“…time for the hourly Civilized Zone Update,” the loudspeaker was squawking, “and here with your news is Walter Carruthers, direct from Denver.” There was a second of static, followed by a deep, resonant voice speaking in clipped sentences. “My fellow Citizens, good evening. This is a day to remember, a day that will go down in history. In his exalted wisdom, Samuel has decided to reabsorb the barbarians in the former state of South Dakota. As you are already aware, since you have been following these reports as required, a renegade band known as the Cavalry must be reabsorbed to save them from themselves. All of the Civilized Zone is behind our glorious leader in this enterprise; peace and stability will only come after what was once ours is ours again! However, because of the additional drain on our supplies, certain food and other items will face increased rationing during the course of the military campaign. Effective immediately, all Citizens will be permitted one ounce of chocolate every three months instead of every two. Movie credits will now be accrued at the rate of one credit for every eighty hours of satisfactory work performance, instead of every seventy-five hours…” Yama reached the triangle and stopped, striving to derive some logical meaning from the broadcasts. “…here with the latest Flashlines is Diane Evans.” The policeman wasn’t taking his eyes off the Warrior. “…comes word from Topeka, Kansas, this evening of a despicable crime! The Morals Police report they have arrested nine parties, all involved in an anti-abortion ring known as The Breath of Life. These nine, five men and four women, have already confessed to terrifying activities against the State, against the Civilized Zone itself. These criminal offenses include distributing anti-abortion literature anonymously to pregnant women; spraying anarchist slogans on public buildings and other property; and inciting and perpetuating criminal insanity by distributing religious tracts randomly through the public mail. The prosecutor in this case says he is confident that all nine guilty parties will receive the death penalty. Elsewhere, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, four children will jointly receive the Citizenship of the Month Award from that city for outstanding service to their Government and fellow Citizens. The four, ranging in age from six to fourteen, collectively contacted the Crimestoppers Program and reported their parents for persistently saying grace at meals, a Class Nine Felony. All four children will receive an equal share of the two-thousand-credit reward in this instance. Congratulations to the Lancaster children of Tulsa, children with the courage to live the Golden Rule. Remember: Crimestopping Begins in the Home!”
Yama ceased listening, at a complete loss to explain any of the babble.
Morals Police? Turning in your own parents? It was utterly alien to his experience, as if he’d landed on another planet. He couldn’t afford to waste precious time when he had a bigger problem to solve.
Namely, the staring policeman.
Yama knew he couldn’t delay much longer; he had to enter the sidewalk soon or the policeman would come over to investigate his unseemly delay.
He took a deep breath and girded himself, waiting for an opening.
The policeman was leaning forward, intently scrutinizing the man with the silver hair.
The loudspeaker suddenly went dead, absolutely devoid of all sound, even static.
Yama felt, rather than saw, a perceptible change in the crowd, an ambiguous change in attitude and alertness.
A raucous blast abruptly shrieked from the loudspeaker.
Twice.
Three times in all.
The reaction on the sidewalk was instantaneous and inexplicable. The people stopped and packed into two masses on either side of the lofty steps leading up to the Biological Center, clearing a path from the glass doors down to the parking lot.
Yama gazed up at the large doors, tinted black like the rest of the seven-story structure, as they swung outward, disgorging a veritable menagerie, a nightmarish collection of genetic deviates walking in double file, marching down the steps in synchronized precision. Ten. Twenty.
Thirty. Yama stopped counting. They reached the sidewalk and turned to the left, their route miraculously clear of all other traffic.
How did the Doktor do it?
Yama knew Gremlin well, even considered the creature a friend. But the Warrior couldn’t become accustomed to the results of genetic engineering, especially when those results could talk to you or eat with you.
Or eat you.
