Citadel Run

by David Robbins

  “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.

  “After you, Mommy,” Lynx said, flicking on an overhead light.

  Yama entered the room. “How strong are you?” he inquired as he passed Lynx.

  “If I don’t bathe for a week,” Lynx rejoined, closing the door after them, “I can down a fly at ten paces.”

  The records room wasn’t very spacious, about twenty feet by twenty feet. File cabinets lined all four walls and a sturdy oaken desk occupied the center of the room.

  Lynx’s nose was twitching. “The Doc’s scent makes me want to puke!”

  he said, grimacing in disgust.

  Yama walked to the desk and examined the papers strewn over its top.

  Personal correspondence, magazine and newspaper clippings, classified intelligence reports, and sheets of mathematical calculations littered the desk.

  Lynx pressed his right ear against the door. “Don’t take all night,” he advised.

  Yama picked up a sheet marked “Top Secret.” The paper contained a report on suspected rebel activity in a small Wyoming town. It also said a wanted rebel leader, a man called Toland, was believed to be hiding in the town. He stuffed the paper into his right pants pocket and scanned the room. His attention was attracted by a black leather pouch lying on a file cabinet behind the desk. He unsnapped the flap and drew out the contents, four thick hardbound notebooks with blue covers.

  “I think we’ve got company, chuckles,” Lynx reported.

  Yama flipped the pages on the notebooks and discovered all four were filled, longhand writing covering each page. He searched for a name identifying the owner but couldn’t locate one.

  “They’re going door to door,” Lynx announced.

  Yama thoughtfully stared at the notebooks. He had an unusual feeling about them, as if he sensed they were important in some respect. Acting on his vague premonition, he replaced the notebooks in the pouch and snapped the flap.

  “Afraid our time is about up,” Lynx said, his ear still against the door.

  Yama hefted the pouch by its carrying strap and slung it over his right shoulder. He joined Lynx by the door.

  “I can hear ‘em,” Lynx whispered. “They’re about two doors off. When they open this one I’ll make my move. Don’t lose me.” He paused. “Where did you want to go next?”

  “With the whole Biological Center on the alert,” Yama answered, “it would be useless to remain in the building. Can you get us outside?”

  “Then what?”

  “We’ll play it by ear,” Yama said.

  “Fair enough, pal.” Lynx sighed. “Too bad all I could get my hands on was a grenade! I’d like to bring this building down around their ears! Now if I just had a thermo…” He stopped and motioned for silence.

  Yama recalled hearing the word “thermo” before. What was a…

  The door abruptly flew open and all hell broke loose.

  Lynx sprang, his movements so quick it was difficult for the eye to follow, leaping into the midst of four soldiers standing outside the door. His arms flashed and flailed, his claws ripping and shredding, and the troopers were out of commission before they even knew what hit them.

  Lynx went for their faces, for their eyes and throats, growling and snarling as he attacked, his keen claws drawing blood with every savage swipe.

  Yama slammed into one of the staggering soldiers, flinging him against the far wall.

  Other troopers and members of the Genetic Research Division were to their left.

  “Get them!” someone bellowed.

  Lynx suddenly grabbed Yama by the left wrist and pulled him down the corridor toward the stairwell.

  Three of the soldiers Lynx had jumped were on the floor, two of them screaming and thrashing.

  There was the crack of a pistol report and a bullet buzzed over Yama’s head.

  They reached the stairwell and plowed into the door. Lynx began up the steps. “Come on, slowpoke!” he urged.

  “Don’t hold back on my account,” Yama told him.

  Lynx glanced over his right shoulder. “Yama, ol’ buddy, if I went at top speed you’d never catch up. I don’t want to lose you just when I’m starting to grow fond of you!” He laughed.

  They were two flights above the floor with the records room when their foes burst into the stairwell.

  “Which way did they go?” a trooper asked.

  “Half go up,” another proposed, “the rest go down.”

  Boots pounded on the steps below them.

  Lynx immediately left the stairwell, leading Yama along a vacant passageway. About halfway down this corridor Lynx opened another door and they found themselves in another, smaller stairwell.

  “I was right,” Yama commented. “This place is a maze.”

  Lynx led the Warrior on a dizzying, circuitous route through the mammoth Biological Center, first up one stairwell, then down another, always moving, going in one direction along one hallway and then reversing direction down another, selecting corridors he knew were infrequently used. When they did encounter others, on the stairs or in a passageway, they would stroll along, acting as innocently as they could, even greeting the people and genetic deviates they passed along the way.

  Yama lost all track of time.

  Lynx stopped periodically to cock his furry head and listen. They finally reached a narrow, unused stairway with a wooden bannister. “Keep your fingers crossed,” Lynx said descending the stairs. At the bottom was a metal door with a lighted sign above it reading: “Emergency Exit Only.”

  “No one uses this,” Lynx divulged. “They have to keep it unlocked to obey the Fire Code.”

