Armageddon Run Read online

  David L. RobbinsChapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  * * *

  David L. Robbins

  ARMAGEDDON RUN

  Chapter One

  It was time to kill again.

  The big man cautiously raised his head, his penetrating gray eyes scanning the scene directly ahead, counting the soldiers once more. He had to be sure. Too many lives depended on his judgment. Cautiously, insuring his dark, curly hair wouldn’t be visible above the lip of the ditch he was lying in, he verified his earlier count: 12 guards and 48 prisoners.

  So far, so good.

  The soldiers obviously weren’t expecting trouble. They ringed the prisoners at regular intervals, idly watching the captives work at repairing the road. Three of the troopers, an officer and two others, stood near a pair of parked troop transports and a jeep, engaged in conversation. Every soldier carried an M-16 and had an automatic pistol strapped to his waist.

  It wasn’t going to be easy.

  The man in the ditch flexed his huge muscles, alleviating a sharp cramp in his left arm. His bulging biceps and triceps, as well as his black leather vest and green fatigue pants, were caked with dirt from his prolonged crawling along the ditch. A pair of Bowie knives dangled from a brown belt, one on each hip. In his right arm he cradled a Commando Arms Carbine, a 45-caliber machine gun. Suspended under each arm in a shoulder holster was a Vega 45 automatic pistol.

  Just a few more feet!

  The soldiers and their prisoners were south of his position, coming toward him at a slow pace as the captives, each one of them shackled at the ankles, labored at repairing this stretch of U.S. Highway 85. The prisoners were filling in the potholes, using ready-mixed asphalt taken from a stack of sacks piled on the eastern side of the road.

  Startled, the man with the Bowies suddenly noted an interesting fact about the 48 prisoners: they all seemed to be Indians.

  Could it be?

  A slight movement to his left arrested his attention. He caught sight of a lean, blond man dressed in buckskins crawling up behind the stack of asphalt sacks. Hickok. The gunman’s pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers were strapped around his narrow waist. He clutched a Navy Arms Henry Carbine in his hands.

  The big man glanced to his right, searching for another of his companions, but there was no sign of the stocky Geronimo. If figured.

  With his green shirt and pants, both constructed from the remains of an old canvas tent, Geronimo would blend into the scenery.

  “Move your butts!” one of the soldiers abruptly barked, goading on the workers.

  The afternoon sun was high in the sky, the early November weather mild with the temperature hovering in the 60s, typical of northeastern Wyoming for this time of the year.

  The man with the muscles tensed, hoping the others in his party were set in their assigned spots. Except for Hickok, Geronimo, and Bertha, the rest of his group were strangers, and he felt uncomfortable about working with the newcomers. Still, orders were orders. If it was necessary to join forces with Lynx, Rudabaugh, and Orson, so be it. He had heard about Lynx, about how deadly the genetic deviate could be, but Rudabaugh and Orson were unknown quantities, and he disliked relying on them in matters of life and death.

  The nearest soldier was now only ten feet away.

  The big man looked at the officer and the other two troopers standing near the vehicles at the far end of the work detail. It would be up to the diminutive Lynx to insure none of the soldiers escaped in those vehicles.

  Lynx had better be as good as his reputation, or all of their plans would be for naught.

  Six feet separated him from the closest trooper. The soldier was facing in the other direction, watching the laborers.

  The man in the ditch placed his right index finger on the trigger of the Commando.

  Four feet. The soldier, backing toward him, took another step.

  Now!

  “Get down!” the big man shouted as he rose to his knees, not bothering to wait and see if any of the prisoners complied with his command. He angled the Commando upward and pulled the trigger, the stock bucking against his shoulder as a burst ripped into the nearest soldier, the heavy slugs catching the man at the neck and nearly decapitating him, showering blood and flesh everywhere.

  The trooper never knew what hit him.

  “Get down!” the man with the Bowies repeated, rising, sweeping the Commando to the right.

  Another soldier was attempting to bring his M-16 into play.

  The big man let him have it in the chest, the impact flinging the trooper to the ground, his chest exploding in a crimson spray.

  Bedlam ensued.

  The prisoners dropped to the asphalt, removing themselves from the line of fire as quickly as possible.

  Hickok popped up from behind the pile of asphalt sacks, the Henry leveling as he sighted on a nearby guard. The 44-40 boomed, and the soldier was propelled backward, collapsing in a disjointed heap. Hickok swiveled and fired again, downing a second foe.

  The man in the black vest started toward the prisoners, spotting Geronimo as the black-haired Warrior rose from concealment in a cluster of sagebrush and let loose with an FNC Auto Rifle, ripping one of the hapless soldiers from his crotch to his forehead. Geronimo was also armed with an Arminius .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster under his right arm and a genuine tomahawk tucked under the front of his leather belt.

  Beyond the stack of asphalt bags, a tall man with a bristly black beard and bushy eyebrows, dressed in tattered, patched jeans and a faded brown-flannel shirt, jumped up from the ditch and pulled the trigger on a Winchester 1300 XTR Pump Shotgun. A soldier in front of him was struck in the stomach and almost cut in two by the buckshot. The bearded man, the one called Orson, pivoted and blasted a youthful trooper vainly turning to flee.

