carrying that evening’s receipts. Locke swore softly. “Well, I’ll be damned. They’re using their customers as decoys!”
“Roger that,” Capelli agreed matter-of-factly. “Come on. There must be a third way out of here.”
The bartender and his son had already passed through the door and entered the stairwell by the time Capelli arrived. But where the locals turned right, they turned left. Then they climbed the stairs to the level above, and to what had been a dead space until a bomb fell on the building. The explosion had left a crevice wide enough for father and son to slip through. Rowdy led the way and Capelli was quick to follow. Muted gunfire could be heard by then, which meant that at least some of the saloon’s customers were doing battle with the stinks, who had been topside waiting for them.
Capelli heard Locke swear and turned to discover that the other man was too big to fit through the narrow opening. “Give me the rifle, shed the pack, and slip through sideways. Hurry!”
As Locke handed the Winchester through the crevice, the dog growled a warning and Capelli heard the gabble of stink speech coming from the stairs above. Then Locke passed his pack through the opening, quickly followed by Locke himself, who then reclaimed his rifle.
Capelli had been hoping to avoid combat, but it was too late. He motioned for Locke to squeeze past him, leveled the Rossmore at the passageway, and waited for a Hybrid to appear. One of the slope-headed monsters arrived seconds later. It was backlit by a single lantern that dangled out in the hall. The Chimera snarled loudly, and was raising a Bullseye, when a full load of double-ought-buck blew half of its head away. Blood and gore painted the concrete wall behind it.
But as the first stink collapsed, another appeared to take its place. And so it went until the Rossmore’s tubular magazine was empty and it was necessary to reload. That was a dangerous moment, and one in which Capelli would have been forced to pull his pistol had he been alone, but Locke was tugging at his pack.
So Capelli stepped into a gap, let the big man take his place, and was pleased to see the calm manner in which Locke fired the Winchester. Brass casings arced through the air and tinkled off concrete as Locke worked the lever. The battle came to an end as two more Hybrids went down.
Capelli was satisfied with the weapons he already had, and couldn’t carry more, but it was tempting to strip the Hybrids of ammo. Even if he couldn’t use it, someone else could, and ammo was the equivalent of money. But there was no way to know how many Chimera were
in the area, or when more of them would decide to come charging down the stairs, so he let the opportunity pass.
“Come on,” Capelli said, as he pumped a round into the chamber of his newly reloaded shotgun. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Rowdy—take the point.”
The dog, standing stiff-legged next to Capelli, barked. Then, having turned within his own length, he was gone.
“That’s quite a dog,” Locke said admiringly.
“He’ll do,” Capelli replied. “Don’t forget to reload.”
Locke had forgotten. He smiled sheepishly as he slipped a couple of shells into the rifle’s receiver and picked up his pack as if it were a suitcase.
Activating the light attached to his shotgun, Capelli followed the pale blob through a zigzagging passageway until he came upon a wooden ladder. It slanted up through a dark hole, and the angle was such that Rowdy could climb it. The dog was already halfway up the crudely built structure by the time Capelli arrived.
Wood creaked as Capelli stepped aboard, and it gave slightly as he made his way upwards. Cool night air greeted him as the light from the shotgun splashed the underside of a slab of concrete. From there he had to get down on his hands and knees and crawl through a short tunnel to the spot where the bartender, his son, and Rowdy had escaped into the darkness beyond. The light was a potential liability, so Capelli paused to turn it off, and took the opportunity to listen. The air was chilly, hinting at things to come.
Capelli heard something rattle behind him. It was Locke, and Capelli wished that the big man could move more quietly. He took note of the fact that the sound of gunfire could no longer be heard. It seemed that one side or the other had won. Capelli would have put his money on the stinks.
Shotgun at the ready, he eased his way out onto what had been a ramp and froze. A little bit of light shone from the street beyond. When Locke appeared, Capelli held a finger to his lips and began to slide along the sloping wall. He found a corner at the bottom, just inside the big doorway, a good place to hide while he looked outside.
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