“Let’s go!” Blade said, rising.
Geronimo hastily donned his shirt, and they fled, retracing their route, following the trail of their footprints in the dust. They arrived at the door leading to the stairs and paused, breathing heavily, leaning on the walls.
“Didn’t we leave this door open?” Geronimo asked.
Blade couldn’t recall. He shrugged and tugged on the door, grateful it flew open so readily.
Until he saw what lurked on the other side.
The landing was jammed with Zombies and the stairs were packed with more.
“They were waiting for us!” Geronimo cried.
Blade leveled the Dakon II as the front row started toward them. They were overwhelmingly outnumbered, and outrunning the monstrosities would be impossible at this close range. He could only hope to sell his life dearly, and he would have done so had not a very peculiar event transpired.
One of the Zombies uttered a weird, gurgling noise, and the effect on the assembled mutations was instantaneous and bewildering. They abruptly ran off, the majority heading up the stairs in a confused panic, while a dozen or so bolted past a startled pair of Warriors flattened against the corridor walls.
“What was that all about?” Geronimo nervously inquired after the last Zombie was lost to view.
“Beats me,” Blade said. “But whatever it was, I like it! Let’s get to the SEAL.”
They walked through the doorway to the landing.
Geronimo bent his neck, craning skyward. “I can see the top!” he exclaimed. “And there isn’t a Zombie in sight!”
“Good riddance,” Blade commented. Now nothing would stop them.
Or so he thought.
There was a rumbling roar from directly below, and the very tunnel shook, the stairs vibrating and the landing the Warriors occupied shimmying.
Blade, nearest the railing, leaned over the edge for an unobstructed view of the vertical shaft. The… thing… his helmet lamp revealed caused the short hairs on the back of his neck to rise, his skin tingling, and he unconsciously stepped away from the railing, staggered.
“What is it?” Geronimo asked, moving toward the railing.
Blade grabbed his friend by the shoulder and shoved, sending Geronimo in the direction of the steps. “Go!” he shouted, forgetting Geronimo could hear the slightest sound in his helmet earphone.
“But…” Geronimo protested, his left foot on the bottom step.
“Go!” Blade yelled.
Geronimo, disturbed and alarmed, took the stairs two at a bound.
“Come on!” he urged Blade.
But Blade had other ideas. He would delay the… thing… until Geronimo reached safety. It was the only way one of them would get out alive. He stepped to the railing and gazed downward.
Just as the thing gave another deafening roar and rushed toward the landing.
Chapter Sixteen
“Turn in there,” Hickok directed.
Spencer immediately complied, pulling the four-wheeler into a parking lot.
Hickok scanned the lot, noting a lot of civilians and trikes and other vehicles, but the Technic police weren’t in evidence.
Good.
“Pull into that parking space,” Hickok instructed the Technic.
Spencer parked between two other four-wheelers, one of them red, the other brown like his. “What now?”
“We sit here,” Hickok said. He needed time to think. They were about three miles from the Central Core. Dozens of Technic police and military vehicles had passed them along the way, but the security forces were all headed toward the Core. Most likely, the Technics believed he was still in the vicinity of the Core. And they undoubtedly had their hands full cleaning up the mess he’d created with the truck. Not to mention the reaction the Minister’s death would create, the turmoil it would stir up.
“How long?” Spencer inquired.
Hickok glared. “Until I say otherwise. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Spencer said feebly.
“Turn the other way,” Hickok instructed him. “Count the trikes for a spell.”
Spencer twisted, his back to the gunfighter.
Hickok quickly reloaded the giant cartridges in his right Python, keeping the revolver out of sight between his knees. As he was slipping the last cartridge into the cylinder, he suddenly realized something was missing. He’d forgotten Blade’s Commando! He’d left it on the floor of the truck! “Damnit!” he declared in annoyance.
Spencer turned in his seat. “What did I do?” he asked in a fright.
“Nothin’, idiot!” Hickok said. “Turn around or else!”
Spencer obeyed.
Hickok sighed, pondering his next move. He had to bust out of Technic City. The question was how! How to get past a mine field and an electrified fence with enough juice to fry him to a cinder? How to elude the scores of Technic police and military types on his tail? And how to reach the safety of the Home, alone and on foot? This wasn’t turning out to be a piece of cake after all.
What to do?
Hickok idly surveyed the buildings surrounding the parking lot on three sides. One of them, a two-story structure with pastel walls, supported a billboard on the side visible from the lot. A beautiful woman was seated in an elegant restaurant, a bowl of soup on the table in front of her, a heaping spoonful close to her red lips.
A siren wailed in the distance.
Hickok absently read the billboard as he deliberated.
“THE FINEST DINING IN TECHNIC CITY! AT A PRICE YOU CAN AFFORD! KURTZ’S ON THE MALL, AT 64TH AND THE DIAGONAL!
SHRIMP… $125. STEWED WORMS… $90. WORMS A LA KING… $110. A DELECTABLE TREAT FOR THE TASTE BUDS! RESERVATIONS ARE—”
Worms?
Hickok’s mind belatedly registered the menu advertised. He read it again.
Worms?
“What’s that mean?” Hickok demanded.
“What’s what mean?” Spencer responded, watching the traffic.
“That!” Hickok declared, pointing at the billboard.
“Can I turn around now?” Spencer wanted to know.
“Turn around!” Hickok stated, still pointing. “And tell me what that is all about.”
Spencer shifted and gazed at the billboard. After a moment he looked at the gunman. “You’ve never seen a billboard before? Where are you from?”
“I’m talking about what’s on the billboard,” Hickok said, correcting the Technic.
Spencer seemed puzzled. “It’s called an advertisement.”
“I figured that out for myself,” Hickok declared archly. “I want to know about the food.”
“Oh,” Spencer said, as if that explained everything. “Well, shrimp is a seafood. We get ours from the Androixians—”
“I know what the blazes seafood is!” Hickok cut Spencer short. “What about the worms?”
“Worms are these creepy-crawling things which live in the ground,” Spencer explained. “They—”
Hickok’s flinty blue eyes had narrowed. “Are you doin’ this on purpose?”
“Doing what on purpose?”
“I know what worms are,” Hickok said, peeved. “Why are they on the menu?”
“I’m not certain I follow you,” Spencer said. “Worms are on the menu at every restaurant and diner in Technic City.”
Hickok was shocked. “You mean to tell me you folks eat worms?”
“Do you mean to tell me you don’t?” Spencer replied.
“But worms! How can you eat worms?” Hickok asked, nauseated by the mere idea.
“Worms are quite tasty,” Spencer said. “You should try them sometime.”
Hickok grimaced. “Not on your life.”
“Everybody eats worms,” Spencer detailed.
“Not where I come from,” Hickok said. “I’ve never heard of anybody eatin’ worms. What a bunch of cow chips!”
“What kind of food do you eat?” Spencer asked.