Chicago Run

CHAPTER TEN

Yama’s head streaked to the Browning and he stepped to the edge of the left-hand trash bin.

Driving slowly up the alley was a large white truck, a single occupant in the cab. Printed in block letters on the front of the huge, square hydraulic storage container was one word: SANITATION.

The Warrior pressed his back against the bin and calmly waited as the truck pulled in alongside the bins, the cab going ten feet past him, and braked. Evidently the driver had put the truck in park, because the door opened and slammed shut and the man started walking along the opposite side toward the rear.

Yama slid from concealment and cautiously moved in the same direction, listening to the driver happily whistle an airy tune. Pausing at the corner of the truck, he peered past it to see a well-built man over six feet in height who wore a white uniform.

The guy reached for a lever on the back of the truck.

In two quick paces Yama was next to him and jamming the Browning into the man’s ear. “Not a sound or you die.”

To the sanitation worker’s credit he didn’t panic. His brown eyes widened and his mouth slackened, but he retained his composure and kept silent.

“Excellent,” Yama said. “Come with me.” He backed up, pulling the driver after him, until they stood between the trash bins.

The driver glanced down at the unconscious four-wheeler driver and the pile of clothes, and expelled a sharp breath.

“I won’t harm you,” Yama told him, taking a stride backwards in case the man decided to be a hero.

“What do you want?” the man asked.

“Is your truck a manual or an automatic?”

The significance of the query eluded the sanitation worker. His brow knit and he replied, “Manual, why?”

“No reason. Take off your clothes.”

Defiance flared on the man’s face for all of five seconds, until he stared long and hard at the unwavering barrel of the Browning. “Whatever you want, mister,” he said reluctantly, and went about stripping off his uniform. Underneath he wore only orange underwear and purple socks.

Yama took a half-stride forward, his eyes on the white uniform, not giving the driver the slightest inkling of what was to come next. His left fist flashed straight out, his knuckles slamming against the driver’s jaw and felling the man where he stood.

A hasty scan showed no one else in the alley, and Yama took but a minute to squeeze into the driver’s white uniform, pulling it on over his own. He felt cramped and constricted with both uniforms on, with the sleeves on the sanitation outfit two inches too short and the hem of the pants two inches above his ankles, but resigned himself to wearing them.

He wasn’t about to remove the special garment constructed for him by the Family Weavers and run the risk of losing it.

Yama hurried around the front of the garbage truck and climbed into the cab, depositing the Wilkinson on the seat beside him. Some years ago he’d driven a jeep sporting a manual transmission, and he didn’t think the truck would be much different. After studying the dials and knobs on the dashboard and the shifting diagram imprinted on the top of the gearshift, which had been left in neutral and not in park, he felt confident enough to get underway.

Tramping in the clutch, Yama worked the gearshift, hearing a loud grinding noise as he did. With minor difficulty he succeeded in getting into first, and he started down the alley.

A stream of humanity was crossing the sidewalk, barring the way to the street.

Yama pressed on the horn, producing a strident beep, and watched the pedestrians quickly get out of the way. The truck cleared the alley mouth and he took a right. According to the gas gauge he had three fourths of a tank, more than enough to meet his needs. He blended into the traffic flow, keeping in the far right lane in case he needed to make a rapid getaway.

He was glad the sanitation worker had shown up. The delivery driver’s uniform would have been an even tighter fit, and he enjoyed greater anonymity in the truck than he would have on the four-wheeler.

But another problem presented itself.

The truck became hemmed in by scores of puttering trikes: front, back, and to the left. The drivers seemed heedless of their own safety and rode within inches of the truck’s massive wheels, making the potential for an accident and subsequent chain-reaction smashups very high indeed.

Yama was hard pressed to keep from crushing another vehicle. His eyes were constantly in motion from side mirror to side mirror and out the windshield at the river of trikes and four-wheelers in front of him. Since a majority of the other riders had the disconcerting habit of braking at the last instant when a light changed to red, Yama was compelled to carefully monitor the taillights in front of him, his foot always poised to tramp on the brakes.

