Chicago Run

CHAPTER EIGHT

Yama placed his right hand on the Smith and Wesson and steeled himself for the inevitable. If the guard climbed up to survey the canvas top, he’d have to fight his way in.

The voice of Major Crompton cracked like a whip. “We’re in a hurry. This man is to be taken directly to the Central Core for a meeting with the Minister. If you want to go by the book and delay us, then go right ahead.”

“The Minister?” the guard repeated in abject awe. “I didn’t know.”

There was a shuffling sound.

“I don’t see anything underneath the truck,” the guard declared, “and there’s no way an animal or mutant could climb on top. So go ahead. We’ll skip the thorough search this time around.”

“Wise decision,” the major said.

Relaxing, Yama listened to the jeep pull forward, and then the convoy truck did likewise. Several of the men in the bed were laughing. He slowly rolled onto his stomach and inched to the edge. Phase Two had been successful! Now came Phase Three.

On both sides of the truck was the deceptively serene green belt.

Flowers were in full bloom and the grass a picture-perfect carpet of lush green.

Flowers in January? Yama was puzzled until he recalled Atmospheric Control Stations maintained mild climatic conditions in Technic City 12 months of the year.

The green belt soon gave way to a residential sector. Unlike traditional homes that were made of brick or wood, these in Technic City were composed of a unique synthetic substance. Marked by a wide diversity of bright colors and shapes, they were each one story high. Even the windows were tinted in different shades. Small lawns at the front and back of each house were meticulously maintained.

Yama saw only a few residents outside and wondered where the rest were.

The truck passed a checkpoint consisting of four soldiers and kept going. After a mile of practically deserted homes, an intersection appeared manned by more guards. Beyond them was a scene out of a madman’s nightmare.

In three directions the roads were crammed with vehicles, primarily thousands upon thousands of three-wheeled motorcyles, trikes painted every color in the rainbow: red, yellow, purple, blue, brown, and more.

There were also some four-wheelers, jeeps, trucks, and even a sprinkling of large sedans. They formed a raucous, flowing river of mechanized motion.

Yama marveled at the sight. The description he had heard didn’t begin to do the bedlam justice. The sight jarred his memory, and he remembered Blade informing him that the Technics relied so extensively on trikes because their access to natural resources was limited and they couldn’t afford to mass-produce full-sized or even compact cars.

The jeep and the truck went straight, making for the heart of the city.

That was when Yama spied it, far in the distance, gleaming in the golden glow from the setting sun.

Where once had been Logan Square, there now reared the headquarters of the autocratic elitists who were bound and determined to spread their tyrannical influence over the rest of the U.S. Appropriately named the Central Core, the governmental center was an architectural wonder. Ten stories high, it resembled an ancient Egyptian pyramid. It was two acres wide at the base and rising to a tapered point, and its sides consisted of scintillating crystal that sparkled as brightly as its gold-trimmed doors and windows. The whole effect dazzled the senses.

Yama’s attention was diverted as the troop transport passed through the industrial and manufacturing sector. Also constructed from the special synethetic, the factories were all four stories high and either white, gray, or black. In contrast to prewar industries, these were sparkling clean, quiet, and environmentally safe.

A new danger presented itself. Yama realized that anyone standing at an upper-floor window would easily spot him and probably notify the authorities. His position was no longer tenable. But what could he do until the truck stopped? If he leaped down now he’d land in the midst of the bustling trikes.

He resigned himself to staying where he was and hoped luck would be on his side. On top of one of the buildings on his right appeared a billboard, and he read the advertisement displayed with interest.

Yama had eaten worms once on a survival test. Every Warrior who wanted to graduate from the training program and advance to the status of active duty had to first pass the endurance trial. Escorted miles from the Home by an Elder, they were left with just their weapons and given a limited amount of time to safely reach the compound. The survival tests were invariably conducted in the hottest summer months, adding to the difficulty. On his, which he had completed in near-record time, he’d subsisted on grubs and worms for snacks. He could have easily slain a deer or other animal, but the delay would have cost him an hour or more each time he ate and he’d wanted to surpass the man who held the record: Blade.

The thought made him frown. His fellow Warriors were bound to be extremely upset over his departure, none more so than his good friend.

The Elders must have been appalled at the news. If he returned, he undoubtedly faced the prospect of being stripped of his rank and possibly exiled from the Family. What a high price to pay for revenge!

Yama shook his head, dispelling the morbid introspection. He glanced at the billboard again, recalling the intelligence previously uncovered concerning the Technics’ bizarre taste in food. With millions of people cramming the metropolis, the early leaders of Technic City had been hard pressed to keep everyone fed, until one of the top administrators hit on the original idea of using a plentiful food source that existed right under their noses, so to speak. Perhaps, Yama reflected, he’d try some if he had the opportunity.

Another billboard emphasized the cultural acceptance of the unusual dish:

The Warrior twisted his head, listening to the strident din of the congested traffic. Both the jeep and the truck were creeping along at little better than 20 miles an hour. He poked his head out and saw trikes and four-wheelers packed close together.

One of the four-wheelers was riding abreast of the truck’s rear wheel.

The driver, a hefty man in his early twenties dressed in a brown uniform, yawned and consulted a watch on his left wrist.