  The man in the vest saw two soldiers at the far end of the work detail running in the direction of the vehicles.

  Where the hell was Rudabaugh?

  Even as he mentally asked the question, Rudabaugh came into view near a small bush, his black Western-style clothes a sharp contrast to the surrounding vegetation, his hawkish features grim and determined, a Heckler and Koch Double Action Automatic held in each hand. The 45s cracked, and the pair of fleeing troopers dropped in their tracks.

  The big man glanced toward the vehicles in time to see a furry figure pounce from the top of one of the troop transports. The figure landed on the officer, knocking him to the ground. There was a flash of lightning claws, punctuated by a hideous shriek, and in an instant the officer and his two companions were dead, their throats torn open, gaping at the blue sky with lifeless eyes.

  And that made it 12.

  Geronimo approached the man in the black vest. “Any orders, Blade?”

  The big man nodded. “Check the bodies,” he instructed. “If any are still alive, then put them out of their misery
.”

  “Will do.” Geronimo ran off to comply.

  Hickok strolled over to Blade, a grin on his handsome face, his long blond mustache drooping over the corners of his mouth, his blue eyes twinkling. “I knew these wimps wouldn’t be a problem,” he stated. “It was a piece of cake.”

  “It’s just the beginning,” Blade reminded him. He stared at the Indians.

  All 48 were prone on the highway. Miraculously, none of them had been hit.

  Orson, Rudabaugh, and Lynx walked up to the muscular giant.

  “Orson,” Blade directed, “see if you can find the keys to these shackles on one of the soldiers. Your best bet would be the officer.”

  Orson’s pudgy features twisted in a frown. “Why should I do it? I’m not your errand boy. Have somebody else do it.”

  Hickok took a step toward Orson, his right hand lowering near the pearl handle of his right Python. “You keep flappin’ your gums like that, pard, and I’m just liable to put a hole between those beady eyes of yours.”

  Orson glared at the gunman. “You don’t scare me, Hickok! Oh, sure, I’ve heard all about you. How you’re supposed to be the fastest man alive with those Colts. But you don’t scare me! Personally, I think you’re a lot of hot air!”

  Before Hickok could respond, or Blade could intervene, a quiet, high-pitched voice interrupted them. “What about me, chuckles? Do you think I’m a lot of hot air too?”

  Orson glanced at the speaker, and the faintest flicker of fear was visible in his face. “No, Lynx. I never included you in the same catagory as Hickok.”

  Lynx chuckled, delighted at the unnerving effect he had on the towering Orson. Where Orson stood well over six feet in height, Lynx was only about four feet tall. While Orson weighed over 220 pounds, Lynx weighed in the vicinity of 60. Lynx wore a leather loin cloth. The rest of his wiry body was coated with thick, grayish-brown fur. His ears were pointed, his eyes vivid green orbs. Smiling, he raised his right hand and stroked his pointed chin, displaying the bloody nails on the tips of his thin fingers. “That’s real decent of you, bub,” Lynx said. “So I know you’ll believe me when I tell you to stop griping every time Blade tells you what to do, or I’m going to gut you and eat your entrails for a snack.”

  Orson swallowed hard.

  Blade stepped up to Orson and placed the barrel of the Commando against Orson’s abdomen. He tapped the handle of his left Bowie. “And if Lynx doesn’t gut you, I will. When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed.

  Do you understand?”

  Orson’s brown eyes narrowed in resentment, but he nodded.

  “I don’t get you, Orson,” Rudabaugh interjected, his hands on the pistols resting in the holsters attached to the black belt around his slim waist. “You volunteered for this mission, just like the rest of us. You agreed, before we left, that Blade would be our leader. Yet you’ve been bucking him at every turn, and usually over the most chicken-shit things imaginable. What gives?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be here,” Orson replied bitterly.

  “Then why’d you volunteer?” Blade asked him.

  “I didn’t,” Orson revealed.

  “What?” Blade demanded in surprise. “Everyone here, each of us involved in this plan, was to be a volunteer.”

  “Not me,” Orson said, frowning. “Wolfe told me to come or else. There’s no way I could say no to Wolfe. You know that.”

  “I know,” Blade admitted, his brow furrowed. What was going on here?

  Why hadn’t Orson told the truth earlier? What was Wolfe up to? “Go look for those keys now and we’ll talk about this later.” Blade watched as Orson walked off.

  “What the blazes is this, pard?” Hickok inquired.

  “I wish I knew,” Blade admitted. He glanced at Lynx and Rudabaugh.

  “Thanks for backing me up. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem, big guy,” Lynx said.

  “We’ve got to stick together,” Rudabaugh commented. “If we don’t, the Doktor will make mincemeat out of us.”

  “Not if I get to the Doktor first,” Lynx vowed.

  Blade stared at the genetic deviate, impressed by the sheer hatred in Lynx’s tone. “Lynx,” he commanded, “you and Rudabaugh gather up the weapons from the dead soldiers. We’ll add them to our arsenal.”