  What was a fire code? Yama wondered. He braced himself as Lynx slowly opened the door, its hinges creaking from a lack of use and maintenance.

  The emergency door opened onto a cement walkway. Evidently, pedestrians never used it, because it was deserted.

  “What did I tell you?” Lynx asked, grinning in triumph.

  They sauntered along the walkway until they reached a parking lot packed with military vehicles.

  Yama gazed overhead. From the position of the moon he knew they were in the parking lot situated to the north of the Biological Center.

  “What now, chuckles?” Lynx inquired.

  Yama thought a moment. “You mentioned something a while ago, something called a thermo. What is it?”

  “Boy,” Lynx snickered, “they sure raise ’em stupid where you come from, don’t they? A thermo is technical jargon for a thermo-nuclear device.”

  “You want to drop a nuclear bomb on Cheyenne?” Yama asked in surprise.

  “No, dummy!” Lynx shook his head. “I was thinking of one of the small tactical launchers, a lot like a big mortar only it fires a small missile with a tiny nuclear tip. They were real popular with the Army during World War III. The radiation spread is minimal, but it sures blows the crapola out of whatever it hits!”

  Yama stared at the imposing edifice behind them. “What wou
ld a thermo do to the Biological Center?”

  “There wouldn’t be one,” Lynx stated with obvious relish. “All you’d have left would be a gaping crater in the ground.”

  “How wide an area would it affect?”

  “Oh, the Center and about a half-mile in all directions. Enough to take out the parking lots, at least. Say, why are you asking all of these questions, pal?”

  “Because I think I know where we can get our hands on one of these thermos,” Yama informed him.

  “You ain’t gettin’ your hands on nothin’, fella!” someone declared, the voice coming from their right.

  Yama spun, regretting his carelessness.

  It was one of the Doktor’s genetically engineered creations, a G.R.D., endowed with a bulky body covered with light brown hair. It stood six feet in height and its face was decidedly canine in aspect, although the individual features were not as pronounced as they would be in a legitimate dog.

  “I was wondering when you’d show up,” Lynx stated.

  “Oh?” the creature replied.

  “I knew you were on my trail, Shep,” Lynx said. “Out of all of ’em, you’re the only one who could have caught up with me.”

  Shep crouched and moved forward. “You didn’t make it easy, I’ll grant you that.”

  “You wouldn’t want to let us pass and forget you ever saw us, would you?” Lynx queried hopefully.

  “You know better than that!” Shep retorted. “I’m going to hold you here until the others catch up. They sent me ahead because my nose is the best there is.”

  “Next to mine,” Lynx disputed him.

  Shep glared at Yama. “Tell this fool to drop his weapons, Lynx, or he’ll never know what hit him.”

  Lynx stepped between the Warrior and the approaching Shep.

  “I don’t require assistance,” Yama informed Lynx.

  “Yes, you do,” Lynx said, never looking at Yama. “The Doc designed our bodies with a special attribute called accelerated repair. It’s next to impossible to waste us unless you score a direct hit on the brain or heart. You might get Shep, but it would take a while and we don’t have the time to spare. Shep is all mine, chuckles.”

  Shep smiled. “I was hopin’ you’d resist, runt! I never did like your ugly puss much!”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Lynx rejoined.

  Yama, about to raise the Wilkinson and aim at Shep’s head, was too slow.

  With guttural growls, the two G.R.D.’s hurtled at one another.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There was an unwanted delay in their departure from the Twin Cities.

  At first, everything had gone their way. They had found spare gasoline cans in one of the trucks and two dozen crates containing canned food.

  Blade had distributed the weapons collected from the fallen soldiers equally among the three factions. Troop transport assignments had been made, with an average of thirty-three people per transport. They were all set to take off.

  That’s when the problem arose.

  “Who’s going to drive the trucks?” Zahner asked as the people were waiting for the word to load into the transports.

  “Can’t some of them drive?” Blade inquired in disbelief.

  “Be serious,” Zahner said. “Where would we learn to drive? There isn’t a functional vehicle left in the Twin Cities.”

  Blade, stymied and chafing at the postponement of their run to the Home, called an executive meeting of the leaders and the Warriors. After a brief debate, it was decided each of the leaders, Zahner, Bear, and Brother Timothy, would drive a truck, as would Joshua. Bertha was offered an opportunity but obstinately declined. With four of the troop transports accounted for, Blade instructed the leaders to each select four of their most trusted lieutenants for driving duty.

  Zahner, Bear, and Brother Timothy left to make their picks.

  “Will we be riding in the trucks or in the SEAL?” Geronimo inquired.

  “We’ll stay in the SEAL,” Blade answered. “We’ll roam up and down the convoy, help any stragglers, and watch out for soldiers.”

  “I made a head count of the bodies,” Hickok mentioned. “If my math is up to snuff, about thirty of the troopers wimped out and ran off. That doesn’t include those three jeeps you said Jarvis told you about.”