All of the creatures in the Doktor’s Genetic Research Division were bipeds; beyond that, any similarity was strictly coincidental. There were tall ones and short ones, hairy ones and scaly ones, many more bestial than human, some with exaggerated ears or extended fangs, others with fiery red eyes or claws for fingers. Each of them wore a leather loincloth and was fitted with a metal collar around its neck, the collar the Doktor reportedly utilized to monitor their activities and to electrocute them for disobedience if necessary. Every one of them was endowed with keen animal senses and exceptional strength. According to the intelligence provided by Gremlin, the defector residing with the Family, there were fifteen hundred creations in the Genetic Research Division.
Fifteen hundred!
There was a murmur among the people on the sidewalk.
An imposing figure stood at the top of the stairs, a lean man looming head and shoulders over everyone, and everything, else. He wore a flowing white robe, the fabric covering him from his neck to his feet. His eyes were deeply set in their sockets and seemed to glow with an inner light. He grinned as he walked down the steps, exposing a mouth full of tiny, curiously pointed teeth. His hair was a dark black mane upon his sloping head.
Without being told, Yama intuitively knew this was the nefarious Doktor.
A young woman walked at the Doktor’s side, attired in a brown robe.
Her lovely features were serpentine, her skin yellow, and her narrow eyes a shade of lavender.
The Doktor and his consort descended the stairs and walked to the left, followed by as many genetically spawned creatures as had preceded them.
Forty soldiers, armed with M-16’s and automatic pistols, brought up the rear of the procession.
The loudspeaker blasted three times as the last of the soldiers disappeared around a bend in the sidewalk.
Yama saw his chance.
The pedestrians were returning to the sidewalk, milling about in a disorganized fashion.
Yama quickly shoved his way through the throng and reached the bottom of the steps. He tightened his grip on the Wilkinson, feeling his scimitar rub against his back, as he ascended the stairs and made for the doors.
“Hold up, Citizen!” someone shouted behind him.
Yama slowly turned.
The policeman was walking up the steps, swinging his night stick in his right hand.
How would an Army officer address a policeman? Certainly not as a superior.
“May I help you?” Yama asked as the policeman reached the step below him.
The policeman’s blue hat was pulled down to his ears, his graying sideburns flaring below his cheeks. His eyes were brown and attentive, his jaw rounded.
“Yes, sir,” the policeman said. “I couldn’t help but notice you back there. You looked like you weren’t quite with it. Anything wrong?”
Yama mentally chided himself for his lack of self-control. “Nothing’s wrong. Just feeling a bit ill, is all. My stomach.”
“You’d better see the medics, then,” the policeman advised.
“I intend to,” Yama replied. “Thanks.”
The officer nodded, smiling, and started to walk off.
Yama faced the doors.
“Say, Citizen,” the officer inquired over his shoulder, “what unit are you with?”
Unit? How were the Army units designated? Yama recalled a comment Seth had made concerning the patrol at his ranch. “I’m attached as an auxiliary with the Genetic Research Division.” He paused and glared at the policeman. “Why all these stupid questions? I have business inside and you are detaining me!”
Yama could read the police
man’s features. The man was suspicious of the Warrior, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. The policeman was racking his brain, trying to figure out what it was about Yama he didn’t like, but he couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” the policeman stated.
Yama nodded imperiously, walked to the doors, and stepped inside the sinister Biological Center.
Chapter Sixteen
The SEAL was parked in the trees on the west side of the road a hundred yards north of the stockade.
“We were fortunate those jeep patrols missed us,” Joshua remarked.
“See? Aren’t you glad I was running with no lights?”
“It was a fortuitous circumstance,” Joshua admitted.
Hickok made a snorting noise. “Josh, the next time we come on a little trip together, remind me to bring a dictionary.”
“Why?”
“So I can understand what the blazes you’re talkin’ about at least half the time,” Hickok stated.
“You don’t fool me,” Joshua rejoined. “You were raised in the Family School, the same as Blade, Geronimo, and I. I’d warrant your vocabulary is as good as ours.”
