New York Run

by David Robbins

  “Everything?”

  “Everything,” Hickok affirmed. “How it runs, how you stop it, what those things are on the ends of the handlebars I saw you turning. Everything.”

  Spencer commenced his instruction, and as the gunman listened, fascinated, a crafty scheme blossomed, a devious ploy designed to achieve his deliverance from the vile metropolis of worm-eaters.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The… thing… scrambled up the tunnel wall toward the landing, snarling viciously.

  Blade had seen more than his share of genetically deformed mutations over the years. There had been mutates galore, and the Brutes in Thief River Falls, and Fant in the Twin Cities, and the Doktor’s bizarre creatures such as Lynx, Gremlin, and Ferret. But never had he witnessed anything as horrendous as the mutant in the shaft.

  The beast was an amalgam of insect-like traits. Its huge body resembled that of a centipede, with five oversized segments and two legs on each segment. The body and legs were black, and the legs ended in tapered claws. Its head appeared fly-like, but it had four eyes, all bright green, instead of the usual two. Its elongated jaws were like those of a praying mantis, but glistening between the jaws were two rows of pointed, spiderish fangs.

  Blade took all of this in as he rested the Dakon barrel on the metal railing and crouched, aiming for the creature’s bloated cranium. He remembered the button on the scope and pressed it to activate the Laser Sighting Mode, and there it was, a bright red dot on the creature’s sloping forehead.

  The mutant was 15 feet below the landing, its claws clinging to the sheer walls, finding purchase where any other animal would slip to its doom.

  Blade squeezed the trigger, the Dakon II recoiling into his shoulder.

  The creature rocked as its forehead exploded, spraying the wall with black flesh, a pale yellowish muck oozing from the cavity, but it kept coming, climbing higher.

  The mutant was only ten feet from the landing now.

  Blade frowned, perturbed. He’d gone for the head, for the brain, hoping to dispatch the thing with a minimum of fuss. His shots should have struck the brain, killing it.

  If it had a brain.

  He aimed again and fired.

  The creature shrieked as its squat neck was hit, its jaws twitching.

  But it kept coming.

  Seven feet now.

  Blade rose and pressed the trigger, sweeping the Dakon in an arc.

  The fragmentation bullets stitched a straight line across the mutant’s segmented body, geysers of flesh and pulpy gore raining on the wall.

  But it kept coming.

  And there wasn’t time for another broadside.

  Blade retreated toward the stairs, watching the landing edge for the first sign of the mutant. There was a loud scraping noise in his amplified right earphone, emanating from underneath the landing.

  Directly underneath.

  Blade paused. But that would mean the thing was crawling under the landing to the other side, using the landing as a shield from the Dakon.

  That would mean he was being outflanked!

  Blade spun, finding his deduction was accurate.

  The mutant had passed under the landing and climbed up the railing behind its prey. It was perched on the railing, its head swaying as it examined its next meal.

  Blade raised the Dakon.

  Snarling, the creature flowed over the top rail, its head and first two segments reaching the landing in a blurred streak. It reared on its lower segments, then pounced like a bird taking a fish, its serrated jaws spearing down and in.

  Blade was caught before he could react. He felt something strike both sides of the helmet, and the mutant’s first pair of legs reached up, its claws digging into his broad shoulders.

  It had him!

  Blade rammed the Dakon barrel into the creature’s exposed abdomen and blasted away.

  The mutant wrenched its iron jaws upward, tearing the strapless helmet from the Warrior’s head. It screeched as its jaws closed, crushing the helmet as effortlessly as a man would break an eggshell. Enraged by the agony in its belly, it flung its prey across the landing and into the opposite railing.

  Blade’s left side bore the brunt of the impact, and he doubled over as an excruciating spasm lanced his chest. The Dakon II dropped from his benumbed fingers, and he fell to his knees, gasping for air. He saw the creature climb the rest of the way over the railing.

