Armageddon Run

Chapter Fifteen

Rudabaugh rested his hands on the plunger, his muscles inadvertently tightening, as he spotted some commotion on top of the rise south of Catlow.

The attack would come soon.

From his vantage point on the roof of a garage 75 yards from the field, he could see most of his companions. Bertha was at the edge of the field, behind a tree. Hickok was about 20 yards to her right, crouched in a shallow depression in the ground. Geronimo was approximately 30 yards to the left of Bertha, waiting at the rear of a yellow frame house. In the next yard to the left of Geronimo, Orson was squatting behind a large, tumbledown doghouse. Blade wasn’t anywhere in sight, and Lynx was to Rudabaugh’s rear, atop the command post.

“You all set up there?” a voice called out from below.

Rudabaugh inched to the edge of the sloping roof and gazed down.

Blade smiled up at him. “Are you all set?” he repeated.

“I’m ready,” Rudabaugh acknowledged.

“Good. Remember what I told you. Don’t do anything until I give you the signal, and then let them have it!”

“Will do,” Rudabaugh said. “Say, do you think they saw me placing the charges?”

“Did you follow my instructions and keep the dynamite out of sight?”

Blade questioned him.

“Yep. I kept the charges tucked under my shirt, and when I buried them I angled my body between the rise and the hole so they couldn’t see what I was up to,” Rudabaugh detailed.

“Then I doubt they know what we’ve done. How many charges did you relocate?”

“Seven. I thought I’d give them a present from each of us,” Rudabaugh replied.

“I like your sense of humor,” Blade stated.

Rudabaugh heard a loud noise in the distance and looked up at the rise.

It was swarming with movement.

“Here they come!” Rudabaugh yelled down.

Blade took off, running around the ramshackle garage and racing for the tree screening Bertha.

Rudabaugh elevated his head above the top of the roof. The garage contained a few pieces of furniture and a lot of dust; it evidently hadn’t been used to shelter a vehicle in ages. It was a detached structure; the house it belonged to was ten yards behind and to the left of Rudabaugh.

Dozens upon dozens upon dozens of figures were cresting the rise and pouring over the field.

Rudabaugh remembered the binoculars dangling from the black strap around his neck. Blade had seen fit to leave the binoculars with him, saying he would need them the most. He raised them and focused on the wild throng sweeping across the field. His eyes widened in disbelief.

There were hundreds of them! They came in all shapes and sizes, but they shared one dominant characteristic: they were all members of the Doktor’s Genetic Research Division. Hairy, scaly, horrid creatures, possessed of ghastly aspects and relatively few human attributes. Few were armed, and even fewer wore any clothing except for a scanty loincloth.

Some resembled common animals, like dogs or cats, while others looked like bizarre combinations of humanity and savage beasts. They shrieked and howled, bellowed and roared as they closed on Catlow.

Rudabaugh saw Blade reach the tree and say something to Bertha. She shook her head, apparently disagreeing, but Blade wasn’t listening.

The Warrior rounded the tree and charged the G.R.D.’s!

Rudabaugh marveled at the man’s courage.

Blade was running all out, his Commando in his right hand and the M-16 in his left. He was about 15 yards from the tree when he abruptly dropped to his knees, cradling the two automatics in his muscular arms, and opened up.

The nearest G.R.D.’s were cut down in droves.

Blade swept the Commando and the M-16 in small arcs, emptying the magazines into the on-rushing mass.

Bertha, Hickok, Geronimo, and Orson began shooting, providing covering fire for Blade.

Rudabaugh saw Blade toss the empty M-16 aside.

The Warrior hastily ejected a spent magazine from the Commando and replaced it in a smooth, practiced motion. He rose and backed up, the Commando chattering, felling the G.R.D.’s closest to him.

Rudabaugh lost all track of how many foes Blade killed. Two dozen.

Three. And still they came on, hungry for his flesh, anxious to crush him to a pulp!

Blade whirled and ran toward the tree. He was five yards from it when he suddenly clutched his left side and sprawled to the ground.

No! Rudabaugh screamed in his mind. Get up! Get out of there!

Bertha dodged out to support Blade. She was almost to him when she too was hit, and went down on one knee.

No!

The G.R.D.’s were screeching in triumph and rapidly narrowing the gap.

Blade rolled onto his side, firing from his prone position.

The fastest G.R.D.’s stumbled and collapsed as the heavy 45 slugs ruptured their vital organs and severed their veins and arteries, splattering the ground with splotches of blood and gore. Undeterred by the carnage, the rest of the G.R.D.’s continued coming.