  “Thirty soldiers and three jeeps,” Blade repeated, his brow furrowed.

  “They could jump us anytime, but my guess is they’ll try and prevent us from leaving the Twin Cities or restrain us here until reinforcements arrive. I don’t like it. Hickok, take ten armed men and establish a lookout post on the highway. If those jeeps come at us, that’s probably the way they’ll come. If you see anything, send someone on the run and let me know.”

  “You got it, pard,” Hickok said, hefting his Henry as he moved toward a nearby crowd. “What will you be doing while I’m gone?”

  “Geronimo and I will be teaching the drivers how to operate the troop transports,” Blade disclosed, “which should be real interesting because neither of us have any practical experience with a manual transmission.”

  “Take your time,” Hickok advised. “We’ll hold the road.” He ambled to the mixed group standing alongside the tent. “I need some volunteers!” he announced, and proceeded to designate the ten he required. “To the road!” he directed, waving them in the proper direction.

  “What are we going to do?” a Horn wanted to know.

  “We’re goin’ snipe hunting,” Hickok revealed.

  “We’re what?”

  “We’re gonna keep our peepers peeled for unwanted company,” Hickok elaborated.

  They were twenty yards from the tent when a woman’s voice rose behind them.

  “White Meat! Wait for me!”

  “Uh-oh,” Hickok said under his breath. He grinned at the men with him. “Why don’t you go on ahead. I’ll be with you in a sec. Keep your eyes out for anything unusual.”

  Several of the men nodded their comprehension and they all walked toward the road.

  Hickok took a deep breath and turned.

  Bertha was only feet away, smiling, watching him uncertainly as she approached. An M-16 was slung over her right shoulder.

  “Howdy, Black Beauty,” Hickok greeted her, using his pet name for her.

  “I figured we needed to do some heavy talkin’,” she said bluntly. “Now’s a good a time as any.”

  “Blade wanted me to stand guard on the highway,” Hickok stated lamely.

  “It can’t wait.” Bertha paused, locking her eyes on his. “I need to get something straight in my head. It’s drivin’ me nuts!”

  “What is it?” the gunman questioned.

  “You know damn well what it is!” Bertha exclaimed bitterly. “You’ve been avoiding me like the plague! Why? We don’t see each other for months, and I don’t even rate a hug when we finally do meet up. Why?”

  “I…” Hickok began, before she cut him off.

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think,” Bertha said. “I’ve thought about the last time we saw each other, and how you were actin’ so cold. A real fish. Remember?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “After I talked with Bear I figured out why. You thought he and me was in tight. Am I right?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Bear don’t mean nothin’ to me!” Bertha said, her tone softening. “He’s a good friend, but that’s it. Yeah, I know he’s got the hots for me, but it ain’t a two-way street. Do you see where I’m comin’ from?”

  “I think so, but…”

  “But now that I’ve seen you again,” Bertha said interrupting one more time, “I think Bear ain’t the reason you’re actin’ so strange. What is it, White Meat? Don’t be afraid to tell me the truth. I’ve been dumped on before. It’s the story of my life. So? What is it? I got to know!”

  Hickok placed his right arm around her shoulders, his sad blue eyes reflecting his inner emotional turmoil. “I’m sorry I avoided you,” he said softly. “You know me. It isn�
�t my style to run from anything in this world, but I didn’t know how to tell you and not hurt your feelings.”

  “I knew it!” Bertha said sorrowfully. “I just knew it! You don’t care about me the way I care about you! Am I right?”

  “That’s part of it,” Hickok admitted. “I do care for you, Black Beauty, but as a real close friend.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Bertha exclaimed. “You feel about me the same way I feel about Bear! I guess the joke’s on me!” She gazed tenderly into his eyes. “But it ain’t the end of the world! It means I still have a chance!

  Somewhere down the road you and I could still be an item! Right?”

  “Wrong,” Hickok blurted out, and then he mentally berated his stupidity.

  “Wrong? Why wrong?” Bertha demanded.

  “I’ve only told you part of the reason we can only be good friends,” Hickok elaborated, secretly wishing he could turn invisible and get the heck out of there.

  “There’s more?” Bertha took a step back, her hands on her hips. “What are you holdin’ back? Did you find a girlfriend while you were away?” she asked angrily.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What, then? And old flame show up and wrap you around her little pinkie?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Then what the hell could have happened in two short months that’s stoppin’ us from show in’ the whole world what true love is like? What!”

  she cried.

  “I got hitched,” Hickok said sheepishly.

  “You what?”

  “I was hitched proper.”

  “Hitched?” Bertha repeated, sounding dazed.

  “Hitched. Tied the knot. You know. I got married.”

  “You… got… married?”

  “Sure did,” Hickok beamed. “The prettiest filly you’d ever want to…”

  Bertha abruptly grabbed the gunman by the front of his buckskin shirt.

  “Your standin’ there and tellin’ me you got married? You took yourself a wife?”