  Lynx and Rudabaugh left as Geronimo approached.

  “All of them are dead,” Geronimo confirmed.

  “Good.” Blade glanced over his shoulder at a curve in the road 500 yards distant. “Hickok, I want you to run back and get Bertha and the SEAL.”

  “On my way.” Hickok jogged off.

  “What’s the matter?” Geronimo asked Blade. “You look troubled.”

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” Blade promised.

  “Uhhhh, excuse me,” someone said to their left.

  Blade turned.

  One of the Indians, a lean man with shoulder-length black hair and angular features, was slowly rising. Like all of the captives, he wore dingy gray pants and a matching shirt. “Who are you?” he inquired. “Where did you come from?”

  “What’s your name?” Blade requested.

  “I am called Red Cloud.”

  “Are you a Flathead Indian?” Blade asked.

  Red Cloud’s mouth fell open. “How did you know?”

  Blade ignored the question. “How far are we from Catlow?” he inquired.

  Red Cloud pointed to the south along U.S. Highway 85. “Catlow is about ten miles from here,” he replied.

  Blade smiled in satisfaction. “Perfect. We’re right where we want to be.”

  “Everything is going according to schedule,” Geronimo commented.

  Red Cloud looked at Geronimo. “What is your name?”

  “Geronimo.”

  Red Cloud studied Geronimo from head to toe. “And what tribe are you from?”

  “The Family,” Geronimo divulged.

  Many of the other Flatheads, about a third of them women, were cautiously standing, wary of their liberators.

  “What is the Family?” Red Cloud asked, perplexed. “Where are you from?”

  “All you need to know about the Family,” Blade answered, “is that we have the same enemies you do, namely the military forces of the Civilized Zone and their leaders, the Doktor and Samuel the Second.”

  Red Cloud stared at one of the dead soldiers. “I noticed you are not especially fond of them.

  “If you feel about them the same way we do,” Blade said, “then maybe you will join us in our cause.”

  “What is your cause?” Red Cloud asked.

  “We have declared war on the Civilized Zone,” Blade disclosed.

  Red Cloud’s astonishment showed. “Do you know how powerful they are? They defeated my people!”

  “We know,” Blade stated. “We were in Kalispell, Montana, a couple of months ago.” He slung the Commando over his right shoulder.

  Red Cloud’s features saddened. “That is where they vanquished us.” He sighed. “We were holding our own against the regular troops. They had us surrounded, but we had plenty of food and ample water. We believed we could hold out indefinitely. Some of us were even able to sneak through the enemy lines.

  Our chief had his wife and daughter escorted to safety.” Red Cloud stopped.

  “And then what happened?” Geronimo prompted him.

  Red Cloud seemed to withdraw within himself as he spoke, his facial lines hardening. “Then they unleased the Doktor’s demons on us.” He twisted and glanced at Lynx, engaged in gathering up the firearms of the slain soldiers. “Creatures much like that one, only different.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Blade said. “He’s on our side.”

  “We fought them off once,” Red Cloud continued his narration. “That was when they used the clouds.”

  “The clouds?” Blade repeated.

  “Yes. Giant green clouds. These clouds would drift over our lines, and the people swallowed by the clouds would never be seen again. The cl
ouds ate them.”

  Blade took a step toward the Flathead. “You’re certain about this? They actually caused the clouds to drift over your positions?”

  Red Cloud nodded. “I am positive.”

  “What happened after that?” Geronimo asked.

  “They sent in the demons again, backed by the regular troops. Our numbers were too depleted, and there were too many gaps in our defensive formations. They overran us.” He paused and shuddered. “It was horrible! They killed men, women, and children without mercy. The demons were the worst! It was like they went crazy for our blood! There was no way we could stop them! If the demons hadn’t been called off, they would have annihilated us. As it was, they took all of our youngest children, all of our babies, to the Cheyenne Citadel. The rest of us were scattered in groups and sent throughout the Civilized Zone as slave labor. They told us we weren’t even good enough to be sent through one of their Reabsorption Centers.”

  “Would you like to get back at them?” Blade asked him.

  Red Cloud’s eyes brightened. “Of course.”

  “Do all of your people feel the same way?”

  Red Cloud gestured at the nearest Flatheads. “Let them answer for themselves. How do you feel?” he asked them. “Do you want to take revenge on those who conquered us?”

  There was a chorus of vehement affirmatives.

  Blade nodded. “I was hoping you would say that.” He raised his voice so every Flathead could hear him. “Listen to me! I have an offer for you! We will free you from your shackles if you will agree to aid us in our fight against the Doktor and Samuel the Second. Are you willing to fight?”

  All of the Flatheads began shouting in unison, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  Blade waited until they quieted, then held his arms aloft to attract their attention. “We will supply you with the arms you will need. If you will stand by us, after it is all over we will reunite you with the daughter of your chief.”

  Red Cloud gripped Blade’s right arm. “Star? You know where Star is?”

  “Yes,” Blade confirmed. “She is staying with my Family in our Home.”

  “How can this be?” Red Cloud inquired in amazement.

  “It’s a long story,” Blade responded, “and we don’t have the time to tell it right now.”