  The mutant’s ghastly head and the first two segments of its hideous body rose from the floor, like a snake about to strike. It silently rocked from side to side, its jaws slowly opening and closing, opening and closing.

  The squashed helmet was on the landing to its left.

  If only he had his Bowies! He could dive under the monster and slash its guts out with a few swift swipes. But he didn’t have them, and Blade sensed he might never see them again if he didn’t come up with something fast. What he needed the most was a diversion, a distraction.

  And he got it.

  A loud war whoop from the stairs above caused the creature to bend its neck straight up as it searched for the source of the cry.

  Geronimo was between landings, leaning over the railing. He aimed at the four green eyes and fired, sweeping the Dakon from side to side.

  The mutant howled and thrashed, its head tilted, attempting to avoid the rain of lead. It suddenly bellowed and turned, its front sections climbing into the railing as it started up after this new pest.

  Blade saw his chance. He rose, the Dakon II in his left hand, and ran toward the creature, grabbing the pulverized helmet as he did.

  The monster’s head and first section stretched toward Geronimo, momentarily suspended in midair.

  Blade pointed the Dakon at the mutant’s jaw below the head and squeezed the trigger.

  The creature’s throat erupted in a shower of black flesh and pale ooze, and it whipped its head down, jaws wide, primed to rip its quarry to shreds.

  Blade swung the ruined helmet around and up, driving it into the thing’s mouth, into its fangs, and as the mutant instinctively snapped its jaws shut, he released the helmet and stepped back, lowering the Dakon and firing at the mutant’s body segments, at the top of its legs, at the joints, where the legs were attached to the individual segments, and the fragmentation bullets did as he wanted, rupturing the limbs, bursting the joints, blowing four of the creature’s legs from its body.

  With only four sets of claws still gripping the railing, the thing started to slip, loosing its balance, lurching precariously on the brink of the precipice.

  Blade decided to help it along. He ran up to the mutant, reversing his hold on the Dakon II, gripping it by the barrel, and as the creature struggled to right itself, its grotesque head swinging down to the landing as its pair of front legs clawed for a purchase, he whipped the rifle like a club, slamming the stock into the monster’s face.

  The thing snarled and swiped its jaws at the Warrior’s head.

  Blade ducked and came up swinging, the butt end of the gun digging into the mutant’s left eyes.

  Furious, the creature lunged at its foe.

  Blade dodged, then rammed the Dakon’s barrel into the mutant’s eyes, shifted his hands, and squeezed the trigger.

  The thing was staggered. It reared up, in extreme torment, forgetting four of its legs were gone.

  Blade closed in, firing, the fragmentation bullets exploding two more limbs from the hideous segments.

  Incensed beyond measure, the mutant tried to turn and crush its adversary. The motion was more than its remaining legs could tolerate. It lost its footing and pitched over the railing, uttering a shrill scream as it plummeted into the inky gloom below.

  Blade grasped the railing and leaned forward, listening, waiting for the creature to hit bottom. Or would it? Maybe the monster would arrest its fall by catching hold of a jutting pipe or beam. Maybe it would attack him again before he could reach the surface! He held his breath, tuned to his right ear amplifier.

  T
he mutant’s scream decreased in volume as it dropped, and its death cry was punctuated by a dull thud coming from the very bottom of the shaft. Then all was quiet.

  Blade waited with baited breath, straining to detect a noise, to learn if the creature was going to renew its assault.

  “Are you coming, or are you admiring the view?”

  Blade glanced up at Geronimo. “On my way,” he said, and ran up the stairs.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Geronimo stated as Blade rejoined him.

  “You get no argument from me,” Blade said.

  Side by side, the Warriors hurriedly ascended the shaft to the tunnel entrance. They stopped on the rim and glanced down.

  “What are we going to do about these canisters containing the mind-control gas?” Geronimo asked. “If we leave them there, the Technics will eventually find a way of retrieving them.”

  “I know,” Blade said thoughtfully. “We can’t let that happen.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Blade studied the abandoned jeeps and trucks. “You check the jeeps. I’ll check the trucks.”