Rudabaugh gripped the binoculars so hard his knuckles were white.

There was no way Blade could hold them all off!

Bertha was trying to stand and go to Blade.

Move! Rudabaugh wanted to shout. He caught a movement out of the corner of his right eye.

Hickok was running toward Blade and Bertha, his M-16 spitting death.

He wasn’t more than ten yards away when the M-16 went empty and he threw it away in disgust. Instead of unslinging his Henry from his left shoulder, Hickok drew his Pythons.

Rudabaugh had never seen anyone draw so swiftly. One instant the gunfighter’s hands were empty, and in the next the Pythons were out and up.

Hickok fired as he ran, blasting a lizard-like deviate about to pounce on Blade.

Blade’s Commando was empty again!

Hickok reached Blade’s side, his Colts cracking, and two more G.R.D.’s died, one of them clutching at a reddish hole in its hairy forehead. A creature with the facial features of a weasel rushed up from the right, and was met by a bullet in the brain.

Geronimo darted from cover, the FNC in his hands, heading for his friends.

Bertha was on her feet, helping Blade to rise.

Hickok was blasting G.R.D.’s with ambidextrous accuracy.

The G.R.D.’s in the center of the field, the ones bearing the brunt of the conflict, were beginning to hold back, unwilling to needlessly risk their lives confronting the Warriors and Bertha.

Rudabaugh noticed the G.R.D.’s on the flanks were still advancing. The ones on the left were bearing down on Orson, who was picking them off from behind the doghouse. The G.R.D.’s on the right, without any effective opposition, were the nearest to Catlow. They were rushing in toward the middle of the field, trying to sweep around and close on Bertha and the three Warriors from the rear.

Rudabaugh glanced down at his feet. There were seven sets of wires lying near the wooden box. He scooped up one set and quickly attached them to the proper connections.

The G.R.D.’s on the right were sweeping toward the center, flowing over a line of backyards, clamoring for blood.

Rudabaugh waited, keeping his eyes on his marker, a rusted swing set in one of the backyards.

The G.R.D.’s reached the backyard in question and swarmed around the swing set.

Now!

Rudabaugh drove the plunger down.

Six sticks of dynamite detonated with a resounding explosion, blowing dirt and dust and tangled metal, along with torn limbs and ravaged torsos, into the air. The noise was deafening.

The G.R.D.’s in the middle and on the left slowed, taken completely unaware by this development.

Hickok, Blade, Geronimo, and Bertha were sprinting toward the garage, taking advantage of the momentary lull.

Orson left the cover of the doghouse and jogged to join them.

The G.R.D.’s on the left spotted Orson leaving and renewed their onslaught.

Rudabaugh removed the first set of wires and applied the second.

The G.R.D.’s on the left were about 30 yards from the doghouse.

Then 20.

Then ten.

Rudabaugh depressed the plunger, and six more sticks of dynamite blew countless genetic mutations to kingdom come.

Two charges expended—five to go!

Rudabaugh stripped the second set of wires and affixed the third.

Bertha tripped and fell. Hickok was at her side in a flash, yanking her erect and propelling her toward the garage.

Blade, reloaded, was protecting his friends. He unleashed a rain of death on any G.R.D.’s foolhardy enough to get within range of his Commando.

Geronimo’s FNC was equally as efficient in dispensing ruinous mayhem among the furious creatures.

Orson caught up with the others and added his M-16 to their firepower.

The G.R.D.’s were fanning out, the flanks deploying in uneven lines, evidently intending to encircle the defenders and finish them off.

Rudabaugh knew he would need to time this just right. He gripped the plunger, observing the left flank as it swung wide of the area near the doghouse. He hastily counted at least 20 of the brutes in the desired tract and leaned on the plunger.

Another gigantic explosion rocked Catlow.

His nimble fingers flying, Rudabaugh replaced the third set of wires with the fourth. An instant later, he pressed the plunger.

The G.R.D.’s on the left flank received the same destructive treatment as their counterparts on the right.

The cool air was now filled with billowing dust, literally choked with clouds of pulverized dirt.

The Warriors, Bertha, and Orson reached the garage.

Blade, his left hand pressed against his side, the Commando in his right, looked up at the slanted roof. “Rudabaugh!”

Rudabaugh peered over the edge.

“Fall back!” Blade ordered. “We can’t hold them!”

Rudabaugh waved them on. “Keep going! I have three more surprises to set off!”

Blade hesitated, reluctant to leave one of his men behind.

