Armageddon Run

Chapter Thirteen

The Doktor waited until the next morning to launch his assault on Catlow.

The night was cold, with the temperatures dropping down into the upper 30s. A stiff breeze blew in from the northwest. Geronimo, huddled in a blanket at his post behind a wooden fence in a yard just to the southeast of U.S. Highway 85, spent the long hours reflecting on his wife, Cynthia Morning Dove, and the likelihood of his being able to continue the family tree given his present situation. He thought of Plato, and Joshua, and Rikki, and all of his other close friends and loved ones in the Family, and wondered if he would ever experience the joy of seeing them again.

Toward morning, when the first tinge of pink suffused the eastern horizon, he roused himself and placed the blanket on the ground.

It would be soon.

He could feel it in his blood.

Geronimo peeped between the slats in the four-foot-high wooden fence, which was painted white and badly in need of repair, and gazed southward. U.S. Highway 85 was to the west of his position, running north and south. North of the yard it entered Catlow, making a beeline through the town. In the center of Catlow, to the west of 85, was the town square.

Blade had scattered the seven of them at strategic locations designed to maximize their concerted firepower.

South of Catlow, the highway proceeded for about 500 yards in a straight line and then traversed a small rise.

Had something moved near the top of the rise?

Geronimo squinted, scanning the rise. He held an M-16 in his hands; his FNC Auto Rifle was slung over his right shoulder. The Arminius was snug in its holster under his right arm, and his tomahawk was angled under his belt.

Figures were slowly advancing over the rise.

Geronimo flattened, keeping his eyes on the approaching forms. He counted at least two dozen, even more.

Surprise! Surprise!

They all appeared to be troopers.

What gives? Geronimo mused. Surely the Doktor had brought some of his genetic horrors with him. So why would he send in ordinary soldiers?

Geronimo could think of only one reason: the Doktor was saving his G.R.D.’s, and the patrol coming in now was sent to test the defenses the Doktor would have to face.

The troopers were cautiously heading toward Catlow, strung out in two lines on either side of the highway, their weapons at the ready.

The eastern sky was rapidly brightening.

Geronimo could see their faces, their intent expressions and worried eyes. Many of them were young, and he felt a twinge of sorrow for the families they had left behind. Mourning a dearly beloved was a devastating experience, and he didn’t wish it on anyone. He vividly recalled his own grief when his parents had died; such misery should be kept to an absolute minimum.

The soldiers were halfway across the straight stretch.

Geronimo glanced to the west. He was in the southwestern corner of the fence, two yards from the road. Orson was supposed to be on the other side of U.S. Highway 85, waiting at the upstairs window of a green frame house.

Would the Mole pull his weight when push came to shove? Orson had performed admirably during the fight in the town square, but they had—

Wait!

Two of the soldiers had detached themselves from the patrol and were racing toward Catlow at top speed.

The point men.

Geronimo inched forward and squinted between two of the slats. This would complicate matters. He would have to let the two point men pass his position.

Would they spot him?

Geronimo froze, immobile, holding his breath, as the two soldiers came abreast of his station. They were nervously looking in every direction, their fingers on the triggers of their M-16s.

Geronimo could see their legs and boots as they passed by. There was less than a half inch of space between each wooden slat, and it was unlikely they would detect his presence unless they gazed directly at him.

Otherwise, his prone body, dressed as it was in dark green, would simply appear to be part of the shadows at the base of the fence.

The point men entered Catlow and kept going.

Geronimo shifted his attention to the patrol. They were 30 yards out and closing. His nose began itching, and he suppressed an impulse to sneeze.

Then it was 20 yards.

Geronimo risked a hasty glance to his right, at the dilapidated home the fence was attached to, calculating the distance he would need to cover once the firing began.

Ten yards.

He mentally debated the wisdom of opening up as soon as they neared the fence, or waiting for some or all of them to go on by. If they went past, he would be shooting them in the back, and he found the idea morally distasteful. Hickok would have no qualms about doing it, he knew, but he wasn’t Hickok.

Thank the Spirit!

His dilemma was rendered moot by Orson.

The burly Mole abruptly appeared, framed in the second-floor window of the house on the other side of the highway. His M-16 burped, shattering the glass in the window, and three of the first soldiers in line went down.

Almost immediately, the patrol swung their automatic rifles on the window and started firing.

Orson disappeared from view as the window, the sill, and the wall enclosing it were riddled with holes.

That idiot!

Geronimo jumped up, his M-16 pressed to his shoulder, unable to afford the luxury of a choice thanks to Orson’s stupidity. He let them have it, his bullets ripping into their backs and exploding from their chests, spraying crimson and flesh over the highway. They fell like the proverbial flies, seven, ten, and more, before the rest realized they were under attack from the rear.

Some of the troopers spun, firing at the stocky form in green.

Geronimo moved, sprinting toward the house, still firing as he ran, taking down two, three, four more, and then he reached the porch and dodged for the door, slugs from the soldiers hitting the porch all around him.

Something nicked his left thigh.

Geronimo slammed into the door.

It didn’t budge!

Five of the troopers ran up to the fence, blasting away.

Geronimo dove, landing on his elbows and knees on the porch, as the wall above his body was perforated by bullets.

The firing near the highway rose in volume, as if others were joining the fray. More soldiers were falling. The five near the fence turned to face some unseen foes and were promptly cut to ribbons in a hail of gunfire.

Several more on the other side of the road dropped.

Those remaining broke and ran.

Geronimo crawled to the edge of the porch. He glanced down at his thigh. The bullet had only torn his pants and broken the skin; the wound was bleeding, but it wasn’t serious.

Blade and Hickok appeared at the fence.

“You okay, pard?” Hickok called out.

Geronimo nodded and rose to his feet. He could see eight soldiers sprinting toward the rise to the south as rapidly as their legs would carry them.

Orson emerged from the house across the highway.

Geronimo walked to the fence.

“You’ve been hit,” Blade commented as Geronimo approached.

“It’s nothing,” Geronimo assured him. “I’ve been hurt worse.”

Hickok gazed at the bodies of the fallen troopers. “I reckon we’ve just ruined the Doktor’s day.”

“We fall back to our next positions and wait for their next move,” Blade stated. “It won’t be as easy the next time.”

“How’d I do?” Orson eagerly inquired as he reached them.

Geronimo opened his mouth, about to rebuke the Mole for his carelessness, but he changed his mind. Orson, he deduced, hadn’t seen much combat, and it wouldn’t do to discourage the Mole so early in the conflict.

“From what I saw,” Blade said, “you did just fine, although you may have jumped the gun a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” Orson apologized, frowning.

Hickok patted Orson on the back. “Don’t fret it! We all get the jitters now and then.”

“Let’s fall back,” Blade suggested.

Geronimo hurried to a gate set in the middle of the southern section of fence, exited the yard, and walked around to the others.

“How long do you reckon the Doktor will wait before he tries something else?” Hickok casually inquired as they headed deeper into town.

“Not long,” Blade predicted.