  “What am I looking for?” Geronimo inquired.

  “See if they have any gas left in them,” Blade said.

  “And look for spare gas cans or anything else we can use.”

  A quick search confirmed a minimum of half a tank of gas in each vehicle, and they discovered four spare gas cans in one of the trucks.

  “This will do,” Blade declared as he opened one of the cans.

  “For what?” Geronimo queried.

  “Find a hose we can use to siphon the gas from them,” Blade directed.

  Geronimo removed a hose from a jeep engine to serve as the siphon.

  “What now?”

  Blade attended to the task of siphoning the gas, filling all four gas cans.

  “I still don’t get it,” Geronimo said as Blade filled the last.

  “Take two of these cans,” Blade told him. “Pour the gas over the three jeeps. I’ll do the same to the four trucks. Hurry, before the Zombies come after us.”

  Within minutes, all seven Technic vehicles were reeking from the pungent stench of the gasoline.

  “Now what?” Geronimo asked.

  “Refill the gas cans,” Blade ordered. He covered Geronimo while more gas was siphoned from the jeeps and trucks.

  “All done,” Geronimo announced.

  “Look in the trucks,” Blade said. “I saw some rags in one of them. Find four rags we can use.”

  Geronimo, deducing Blade’s plan, jogged to the trucks and collected the rags.

  “Okay. Stick the rags into the top of the gas cans,” Blade instructed.

  “Leave about six inches protruding from the can.”

  “Enough to light with a match,” Geronimo commented.

  “You got it.” Blade ran to the SEAL, unlocked the driver’s door, and climbed in. The transport purred to life as soon as he turned the key. He slowly drove toward the nearest jeep, aligning the SEAL’S grill with the jeep’s rear bumper. He’d never tried this before, and he wasn’t positive it would work. Gingerly, he slowly accelerated, the SEAL’s powerful engine surging as the transport pressed against the jeep. Blade increased his pressure on the accelerator, confident the immense transport could achieve his goal.

  “Hold it!” Geronimo suddenly shouted. He ran up to the SEAL. “I just noticed! They left the key in the ignition! Probably wanted to be ready for a quick getaway! I’ll put it in neutral!”

  “Go for it!” Blade stated.

  Geronimo slid into the jeep and twisted the key. The motor refused to kick over, but he found he could work the gearshift if he positioned the key halfway between Off and On. He shifted the jeep into neutral and jumped out.

  Blade eased the SEAL forward, and this time the jeep was easily propelled forward, toward the shaft, up to the rim and over the rim, a rolling, metallic din echoing from the tunnel as the jeep tumbled and crashed to the bottom of the shaft.

  Geronimo smiled and held his right thumb up.

  Working rapidly, the two Warriors pushed one vehicle after the other into the tunnel. One of the trucks caught on the lip and had to be angled to the side before it plunged over the edge. Finally, the job was done.

  Blade leaped to the ground and joined Geronimo at the shaft rim.

  “Here,” he said, holding up the box of waterproof matches he’d taken from the SEAL’s glove compartment, a new box recently received in trade from the Civilized Zone.

  Geronimo lined up the four gas cans next to the tunnel.

  Blade knelt and removed a match from the box. “Ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Geronimo responded.

  Blade quickly lit each rag, and only after all four were ablaze did he hand the matches to Geronimo. “This is for Hickok,” he stated grimly, and with two swift flicks of his right foot he knocked all four cans into the shaft. Move!”

  They sprinted to the SEAL and clambered inside.

  Blade gunned the engine and wheeled the transport in a tight circle, heading for the Hudson, gaining speed. Ten. Twenty. Forty. And they were fifty yards from the tunnel when it blew, a fiery column of red and orange billowing skyward from the shaft, as an enormous explosion rocked the underground network.

  Geronimo, looking over his right shoulder, whistled. “You should see it! The flames must be two hundred feet in the air!”