Three blocks were covered without mishap. Yama looked for a street running east and west, one that would take him in the general direction of the Central Core.

In the passing lane he saw a policeman on a trike.

Gluing his gaze to the side mirror, Yama watched the officer draw nearer to the truck cab. The policeman gave no indication of being in pursuit, and Yama maintained an appropriately blank expression, just like practically every driver he saw. To play it safe he dropped his right hand onto the Wilkinson.

Not even bothering to glance up, the officer cruised past the sanitation vehicle and continued on his merry way.

Yama let the cop get over a block ahead before he went about changing lanes, a hazardous procedure it its own right. Flipping on the turn signal, he had to wait for over a minute before the trikes behind him fell back sufficiently for him to change lanes. Once in the passing lane he accelerated to 30 miles an hour.

Up ahead appeared an intersection, the light green.

Again Yama employed the turn signal and slowed, preparing to swing to the east. Inexplicably, several trike and four-wheeler drivers commenced blaring their shrill horns. Mystified, Yama tried to figure out the reason but couldn’t.

The opportunity to execute the turn came and Yama spun the steering wheel, swinging the gigantic vehicle to the left, and not until the turn was completed and he saw the wall of trikes before him did he realize his mistake. He’d turned onto a one-way avenue the wrong way! Automatically he slammed on the brakes and slewed the truck to the left, trying to miss the startled riders who leaned on their horns in frantic horror.

Yama missed the foremost row of trikes and brought the truck to a lurching halt at the curb, his vehicle now blocking the intersection. He went to throw the transmission into reverse, but a check of the mirror showed trikes behind him.

More drivers applied their horns, creating a strident din.

Looking to his right, Yama spied the policeman coming back. To the left was a military jeep bearing down on him. Yama rolled down his window, letting them draw near, planning to bluff his way out of the predicament. If he made his move now, he might not live to reach the Central Core, and reach it he must.

The officer got there first, halting near the truck’s passenger door and hurrying around the cab to demand, “What the hell is going on?”

Smiling, Yama shrugged and put just the right amount of irritation in his tone. “Beats me. One minute I was driving along daydreaming about the meal I’m going to eat at Windy’s after I get off work, and the next thing I know this heap of junk whips to the left all by itself. I tried turning the wheel but there was nothing I could do to stop it. Thank goodness I didn’t run over someone.”

“Sounds like your steering box went out on you,” the cop declared. “I’ll call for a tow. In the meantime, try to move it out of the intersection. Otherwise, you’ll have traffic blocked up for miles and I’ll have to issue you a ticket for obstructing a public artery.”

“I’ll try,” Yama promised. “Can you clear those trikes out from behind the truck?”

“Will do.” About to hasten off, the patrolman paused when the jeep screeched to a stop and out jumped an army captain.

“What’s going on?”

“I have everything under control,” the policeman stated testily. “This guy’s gear box is giving him problems.”

“I’m Captain Herrick. We have an arms convoy coming along here in about five minutes and we can’t afford any delays.”

“Understood,” the policeman said. He looked up at the Warrior. “Do as I told you,” he ordered, and ran to the rear of the trash truck, where he began directing the traffic out of the junction.

Yama’s curiosity was aroused. Both men envinced a slight nervousness at the prospect of the convey being stopped. Why? What difference could a few extra minutes make? He shifted into reverse, and when sufficient space presented itself he backed up and pointed the truck due south again.

The policeman ran over and called out, “How’s it working now?”

“Seems to be okay,” Yama responded.

“Good, but we can’t take any chances,” the cop stated, and looked to the north, as if seeking any sign of the convoy. “There’s a parking lot fifty feet straight ahead. Nurse it there and a tow truck will arrive shortly.”

“On my way,” Yama promised, and pulled out slowly, watching in the side mirror as the efficient cop continued to direct the traffic. The military types waited on one side of the road, their impatience apparent.

