Yama lost all track of time.
Lynx stopped periodically to cock his furry head and listen. They finally reached a narrow, unused stairway with a wooden bannister. “Keep your fingers crossed,” Lynx said descending the stairs. At the bottom was a metal door with a lighted sign above it reading: “Emergency Exit Only.”
“No one uses this,” Lynx divulged. “They have to keep it unlocked to obey the Fire Code.”
What was a fire code? Yama wondered. He braced himself as Lynx slowly opened the door, its hinges creaking from a lack of use and maintenance.
The emergency door opened onto a cement walkway. Evidently, pedestrians never used it, because it was deserted.
“What did I tell you?” Lynx asked, grinning in triumph.
They sauntered along the walkway until they reached a parking lot packed with military vehicles.
Yama gazed overhead. From the position of the moon he knew they were in the parking lot situated to the north of the Biological Center.
“What now, chuckles?” Lynx inquired.
Yama thought a moment. “You mentioned something a while ago, something called a thermo. What is it?”
“Boy,” Lynx snickered, “they sure raise ’em stupid where you come from, don’t they? A thermo is technical jargon for a thermo-nuclear device.”
“You want to drop a nuclear bomb on Cheyenne?” Yama asked in surprise.
“No, dummy!” Lynx shook his head. “I was thinking of one of the small tactical launchers, a lot like a big mortar only it fires a small missile with a tiny nuclear tip. They were real popular with the Army during World War III. The radiation spread is minimal, but it sures blows the crapola out of whatever it hits!”
Yama stared at the imposing edifice behind them. “What would a thermo do to the Biological Center?”
“There wouldn’t be one,” Lynx stated with obvious relish. “All you’d have left would be a gaping crater in the ground.”
“How wide an area would it affect?”
“Oh, the Center and about a half-mile in all directions. Enough to take out the parking lots, at least. Say, why are you asking all of these questions, pal?”
“Because I think I know where we can get our hands on one of these thermos,” Yama informed him.
“You ain’t gettin’ your hands on nothin’, fella!” someone declared, the voice coming from their right.
Yama spun, regretting his carelessness.
It was one of the Doktor’s genetically engineered creations, a G.R.D., endowed with a bulky body covered with light brown hair. It stood six feet in height and its face was decidedly canine in aspect, although the individual features were not as pronounced as they would be in a legitimate dog.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Lynx stated.
“Oh?” the creature replied.
“I knew you were on my trail, Shep,” Lynx said. “Out of all of ’em, you’re the only one who could have caught up with me.”
Shep crouched and moved forward. “You didn’t make it easy, I’ll grant you that.”
“You wouldn’t want to let us pass and forget you ever saw us, would you?” Lynx queried hopefully.
“You know better than that!” Shep retorted. “I’m going to hold you here until the others catch up. They sent me ahead because my nose is the best there is.”
“Next to mine,” Lynx disputed him.
Shep glared at Yama. “Tell this fool to drop his weapons, Lynx, or he’ll never know what hit him.”
Lynx stepped between the Warrior and the approaching Shep.
“I don’t require assistance,” Yama informed Lynx.
“Yes, you do,” Lynx said, never looking at Yama. “The Doc designed our bodies with a special attribute called accelerated repair. It’s next to impossible to waste us unless you score a direct hit on the brain or heart. You might get Shep, but it would take a while and we don’t have the time to spare. Shep is all mine, chuckles.”
Shep smiled. “I was hopin’ you’d resist, runt! I never did like your ugly puss much!”
“The feeling is mutual,” Lynx rejoined.
Yama, about to raise the Wilkinson and aim at Shep’s head, was too slow.
With guttural growls, the two G.R.D.’s hurtled at one another.
Chapter Twenty-One
There was an unwanted delay in their departure from the Twin Cities.
At first, everything had gone their way. They had found spare gasoline cans in one of the trucks and two dozen crates containing canned food.
Blade had distributed the weapons collected from the fallen soldiers equally among the three factions. Troop transport assignments had been made, with an average of thirty-three people per transport. They were all set to take off.
That’s when the problem arose.
“Who’s going to drive the trucks?” Zahner asked as the people were waiting for the word to load into the transports.
“Can’t some of them drive?” Blade inquired in disbelief.
“Be serious,” Zahner said. “Where would we learn to drive? There isn’t a functional vehicle left in the Twin Cities.”
Blade, stymied and chafing at the postponement of their run to the Home, called an executive meeting of the leaders and the Warriors. After a brief debate, it was decided each of the leaders, Zahner, Bear, and Brother Timothy, would drive a truck, as would Joshua. Bertha was offered an opportunity but obstinately declined. With four of the troop transports accounted for, Blade instructed the leaders to each select four of their most trusted lieutenants for driving duty.
Zahner, Bear, and Brother Timothy left to make their picks.
“Will we be riding in the trucks or in the SEAL?” Geronimo inquired.
“We’ll stay in the SEAL,” Blade answered. “We’ll roam up and down the convoy, help any stragglers, and watch out for soldiers.”
“I made a head count of the bodies,” Hickok mentioned. “If my math is up to snuff, about thirty of the troopers wimped out and ran off. That doesn’t include those three jeeps you said Jarvis told you about.”
“Thirty soldiers and three jeeps,” Blade repeated, his brow furrowed.
“They could jump us anytime, but my guess is they’ll try and prevent us from leaving the Twin Cities or restrain us here until reinforcements arrive. I don’t like it. Hickok, take ten armed men and establish a lookout post on the highway. If those jeeps come at us, that’s probably the way they’ll come. If you see anything, send someone on the run and let me know.”
“You got it, pard,” Hickok said, hefting his Henry as he moved toward a nearby crowd. “What will you be doing while I’m gone?”
“Geronimo and I will be teaching the drivers how to operate the troop transports,” Blade disclosed, “which should be real interesting because neither of us have any practical experience with a manual transmission.”
“Take your time,” Hickok advised. “We’ll hold the road.” He ambled to the mixed group standing alongside the tent. “I need some volunteers!” he announced, and proceeded to designate the ten he required. “To the road!” he directed, waving them in the proper direction.
“What are we going to do?” a Horn wanted to know.
“We’re goin’ snipe hunting,” Hickok revealed.
“We’re what?”
“We’re gonna keep our peepers peeled for unwanted company,” Hickok elaborated.
They were twenty yards from the tent when a woman’s voice rose behind them.