“Not my pecker,” Geronimo said, and moved off to the left, near one of the abandoned trucks. He turned his back to the Technics and commenced relieving himself, grateful for the opportunity at long last.
He’d had to go so bad his testicles had ached.
Blade grinned at the anger on Wargo’s face. He shifted his attention to the large hole not ten feet away. A pile of metal, stones, bricks, and other rubble was stacked behind the hole. Evidently, the first Technic squad on the scene had spent hours uncovering the shaft.
“Activate your scanner,” Captain Wargo directed Private Kimper.
Blade watched as Kimper pressed a button and turned several knobs on the black device attached to his right wrist. The scanner was rectangular, with a lot of dials and switches and a grid-laced plastic template.
“Calibrated, sir,” Kimper announced.
“Anything?” Wargo queried anxiously.
“Just us,” Private Kimper responded.
Blade glanced at his fellow Warrior. Geronimo was still saturating the dust at his feet with a steady stream of urine, a happy grin creasing his features.
“Hurry it up!” Wargo barked.
“Some things can’t be rushed,” Geronimo retorted.
Blade placed his hands on his hips, wishing he had his Bowies. But the Technics had refused to bring them. His prized knives and Commando and Geronimo’s tomahawk, FNC, and Arminius were all in Technic City.
The prospect of confronting carnivorous humanoid mutations without weapons was singularly distasteful. He could only pray the Technics knew what they were doing.
“All done,” Geronimo said, zipping his pants. He examined the nearest slag mounds and ruins. Great Spirit, preserve them! He fervently craved a weapon, any weapon. The Zombies had to be lurking out there, somewhere. He contemplated the likelihood of being injured, or worse, and dreaded the idea. The last time he’d been hurt was in Catlow, Wyoming, when he’d been shot twice. Once in the head, a surface scratch, and once in the left shoulder. He’d mistakenly assumed his collarbone was broken, but it turned out the bullet had only penetrated the flesh near the collarbone. Still, the discomfort and pain had lingered for months, requiring consummate concentration on his part to prevent the injury from temporarily incapacitating him. All of the Warriors were required to take a course taught by a Family Elder entitled “The Mental and Spiritual Mastery of Pain.” But even with such training, sometimes it was hard to—
What was that?
Geronimo tensed. He’d distinctly detected a faint scratching.
“Something!” Private Kimper suddenly shouted, focused on his pulse scanner.
“What is it?” Captain Wargo asked.
“Now it’s gone!” Private Kimper said. He was young, inexperienced in combat, and scared out of his wits.
“Keep scanning,” Captain Wargo commanded. He began to doubt the wisdom of bringing Kimper on the mission. But Kimper, amazingly, had friends in high places, and one of those “friends” was influential with the Minister. No less a personage than Arthur Ferguson had personally requested to have Kimper taken on the mission. Ferguson knew what success would mean to Kimper’s career.
“There it is again!” Kimper exclaimed. “But I don’t get it! The images keep fading in and out. How can they do that?”
Captain Wargo frowned. How could they indeed? They might, if the life-forms were continually passing between a solid object or objects containing steel and the scanner.
“The reading is getting stronger!” Kimper warned them.
“How many do you read?” Captain Wargo asked.
Private Kimper glanced at his superior, his skin pale. “It’s off the scale!”
Geronimo, momentarily distracted by Wargo and Kimper, heard another scraping noise. He turned, perplexed, because all he could see was rubble and the abandoned jeeps and trucks.
The abandoned jeeps and trucks!
“They’re here!” Geronimo yelled in alarm, even as a macabre form hurtled from the cab of the nearest truck directly toward him and a horde of repellant apparitions charged from the gloom of the benighted hole.
Chapter Twelve
He almost had it!
Only an inch to go!
Hickok strained against the manacles binding his wrists, his sinewy muscles rippling, his shoulders corded knots, sweat coating his skin and blood dribbling down his wrists. It’d taken two days, two days of strenuous effort, secretly exerting himself to the maximum whenever the chamber was empty. Fortunately, a guard only checked on him four times a day, and he always announced his arrival by rattling his keys as he unlocked the door. Twice daily the guard would bring a tray of food and feed the prisoner.
And, by Hickok’s reckoning, it was close to feeding time.
The gunman grunted and groaned as he wrenched his arms from side to side, twisting his wrists back and forth, torturously endeavoring to free his arms.
He could do it!
Hickok knew his escape was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, if he could maintain his frantic contortions, the combination of sweat and blood would provide the lubrication necessary for his wrists to slide from the manacles.
But could he do it before the guard arrived?
He must, the gunman told himself. Otherwise, the guard might notice the ring of crimson around his wrists.
He had to do it Now!
Hickok’s hair was plastered to his head, drops of sweat dripping from his chin, as he toiled at his task, his chest heaving from his laborious exertion. His eyes roamed about the room and settled on the white plastic bucket at his feet.
The bastards wouldn’t even unlock the manacles and permit him to relieve himself!
They’d pay!
Dear Spirit, how they’d pay!
Hickok’s mouth curved downward, exposing his grit teeth as he grimaced in agony.
It felt as if his arms were being torn from their sockets!
Hickok savagely jerked his right arm.
Come on!
With a pronounced squishing sound, the gunman’s right wrist popped loose of the steel manacle restraining his arm. The momentum swung him around in a circle, tearing at the tendons in his left shoulder as his body sagged.
Bingo!
Hickok reached up and clasped the right manacle, still imbedded in the wall. Using the manacle for support, he pulled his left wrist free in moments.
Just as keys jangled at the door.
Perfect timing! Hickok gripped the left manacle, then drooped his body and lowered his chin, assuming his usual resigned position. A smile touched the corners of his mouth.
Now he was ready.
Let the son of a bitch come!
The guard entered the chamber, a tray of food in his right hand, his keys in his left. He wore a camouflage uniform, black boots, and an automatic pistol attached to his green web belt.
Hickok, feigning dejection, glanced up.
The guard, a solidly built soldier in his forties with brown hair and brown eyes, closed the door. “Well, how’s our hick doing today?”
Hickok didn’t respond. He was accustomed to being baited; the guards took perverted delight in amusing themselves at his expense.
The trooper advanced toward the gunman. “What’s wrong with you? Antisocial or something?”
Hickok didn’t answer.
The guard stopped in front of the gunman and stared at his weary face.
“You look awful, stupid. Are you getting your beauty rest?” He cackled at his joke.
Hickok’s blue eyes darted over the food tray. A glass of juice. A plate containing potatoes and a slice of meat. One fork and one knife, a dull butter knife from the looks of it. Not much, but it would have to do.