“I can really go?” Carson inquired anxiously, suspecting a trick. The guy probably planned to shoot him in the back the minute he stepped outside.
“Yes. You’ve related all I need to know.”
Slowly, tentatively, Corporal Carson moved toward the opening. He disliked the idea of fleeing across the mutation-infested countryside, but he didn’t see where he had any choice. If the wacko was going to let him go, then he’d damn well go. In a way he almost felt sorry for the jerk. The guy was 50 cards shy of a deck and not responsible for his actions.
“One more thing,” Yama stated.
Dreading that he’d been duped, Carson looked at the man in blue.
“What?”
“Be sure to let your superiors know I’m doing this for her, for Lieutenant Alicia Farrow.”
“Who the hell is she?”
“She was a Technic.”
Carson wanted to learn more, but he opted not to press his luck. “All right. I’ll tell them. Anything else?”
“No. May the Spirit watch over you on the return trip.”
“Yeah. No doubt.” Carson stepped to the cave mouth, paused to glance over his shoulder at the pathetic madman, then dashed down the rock-strewn slope, heedless of the risk entailed. He needed to put distance, lots of sweet distance, between the crazy man and himself. By his estimation these hills were situated at the border of the Clear Zone; once there he might bump into a patrol, and wouldn’t have to run all the way to the city.
He couldn’t quite believe his good fortune. He was the only person to ever survive an attack by the Shadow unscathed. The media types would probably be all over him once he returned. Maybe he’d appear on a talk show or two. Hell, within 24 hours he’d probably be the most famous man in Technic City.
Corporal Carson smiled, pleased by his imminent fame. Being captured by the Shadow might well wind up as being the best thing that ever happened to him!
CHAPTER FIVE
Blade crouched, leveling the Commando, and unleashed a withering burst at a range of eight feet, sweeping the barrel from right to left.
In the act of drawing the Arminex, Quint took a half-dozen slugs full in the chest. The sledgehammer impact lifted him out of the saddle and hurled him over his mount’s rump to crash down in the dusty street.
Other nearby riders toppled, their horses neighing and shying at the metallic bleating of the submachine gun.
From the balcony Geronimo opened up, spraying a rain of lead from his FNC. He killed six men in half as many seconds, then ducked as some of the Outlaws returned fire.
At the initial retort of the Commando someone else had galvanized into action. Hickok’s arms were blurs as both Pythons leaped from their holsters and he thumbed both hammers with ambidextrous precision. He moved toward Glisson’s firing on the run, always going for the head and always hitting the rider he aimed at.
Bedlam ensued in the street as the desperate Outlaws vainly endeavored to shoot back while keeping their frightened animals under control. Packed together as they were, they were unable to bring their weapons to bear effectively.
Blade darted to the right as rounds narrowly missed him and thudded into the front of the store. He saw a pair of scraggly raiders break from the pack and gallop toward him, one aiming a pistol, the other a Winchester.
Throwing himself farther to the right, he rolled to the very edge of the porch and swept to his knees, the Commando’s stock tucked against his side.
The rider with the pistol squeezed off a hasty shot.
A breeze seemed to stir Blade’s hair, and then his finger tightened on the trigger, the Commando bucking and belching lead.
As if hit by a gigantic invisible fist, the raider was catapulted backwards, and sprawled in a heap in the dust.
The second man had his Winchester leveled.
With a mere flick of his wrist Blade brought the Commando to bear, watching in grim satisfaction as a half-dozen holes blossomed on the man’s face and the Outlaw went limp and fell from the saddle. Blade shifted, taking in the melee in a glance, and fired discriminately, making every shot count.
Across the way Geronimo was in trouble. Seven of the riders were pouring a blistering swarm of lead hornets into the balcony, sending wood chips flying from the balcony. The Indian was down low and acquitting himself as best he could.
Blade dived from the porch, flattening and slaying a trio of raiders who broke from the cluster and came straight at him. There were still plenty of rounds left in the special 90-shot magazine the Family Gunsmiths had fitted the Commando with, and he shoved to his feet, staying in a crouch, intending to go to Geronimo’s aid. Out of the corner of his left eye he registered a streak of buckskin and glanced around.
Hickok had darted out from behind a post, apparently having just reloaded because he was snapping both loading gates shut even as he appeared. He raced into the thick of the band, spinning and weaving, firing first one Colt, then the other, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake as he sped to his friend’s assistance.
The seven killers were concentrating their firepower on Geronimo. They had their backs to the middle of the street, and so had no idea they were in danger until three of them were drilled from behind.
Blade saw two mounted raiders trying to get a bead on the gunfighter.
He snapped the stock to his right shoulder, sighted, and bored holes through their abdomens, dropping both.
The quartet of Outlaws still striving to nail Geronimo realized they were being attacked from the rear and spun.
Hickok killed two in the blink of an eye.
Up popped Geronimo, the FNC steady, to blister the last pair.
Blade moved into the street, firing right and left, taking out rider after rider. A stinging sensation lanced his left shoulder, but he ignored the discomfort.
Six of the Outlaws had wheeled their mounts and were in full flight to the east. They looked over their shoulders in terror, as if demons were on their trail.
Stitching a hefty raider in the act of pointing a sawed-off shotgun with holes from the guy’s sternum to his crotch, Blade swung toward the center of the street, ready to slay more. It took a second for his mind to acknowledge there were no Outlaws left to fight.
Dozens of bodies littered the dusty ground, and most in spreading pools of blood. Many were groaning and twitching. There were also nine horses lying on their sides, a few wheezing or whinnying pitiably.
The relative silence after the gunfire was eerie. Blade scrutinized the fallen Outlaws carefully, seeking any who might have a spark of defiance still in them. He saw none, and hastily removed the almost-spent magazine and replaced it with a fresh one.
Hickok stood two thirds of the way to the opposite building, his arms at waist height, his narrowed eyes roving over the Outlaws. He looked at the giant and grinned. “Just like I figured. A bunch of wimps.”
Blade walked forward, alert for treachery. There was always the possibility one of the Outlaws might be faking and waiting for the chance to fire.
In another few seconds Geronimo ran from the two-story building and halted, breathing deeply, a thin red line marking his left cheek. “We did it,” he said in astonishment.
“Was there ever any doubt we would?” Hickok asked arrogantly.
“Thanks for your help,” Geronimo said.
“What help? I like shootin’ cow chips in the back, is all.”
Halting, Blade frowned at the sight of a horse sporting a nasty, ragged hole in its neck. Reddish spittle flecked its mouth. “Hickok, finish off the Outlaws. I don’t want one alive.”
“You got it, Big Guy.”
“Geronimo,” Blade went on, “the horses are yours.”
“I hate killing horses.”
“Join the club,” Blade said. He walked to Glisson’s and climbed the steps. A twinge in his shoulder reminded him of his wound, and he tilted his neck to find a shallow crease. Nothing to get upset about. A glance eastward showed the half-dozen Outlaws a quarter of a mile distant and continuing their pell-mell flight. Too bad, he reflected. It would have been nice to bag all of them.