“Don’t let it get around,” Hickok quipped. “I wouldn’t want folks to know how smart I am.”
Joshua glanced at the stockade. “What do we do now?”
Hickok had his elbows on the steering wheel, his chin in his hands.
“That’s what I’ve been working on. I know our pards are in there, but there’s a heap of soldier boys crawling over that place, and we’ve got to be a mite careful about how we bust them out.”
“What can we do against so many?” Joshua queried.
Hickok patted the dashboard. “We have this baby.”
“I’ve heard about the big discovery,” Joshua mentioned. “Plato told me the Founder armed the SEAL and left behind a secret, coded instruction manual. Is this true?”
“Sure as shootin’,” Hickok responded. “I was there when Blade read the decoded message from the Founder.”
Joshua placed his left hand on the dash, frowning. “Even this mechanical marvel is tainted with the touch of war.”
“Wow!” Hickok grinned. “That’s a good one! Got a pencil on you so I can write it down?”
Joshua disregarded the barb. “Tell me. What type of armament does the SEAL have?”
The gunman pointed at four toggle switches in the middle of the dash.
“You remember those? The four switches we could never use because Plato didn’t know what they were used for and didn’t want us to accidentally damage the SEAL?”
“I remember them,” Joshua confirmed.
“Good. That one with the M next to it is the toggle switch for the fifty-caliber machine guns hidden in recessed compartments under each front headlight. Throw that switch and a metal plate slides up.”
“What then?”
“The machine guns automatically fire. So don’t bump that switch while I’m out taking a leak!”
“I’ll try not to.” Joshua grinned.
“The second switch, the one with the S, controls a dingus called a surface-to-air missile. This thing is mounted in the roof above the driver’s seat. We can use it for, oh, taking care of loud-mouthed blackbirds or knocking nuts out of trees.”
“You’re putting me on,” Joshua said.
“Would I do that?” Hickok retorted. “Anyway, that next toggle has an F for flamethrower. This doohickey is behind the front fender, right smack dab in the center. It spits flame balls about twenty feet.”
“You’re kidding?”
“That’s what they told me,” Hickok said. “That last switch there has an R for rocket launcher. This sucker is above the flamethrower, in the middle of the front grill. We found a whole room full of ammunition and rockets and tanks for the flame-thing and more instructions.”
“If you have it memorized,” Joshua stated, “then we should be all set to go.”
“Who said I had it memorized?” Hickok replied testily.
“I recall seeing some books in our Library about military hardware,” Joshua said, his brow furrowed. “Weren’t those missiles and rockets and the like all big things? How can they fit in the SEAL?”
“What’re you thinking of?” Hickok cracked. “A rocket to Mars? The missiles and stuff in this buggy are all miniaturized. I read once that right before the Big Blast, the scientists had refined the technology to where a terrorist could stick a nuclear device in his pocket. Imagine that.”
“You don’t suppose the Founder placed a nuclear device in here, do you?” Joshua innocently asked.
Hickok promptly sat back in his bucket seat. “Never thought of that.”
He studied the dash. “Naw. No way. We’d know it if there was one.”
“We didn’t know about the missiles and the rockets,” Joshua said.
Hickok was about to reply when a commotion near the stockade caught his attention. “Well, look at that!”
Joshua looked in the same direction. “What’s going on? It sounds like gunshots?”
“Blade.”
“How can you know that?”
Hickok glanced at Joshua. “You’re the Empath. You tell me who it is.”
“I can’t right now,” Joshua said. “I require quiet if I’m to receive psychic impressions.”
“You won’t be getting any quiet for a spell, pard,” Hickok informed him. The gunfighter started the engine and flicked on the headlights.
“What are you doing? They’ll see us now!”
“Don’t matter,” Hickok stated. “Fun time is here!”
“Fun time?”
Hickok drove from the trees onto the road. “We’re going to show these jokers what Warriors are made of!”
“What can I do?” Joshua nervously inquired.