Although tempted to keep on going and ditch the truck elsewhere, Yama drove to the almost vacant parking lot and pulled in. He leaned out the window and stared back at the junction. Almost immediately he spotted the convoy, consisting of six trucks, approaching at a brisk clip in the passing lane and using their horns to clear trikes and whatnot from their path.

The policeman had the intersection free of traffic, and all converging vehicles were stopped at the appropriate white lines to give the convoy unhindered passage.

Captain Herrick climbed in the jeep and it moved away from the curb to take the lead.

Still puzzled, Yama opened his door for a better view. From the west arose a distinct whomp! and a millisecond later the jeep exploded and was promptly engulfed in flames.

Spinning, the patrolman clawed for his service revolver, but a burst of automatic fire cut him in half.

The drivers of the convoy frantically braked, almost too near to the intersection to avoid it.

With the setting sun as their backdrop, three blue trikes roared down the sidewalk and closed on the first truck like wolves on a bear. Two men were astride each trike, all dressed in blue, and the back man on each carried a Dakon II. The gunners opened fire, pouring fragmentation rounds into the cab.

Yama saw the soldier driving the first truck dance and thrash about as the rounds perforated his body. Predictably, the truck slanted to the left, out of control, an enormous battering ram that plowed into the idling trikes and four-wheelers to the east and mowed them down in droves. The riders screamed as they were squashed and their vehicles reduced to so much scrap metal.

The men in blue swarmed around the second truck and repeated their maneuver. This time the truck lumbered to a halt in the middle of the intersection, the driver’s bloody corpse leaning on the steering wheel.

Who were these guys? Yama wondered, and the obvious occurred to him. They must be with the Resistance Movement, and if so the implications were delightfully staggering. Because if the rebels in Technic City were this organized, this effective, then the Technics’ days were numbered. He grabbed the Wilkinson and dropped to the asphalt.

Meanwhile the men in blue had taken out the third truck and were going after the fourth, which was in the act of grinding into reverse. The fifth and sixth convoy trucks were also doing clumsy U-turns, their ability to execute the about-face hindered by all the trikes around them and the confined roadway.

Yama ran toward the intersection. If he could link up with the Resistance Movement it would make his task a lot easier.

To the south arose the sound of engines whining at top speed.

Stopping, Yama whirled and spied four jeeps coming to the convoy’s rescue, each conveying four soldiers armed with the inevitable Dakon II.

The jeeps were strung out in a line, using the shoulder of the highway, all the troopers intent on the conflict at the intersection.

The Warrior came to an instant decision. He ran to the road and started across, threading a path through the tightly spaced trikes, raising eyebrows and drawing shouts of alarm. But no one tried to stop him, and he burst into the clear when the foremost jeep was still 30 feet away.

One of the Technics saw him and pointed.

Dropping onto his right knee, Yama tucked the Wilkinson against his side and stroked the trigger, drilling the windshield with over a dozen holes and stitching the soldiers in the front seats with 9mm manglers.

Dead in the blink of an eye, the driver lost control and the jeep swerved into the vehicles on the highway, the collision loud enough to be heard for a mile.

One down, three to go. Yama rose and backpedaled as he fired at the second jeep, duplicating his success. This time the jeep went to the right, smashing into the side of a building.

Unfazed by the fate of their comrades, the remaining two jeeps never slowed.

Yama refused to give ground. He emptied the Wilkinson into the third jeep, which was 50 feet away and going at least 70 miles an hour, then drew the Browning and sighted on the driver. Before he could fire, however, one of the soldiers in the back straightened and hurled a spherical metallic object.

There could be no doubt as to what it was, and Yama spun and ran, taking several strides before he dove for the ground, knowing he was already too late a heartbeat prior to the near-deafening detonation. An invisible hand picked him up in midair and flipped him end over end with the force of a tornado. He tried to relax his body, to be ready to roll with the impact, but the next moment his head slammed into something as unyielding as steel and his consciousness fluttered into a void.