Inspiration struck, and Yama made sure the Wilkinson hung snugly over his shoulder before he clutched the rim of the canvas and braced himself. Other drivers were bound to see his next maneuver, but it couldn’t be helped. If all went well, he’d be down a side street and lost in the maze of buildings before the police arrived to check.

The four-wheeler slowly pulled forward, the driver engrossed in maintaining a straight course and never once looking up.

Yama gazed ahead. A block away was an intersection dominated by a traffic light suspended over the center of the junction. He’d seen such devices fn the Civilized Zone and knew they regulated the traffic flow.

Currently the light shone green. He watched it intently, hoping for a change.

When the truck still had half the block to go, the traffic light blinked to yellow, then red, and all the vehicles crawled to a stop.

Yawning again, the driver of the four-wheeler braked his machine a few feet from the center of the bed.

Thank you, Yama thought, and crawled a foot to the left, bringing himself directly over his target. There was no time to lose; the light would change at any second. He slid outward, using his wrists to propel his body over the edge, and dropped down with his legs spread wide to land on the cushioned seat behind the driver.

The man involuntarily jumped when his vehicle bounced and glanced over his right shoulder. He had black hair and brown eyes that widened in amazement. “What the hell! Where did you come from?”

“Never mind,” Yama said. He became aware of other drivers gaping at him.

“Never mind?” the driver repeated. “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but you’d better get off my vehicle this instant.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t comply,” Yama informed him, and surreptiously drew his survival knife. He pressed the point into the guy’s shirt and lowered his voice. “Do you want to die?”

Blinking, the man looked down and gulped. “No. Of course not,” he answered weakly.

“Whether you live or not depends on how well you cooperate.”

“What is it you want?”

“At the intersection take a right.”

“No problem. Just don’t kill me. Please.”

Yama saw the light go green and he nodded. “Pull out and pay close attention to your driving. I don’t want to attract the interest of the authorities.”

The driver ran his eyes over the Warrior’s outfit, then faced front and accelerated as the traffic flow resumed. He darted into the far right lane and hung a right at the junction.

Looking back, Yama saw no sign of pursuit. The jeep and troop transport were proceeding toward the Central Core.

“Who are you?” the driver asked over his shoulder.

“My name is unimportant.”

“Where are you from?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“Sorry.”

They cruised into a business district. A variety of shops and large stores lined both sides of the street and there were more pedestrians than anywhere else. The traffic was thick and noisy.

“Are you in the military?” Yama inquired in the man’s left ear.

“No,” the driver replied. “Why would you think that?”

“Your uniform.”

The man chuckled. “I work for S.P.D.”

“Which is?”

“Speedy Parcel Delivery.”

“You deliver packages?”

“Packages, mail, postcards, everything. S.P.D. is the biggest parcel delivery service in the city. You’ve probably seen our pink trucks driving all over the place.”

“No,” Yama said. He spied an alley not far off.

The driver fidgeted. “You don’t know about S.P.D.? Then you must not be from Technic City.”

“I’m not.” Yama tapped the man on the shoulder and pointed at the alley. “Drive in there.”

“I can’t. My permit doesn’t include alley privileges.”

Yama dug the knife in a shade deeper. “It does now. When I give you an order, follow it.”

“Yes, sir,” the Technic responded. He slowed, used his turn signal, and when several pedestrians paused to grant him access, complied with the big man’s request.

The alley connected one block with another. Halfway down it, on the right-hand side, were two huge trash bins spaced ten feet apart.

“Pull in between those,” Yama directed.

Deftly manipulating the handlebars and shifting down, the driver brought the four-wheeler to an abrupt stop, nearly crashing into the wall in his nervousness.

“Turn off your machine.”

The man promptly obeyed.

Yama slid off the seat and checked the alley to see if anyone had trailed them. Satisfied he had temporarily eluded detection, he sheathed the knife and motioned for the Technic to stand.

“What are you planning to do with me?” the man asked, and elevated his arms without being told.

The Warrior studied his prisoner’s delivery uniform intently. It appeared to be several sizes too short for his frame but would serve to conceal him in a crowd. “Are you wearing underwear?”

Gasping, the Technic placed a hand to his throat. “I knew it! You’re a pervert!”

“What?”

“I know all about your kind. There have been five or six reports on the news in the past year alone about the sick atrocities people like you commit.”

“You’re an idiot. Take off your uniform.”

“Do what?”

Yama drew the Smith and Wesson. “I won’t repeat myself again. Take off your uniform and be quick about it.”

His hands shaking, the Technic removed his shirt, then his shoes and pants, exposing a white T-shirt and underwear. He crossed his hands over his crotch and turned sideways. “Now what?”

“Close your eyes.”

“Oh, no,” the man whimpered. He did as requested, his entire body trembling. “Please don’t kill me. Please. Please. Please.”

Yama stepped in front of him. “When you revive, you might benefit from looking up the word ‘courage’ in a dictionary.”

“Huh?”

The Warrior planted his left fist on the tip of the guy’s chin, not even bothering to use all of his prodigious might.

The tap sent the Technic stumbling back into the wall, his arms sagging at his sides. He sank to the ground, a ludicrous grin creasing his face, blood trickling from his lower lip.

Sighing, Yama began to pick up the man’s shirt when the loud rumbling of a large engine alerted him to the fact a vehicle had just entered the alley.