David L. Robbins - Endworld 07 - Armageddon Run.pdf

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Armageddon Run By
David L. Robbins
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."
 

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