Armageddon Run

Chapter Sixteen

Blade gazed up at the late afternoon sun, then down at Rudabaugh.

“How long was I unconscious?” the Cavalryman inquired. He was lying on a green Army blanket, which Orson had placed on the ground outside the concrete command post, to the right of the front entrance. His legs were pointed toward the town square.

Bertha answered his question. She was sitting with her back to the wall, only two feet away from Rudabaugh to his left, resting her injured right leg. “You’ve been out for hours, honey,” she informed him.

“What happened?” Rudabaugh queried. He couldn’t remember anything after Orson came to his rescue.

“Those explosives of yours did the trick,” Blade stated. “They broke and ran after the last three. We haven’t heard a peep out of them since.” He glanced up at the roof of the command post. “Anything?” he yelled. “Hey, Lynx! Do you hear me?”

Feline features popped into view. “I hear ya, dimples! Don’t you think I’d let you know if I see somethin’? There’s no sign of ‘em!” He vanished from sight.

Blade frowned. “I don’t like it! It’s been too quiet!”

“Haven’t you had enough fun for one day, pard?” Hickok asked. The gunman was leaning on the door jamb.

Geronimo stood to his right.

Orson was squatting on the ground about four feet behind Blade, absently tugging at his black beard.

“Any orders?” Geronimo asked.

“There’s not much we can do except wait,” Blade replied. He looked at Rudabaugh. “You did ring the town square and the command post with charges like I told you to do?”

Rudabaugh nodded. “Yesterday afternoon.”

“Then we’re all set at your end,” Blade said.

“Not quite,” Rudabaugh corrected him.

“What do you mean?” Blade queried.

“I do have nine charges left,” Rudabaugh mentioned, “but they won’t do us much good if I have to detonate them all by hand. We’ll need to dig them up and replace the caps.”

“But what about your electric blasting caps?” Blade inquired.

“They only work with my little box,” Rudabaugh answered, “and I lost it.”

“Lost it?”

“Actually, I left it on the roof of that garage,” Rudabaugh elaborated.

Blade nodded at Hickok. “Go get it.”

“On my way, pard,” the gunfighter responded, unslinging his Henry.

“I’ll go with him,” Geronimo offered. “He’ll need a boost onto the garage roof.”

“Stay alert,” Blade advised them.

The two Warriors ran around the northeastern corner of the command post.

Rudabaugh carefully examined the wound in his left shoulder. Someone had cleaned it and applied a bandage while he was unconscious. “Who do I thank for this?” he questioned the others.

“Thank Bertha,” Blade said. “She took care of you and me before she tended to herself.”

“Thanks,” Rudabaugh said to Bertha.

“It’s a clean hole,” Blade went on. “The bullet missed the bone. Bertha took a hit in her right thigh, but it’s stopped bleeding and it isn’t broken.”

“What about you?” Rudabaugh pointed at Blade’s left side.

Blade opened his black leather vest, displaying a crude bandage consisting of white strips torn from a sheet in the command post and wrapped around his broad torso. “As near as I can determine,” Blade commented, “the slug penetrated low on my back, deflected off one of my ribs, and exited shy of my sternum.”

“It must hurt like hell!” Rudabaugh observed.

“It does keep you on your toes,” Blade admitted.

“Speakin’ of stayin’ on our toes,” Bertha interjected, “shouldn’t we have someone patrollin’ the outskirts of this dump?”

Blade shook his head. “We can all use a short breather, and Lynx will spot them if they make a move.”

“What’s our next move?” Bertha asked.

“We’ll eat and bed down in the command post,” Blade answered. “We’ll rotate guard shifts tonight so everybody can catch some shut-eye.”

“I’ll take the first shift,” Orson volunteered.

“You?” Blade was pleasantly surprised by Orson’s eager-beaver attitude.

“Sure. I’m a Mole, ain’t I? And we’re used to living underground, which means I can see real good in the dark. I’ll relieve Lynx when you give the word,” Orson said.

Blade scrutinized the Mole’s bearded visage.

“You weren’t too keen on this mission a couple of days ago. What changed your mind?”

Orson glanced at Bertha. “The other night, when all of you were picking on me. It got me thinking. I saw I was being the world’s worst pain in the ass. You’re right, Blade. I don’t want to be here. But I am here now, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m pissed off at Wolfe for making me come along, but there’s no reason why I should take it out on all of you.”

He paused and chuckled. “Besides, if I don’t fall in line Hickok just might put a bullet between my eyes, and the last thing I need is another hole in my head.”

Blade smiled. “Welcome aboard.”

“Hey! Mighty Warrior!” Bertha chimed in.