“Go!” Rudabaugh urged him. “I’ll catch up!”

The others started toward the command post. Blade nodded once and took off.

Rudabaugh turned to survey the field.

The dust was beginning to disperse. Bodies covered the field and the backyards of many of the homes. The remaining G.R.D.’s were congregating in the center of the field, gathering their forces for an all-out assault.

Rudabaugh calculated his tactics. The final three charges were planted in a line between the garage and the field. The first was 60 yards from the garage; the second, 40; and the third, only 20. If the placements were to be utilized to their peak advantage, he would need to insure that the G.R.D.’s came directly toward the garage. He attached the set of wires for the first charge, grinned, and stood up.

Some of the G.R.D.’s spotted him, and with a mighty din they advanced on the garage.

Rudabaugh stayed erect. He knew he was taking a great risk, because some of the creatures were armed, but he wanted them to concentrate on him to the exclusion of all else.

The G.R.D.’s reached the tree Bertha had hidden behind, surging forward, game for the battle despite their heavy losses.

A bullet smacked into the roof to the right of Rudabaugh.

Not yet! he told himself.

The leading line of creatures approached the vicinity of the first charge.

Not yet!

Something buzzed by Rudabaugh’s head to the left.

They were now at the 40-yard point and still coming.

Not yet!

He wanted the expanse of ground between the garage and the field to be crammed with the fiends when he detonated the trio of charges.

The G.R.D.’s sprinted onward, and the fleetest of them arrived at the 20-foot mark.

Rudabaugh started to bend over, to reach for the plunger, when a scorching, searing pain shot through his left shoulder, wrenching his body sideways and causing him to totter, lose his balance, and fall on his right side as his feet dropped out from under him and he endeavored to catch himself before he slid off the garage roof.

He’d been hit!

He couldn’t afford to waste precious seconds examining the wound. His left arm was tingling, strangely unresponsive and useless, so he lunged for the plunger with his right.

The 60-yard charge exploded.

Frantically, Rudabaugh took off the wires for the spent charge and replaced them with the set for the next bundle.

There was a peculiar scraping noise coming from the other side of the garage.

Rudabaugh depressed the plunger and the air vibrated with the concussion of the 40-yard charge.

Hurry! his mind screamed.

Hurry!

In a twinkling, he had the third set of wires fastened to the contacts.

The odd scraping was louder.

Rudabaugh fell on the plunger.

Only 20 yards from the seventh charge, the garage was buffeted by the tremendous blast, its walls shaking and swaying. For a moment, it seemed as if the building would collapse. Dirt, rocks, and tiny pieces of mushy flesh showered from the sky.

Rudabaugh grimaced as a large stone glanced off his temple. His left shoulder felt cold and clammy, and he backed up, scrambling down the roof. He looked up at the box, regretting he had to leave it behind, and the act saved his life.

Perched on the top of the garage roof was one of the Doktor’s genetic deviates. Decidedly reptilian, this one had bulging red eyes and scaly green skin. Instead of four fingers and a thumb, the creature had three abnormally long digits, each capped by a razor-like claw. It hissed and leaped.

Rudabaugh went for his right pistol, his draw impeded by his awkward position. He managed to clear leather, but not before the G.R.D. slammed into him, driving him backward, both of them hurtling from the roof and falling to the ground.

Rudabaugh twisted as they fell, hoping the creature would bear the brunt of the impact, but they both landed on their left side. A lancing spasm racked his body, and he forced himself to respond, to roll away from the G.R.D. before it could recover. He lurched to his knees and brought the 45 automatic up.

The thing was already on its feet.

Rudabaugh fired, the 45 booming, the bullet catching the deviate in its chest and jerking it rearward. But it recovered almost immediately and sprang, snarling, its claws outstretched. He fired again and again, each slug stopping the creature in its tracks, but each time it kept coming. His fingers abruptly became weak as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

The G.R.D. towered above him, its fangs gleaming.

Rudabaugh attempted to use his pistol, but his sluggish body refused to respond to his commands. He flinched, expecting the claws to slash into him, to rend him apart, but instead a volley of lead crashed into the creature and flung it against the garage.

“Hang on!” someone exclaimed.

Rudabaugh felt an arm encircle his waist and he was forcibly hauled to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged in the general direction of the command post. He turned his weary head, anticipating he would see Blade or Hickok or Geronimo.

It was Orson.

“Hang on!” the Mole reiterated, casting frequent glances over his shoulder to ascertain if they were being pursued. “We’ll make it!”

Rudabaugh nodded once, then blacked out.