  “So much for the mind-control gas,” Blade said.

  “What did you mean back there?” Geronimo probed. “About Hickok?”

  “I doubt the Minister would keep him alive,” Blade declared angrily.

  “You don’t think so? But what about the hostage we’re holding at the Home? Farrow?”

  “So what?” Blade retorted. “Do you really believe the Minister gives a damn about any of his people?”

  “No,” Geronimo admitted morosely.

  “If the Minister hasn’t killed Hickok yet,” Blade said, “he will when we don’t show up as expected. We can’t go back there alone.”

  “What will we do?” Geronimo asked.

  “We’ll go back the same way we came,” Blade stated. “We’ll bypass Technic City.” His fists clenched on the steering wheel. “And when we reach the Home, we’ll call a Freedom Federation Council and urge them to declare war on the Technics.”

  “And what if they won’t go along with us?”

  “Then we’ll do it alone,” Blade vowed.

  “The Family against the Technics? Won’t we be a bit outnumbered?”

  Geronimo queried.

  “We’ll do it ourselves!” Blade promised vehemently. “We’ll make them pay for their deceit! Their treachery must not go unpunished!” He glanced at Geronimo. “Besides, Hickok would want us to avenge him.”

  Geronimo shook his head. “I agree with you, but I can’t accept the idea of Hickok being dead.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to define. But Hickok has more dumb luck than any ten people I know. If there’s a way out of Technic City,” Geronimo predicted, “Hickok will find it.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The guard stationed at tower number four on the west side of Technic City turned to his three companions. “Who brought the cards?”

  “We’d best hold off,” one of the other soldiers said.

  “Why?” the first one rejoined. “The captain made his rounds an hour ago. It’s almost midnight. No one is going to bother us this late at night.”

  “I know,” the other agreed. “But we’re still on alert. They haven’t found that Warrior yet, and they might conduct a surprise inspection.”

  “Yeah,” chimed in a third trooper. “We’d better wait.”

  The first guard sighed. “Okay. Whatever you guys want. But I think you’re making a mistake. You know how boring third shift can be.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” opined the second soldier.

  The first man shrugged
and stared at the darkened city to the east.

  Curfew was at ten, and lights out in individual domiciles was set at eleven.

  Public buildings could stay lit until midnight. He could see the Central Core on the horizon, brilliantly illuminated by hundreds of lights, the heart of the city, a beacon in the night. He reflected on the day’s news: the escape of the Warrior known as Hickok from the Core. He marveled at the Warrior’s ingenuity. No one had ever busted out of the Central Core before. And he ruminated on the rumors spreading like wildfire through the city, rumors asserting the Minister and his First Secretary were dead.

  The paper, radio, and tube hadn’t mentioned the deaths, and the guard doubted they were true. He knew how readily gossip could circulate.

  A sharp noise reached the tower, coming from the surrounding darkness, from the vicinity of the mine field.

  “Did you hear something?” the first guard asked. “Nothing,” the second responded. “You’re hearing things,” said the third. “Probably,” the first trooper grudgingly conceded. He gazed at the mine field, deliberately blackened to complicate escape attempts. Anyone would think twice before venturing across a mine field at night, never knowing when they might accidentally tread on a mine and be obliterated by a gigantic explosion.

  Another sound became audible, the muted rumbling of a motor.

  “Do you hear it now?” the first guard demanded. He was young and wanted to impress the others with his superior senses.

  “Sounds like a trike,” remarked one of the others.

  “But who would be out with a trike at this time of night?” queried the young trooper. “The captain would be in his jeep.”

  They moved to the east side of the tower, listening. The trike motor abruptly revved louder.

  “It must be the Warrior!” the second soldier exclaimed. “He’s going to try and break through the gate!”

  A beam of light abruptly appeared on the far side of the mine field.

  “Here he comes!” cried the second soldier.

  “No he’s not!” disputed the third. “Look! He’s going to try and make it across the mine field!”