Private McGonical emptied his magazine into a charging monstrosity, and the creature fell dead almost at his feet.
Backpedaling frantically, Private Liter fired at an onrushing lizard. His rounds punched into its head, staggering the thing for an instant, and then the mutation lunged, its jaws smacking shut on Liter’s head. Liter screeched and attempted to ram the M-16 into the lizard’s throat, but the creature whipped its head from side to side, swinging Liter as if he was a mere stick. On the sixth swing there came a loud snap, then a squishy, ripping noise, and Liter’s headless body flopped to the roadway, blood gushing from the severed neck. The lizard swallowed, gulped, and blinked.
Lieutenant Garber and Private McGonical fired into the creature holding Humes, and the beast promptly dropped on the spot.
The last two mutations were both after Griffonetti, who had whirled and raced behind a tree on the opposite side of the highway. Keeping the trunk between himself and the lizards, he had managed to evade their snapping jaws while firing repeatedly into their heads. But now his M-16 went empty at the moment the creatures came at him from different directions.
Griffonetti, his fingers fumbling as he tried to insert a fresh magazine, panic-stricken at the sight of the two lizards coming at him, thought he was doomed. Out of the corner of his right eye he saw someone racing toward him, and then Blade materialized with the M60 pouring forth death and destruction. The first lizard went down, convulsing, and the second twisted as a dozen rounds penetrated its left side. It scrambled at the Warrior, only to have its head be stitched from crown to mouth.
Gurgling obscenely, the beast fell.
The sudden silence seemed eerie.
Blade scanned the dead and dying lizards, insuring none of them were capable of inflicting any harm. He spotted Liter’s corpse and walked over, scowling in disgust. The body lay on its back, blood still pumping from the neck. Blade knelt and rolled the corpse over, then opened the backpack containing their radio, expecting to find the worst. He did.
Loose wires protruded from the cracked casing.
“Private Humes is dead,” Lieutenant Garber declared, walking over, his face ashen.
“Two men dead and we’re not even to the downtown section yet!” Blade snapped.
“Do you think there are more of those things around?” Lieutenant Garber asked, glancing at the monolith.
“There might be,” Blade said. “See if you can make this radio work.” He rose and joined Hickok and Geronimo, who were standing near the curb and eyeing the black building.
“We saw something move in there, pard,” the gunfighter said.
“We should keep moving,” Geronimo suggested.
“I know,” Blade said.
“Everybody and their grandmother will know we’re in Dallas now,” Hickok said.
“I know,” Blade responded again, his tone bitter.
“What’s eatin’ you?” Hickok inquired.
“As usual, everything is going wrong from the start,” Blade replied.
“Murphy’s Law,” Geronimo said.
Blade frowned. “Just once I’d like a mission to go exactly as planned.”
“Remember what the Elders say,” Geronimo observed. “Hardship breeds character.”
“Then we should have more character than we’ll know what to do with by the time this run is over,” Blade said.
Hickok and Geronimo looked at one another.
“I want both of you to play it safe,” Blade directed. “Especially you, Hickok. You have a knack for getting into trouble.”
“Who, me?” the gunman responded.
“I’m serious,” Blade said. “I don’t want to lose another man. Not Garber or his men, and certainly not either of you.”
“The same goes for you,” Geronimo stated.
“We’ll cover your back all the way,” Hickok offered.
Lieutenant Garber, Private McGonical, and Private Griffonetti approached.
“The radio is shot,” the officer said.
“Figures,” Blade muttered.
“We’ll be ready to leave after we bury Humes and Liter,” Lieutenant Garber said.
“Forget it.”
“Sir?”
“We can’t afford to waste time burying our dead,” Blade stated. “We keep going. I’m sorry.”
Garber, Griffonetti, and McGonical looked at one another.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but we don’t think it’s right to go off and leave their bodies to be consumed by the wild animals and the mutations,” Lieutenant Garber commented.
Blade sighed. “I repeat. We can’t take the time to bury Humes and Liter. Grab their weapons, spare ammo, and their personal effects and let’s go.”
“But—” Lieutenant Garber started to protest.
“Didn’t General Reese tell you to follow my orders explicitly?” Blade asked sharply, cutting him off.
“Yes, sir,” Garber dutifully replied.
“Then you’ll do as I say or I’ll report you when we get back,” Blade promised. “Collect the M-16’s, the pistols, and their personal effects now!”
Reluctantly, their expressions downcast, the three soldiers went to comply.
“Garber doesn’t have a thing to worry about,” Hickok remarked.
“How do you figure?” Blade asked.
“You threatened to put him on report when we get back,” the gunfighter noted.
“So?”
“So it’s more like if we get back.”
Chapter Eight
Once a teeming, thriving hub of commerce and industry, a vibrant metropolis throbbing with the pulsebeat of millions, Dallas now resembled the majority of decrepit, forsaken cities and towns dotting the postwar countryside. The hot breeze stirred the dust that caked the streets and buildings. Broken bits of glass lay under every window. Trash and debris littered the sidewalks and avenues. The rusted hulks of cars and trucks bore testimony to the American mania for owning private vehicles. Trash and garbage were piled in the alleys. Reeking waste matter provided a breeding ground for noxious insects. Feral dogs and cats prowled restlessly, and rats and other vile vermin skittered in the shadows.
“I wish I’d brought a clothespin,” Hickok mentioned.
“What for?” Blade asked.
“To pinch my nose shut. This place stinks worse than Geronimo’s farts.”
“Will you stop with the farts already,” Geronimo declared.
Blade held up his right hand, bringing them to a halt. From his right front pants pocket he extracted the map General Reese had given him. He opened the map and placed it on the cracked and pitted asphalt.
“Where the dickens are we?” Hickok inquired.
“I’ll know in a minute,” Blade said.
“Did you see that sign back there at that joint with the red roof?”
Hickok asked.
“What about it?” Geronimo interjected.
“What did that sign mean? What’s pizza? We’ve run into a lot of pizza signs in some of the other cities we’ve been to,” Hickok said.
“I can answer that,” Lieutenant Garber spoke up. “We still have pizza in the Civilized Zones. It’s usually a flat, circular pie or crust topped with cheese, pepperoni, hamburger, you name it. My favorite topping is anchovies.”
“What are anchovies?” Hickok asked.
“Little fish.”
Hickok snorted. “Fish pies. Give me apple or cherry any day.”
“Here we are,” Blade declared, tapping the map. “We’re at the junction of Highway 289 and Forest Lane. We’ll take a right on Forest Lane and work our way into the inner city.” He paused. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into the ones we’re after yet. Maybe they’re waiting for the right moment to strike.” He folded the map and replaced it in his pocket, then looked at Lieutenant Garber, who was still clearly upset over not being permitted to bury the two troopers. “Move out,” he said, motioning with his right arm.