Blade faced her. “What?”

“Do you still think we can hold out for two days?” Bertha inquired.

“I don’t see why not.”

“You don’t see!” Bertha sputtered. “Take a look around you! In case you hadn’t noticed, three of us have had our wings clipped. We came awful close to gettin’ racked today.”

“Racked?” Blade repeated quizzically.

“Yeah. Racked. Wasted. Dead, dummy!”

Blade shrugged. “We hold out for as long as we can.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Bertha declared.

Blade stared at the western horizon. “It’ll be nightfall soon. You’ll feel better after a good rest.”

“Bet me!” Bertha retorted.

Blade grinned and cupped his hands around his lips. “Hey, Lynx!”

Lynx appeared on the roof. “I ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

“It’s not that.” Blade said. “You know the Doktor better than any of us.

Will he try anything before daylight.”

“It’s hard to outfox the Doc,” Lynx replied. “He took a real beatin’ today, and he may sulk all night and try again come morning. Then again, he may send in some of his pets after dark to assassinate us.”

Blade placed his hands on his Bowies and began pacing. If he were the Doktor that’s exactly what he’d do: send in some of his best men, or things, to quietly slit a throat or three and reduce the opposition. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, so what action could he take to negate the threat? There was only one logical recourse. “Except for the guard on the roof, we’re going to spend the night in the SEAL,” he announced.

“Why the SEAL?” Orson asked.

“Several reasons,” Blade answered. “The Doktor doesn’t know we have the transport here, although he may suspect we do. The SEAL’s impervious plastic body will shield us from a would-be assassin’s bullet.

Even if one of them stumbled on the transport in the shed, they can’t see inside. We’ll be safer in the SEAL than we would be in the command post.”

“If we’re so safe in the buggy,” Bertha remarked, “why bother having a guard on the roof? Wouldn’t it be best if everybody was in the SEAL?”

“We can’t shut ourselves off from the outside completely,” Blade explained. “If the Doktor should be foolish enough to launch a mass assault at night, we’d need to know about it.”

Rudabaugh had a question. “Did Kilrane say who it was who’d be out there keeping Catlow under surveilance?”

“Nope,” Blade said. “Just that it would be someone he could trust, and he’d get word to their column if we were in trouble.”

“How many do you think we killed today?” Bertha inquired.

“A lot,” Blade guessed.

“I’d estimate somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred,” Rudabaugh commented.

“That many?” Bertha marveled.

“Maybe more,” Rudabaugh said.

“And not one of us was racked!” Bertha stated, shaking her head in wonder.

“But three of us were hurt,” Blade pointed out. “We were fortunate today, but only because the Doktor didn’t know we had the dynamite. Tomorrow will be a completely different story. He’ll be more cautious. He’ll probably come at us from all sides.”

“Which is why we need my magic box,” Rudabaugh joked.

As if on cue, Hickok and Geronimo came around the northeastern corner of the command post, their arms empty except for their weapons.

“Where’s the box?” Blade demanded.

“Gone,” Hickok laconically replied.

“Gone? Where?”

Hickok leaned against the wall, catching his breath. Geronimo and he had jogged both ways. “How should I know?” he rejoined. “We got there and I took a look-see on the roof. No box.”

“One of the G.R.D.’s must have taken it,” Rudabaugh speculated.

“What about the charges you placed around the town square?” Blade asked.

“We’ll have to dig them up,” Rudabaugh said. “I can’t detonate them remotely without the box. We’ll dig them up, and I’ll attach different caps and fuses. Each of us can take a couple of bundles of dynamite, and when the time is right, you just light the fuse, throw your bundle, and run like hell.”

“But you said you only have nine charges left,” Blade noted.

“Each charge consists of a bundle containing six sticks of dynamite,” Rudabaugh detailed. “I’ll break down the bundles and make them smaller, say four sticks apiece.”

“Are you certain you’re up to it?” Blade queried.

“I can manage,” Rudabaugh assured him.

“Okay. Tell us where they’re buried and we’ll dig them up for you,” Blade offered.

“I didn’t count on handling dynamite,” Orson mentioned. “Isn’t it dangerous? I mean, what happens if we light a bundle and don’t toss it far enough or drop it at our own feet?”

Rudabaugh grinned. “Believe me, you’ll throw them far enough.”

“How do you know?” Orson asked skeptically.

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because when you’re holding a bundle of dynamite in your hand,” Rudabaugh said, “and the fuse is lit, you’ll want nothing more at that particular moment than to put as much distance between the dynamite and you as humanly possible.”

“Good point,” Orson conceded.