“Sit back and relax. The SEAL’s body is bulletproof, so I doubt you’ll be hit. The Founder said the tires on this crate are almost indestructible, made of some kind of synthetic gunk. This’ll be a piece of cake!” Hickok said, elated.
Joshua slumped in his seat. “Dear Father,” he silently prayed, “please preserve your children in this time of combat…”
Hickok crossed the road and floored the accelerator.
“…and guide our souls during this tribulation. We do not want to do this…”
“Let’s get these turkeys!” Hickok shouted.
“…but remain, as in all matters, ever subject to your will. Amen.”
The SEAL was barreling toward the stockade at fifty miles an hour.
“Do we have a plan?” Joshua thought to inquire.
“This is it!” Hickok yelled, his excitement and enthusiasm overflowing.
“It’s them or us!”
Joshua shook his head. “Dear Spirit!” he whispered to himself. “I’m stuck in a vehicle of war with a crazy person!”
Chapter Seventeen
Blade heard a sudden outburst of automatic fire coming from the north, and the next instant the ground shook from a tremendous explosion. The ring of boots surrounding the troop transport dissipated, soldiers running every which way, orders being shouted, men shrieking and screaming as the firing attained a virtual crescendo.
What was going on?
He hastily crawled to the edge of the first truck and peered out, witnessing a scene of madness and devastation.
Smoke was everywhere. Army troopers were dashing back and forth and firing into the smoke almost at random. The northern sentry tower was in flames.
Blade eased from under the protective shelter of the truck and looked around. None of the soldiers were in his immediate vicinity. The machine-gunner in the western sentry tower was shooting at a target in the smoke.
What?
The smoke abruptly parted, revealing the SEAL in all its glory, its fifty-caliber machine guns blasting as it circled the area west of the stockade, mowing down soldiers in droves.
Hickok.
Blade rose and ran toward the tent. The Family gunman was deliberately draw
ing their fire, forcing the troopers to devote their complete attention to the SEAL, and judging by the volume of gunfire his plan was successful.
With one notable exception.
Blade was only three feet from the tent when the smoke briefly cleared, and there, standing in the opening, the Commando in his hands, was Colonel Jarvis, his features contorted in rage.
No time to turn aside and no place to hide!
Blade dove, his long arms outstretched, even as Jarvis spun, bringing the Commando up.
“Bastard!” Jarvis bellowed.
Blade crashed into the furious officer and they both slammed into the tent, into the table, upending it. They rolled on the ground, Jarvis gripping the Commando and striving to smash the stock against Blade’s head.
“Bastard!” Jarvis repeated, his voice harsh, his eyes bulging, his veins prominent on his forehead. “Bastard!”
Blade found himself flat on his back, with Jarvis on top, the officer bearing down for all he was worth.
Where was that green blanket?
To his right or his left?
Blade heaved, his rippling muscles flinging Jarvis aside. The colonel struck one of the chairs and crashed to the ground.
Now!
Blade rolled to his right, his anxious fingers closing on the green blanket and lifting, and there they were, glistening in the light from the overhead lantern, his prized Bowies. Jarvis had removed them from their sheaths, apparently to admire their craftsmanship, and left them lying with the other weapons instead of resheathing them. A minor oversight, but a fatal one.
Colonel Jarvis had scrambled to his knees, the Commando leveling, as he twisted toward Blade, his finger already on the trigger.
Blade grabbed the handle of one of his Bowies and tried to rise to his knees.
Too late.
Jarvis had the Commando pointed at the Warrior’s huge chest, a sneer on the officer’s face.
Blade tensed, expecting the slugs to rip through his body.
“I was wrong about you,” Jarvis taunted, reveling in his victory. “You’re not my equal! You’re just like all the rest! Uncivilized swine! Any last words for Samuel?”
Blade stared down the Commando barrel, wondering. Was it possible?
Citadel Run Page 14
