Waylon fired and M-2 exploded in a sparking, sizzling white and red flash. I felt my little friend die in the rattle of the controller in my hand.
But there was no time to mourn for plastic and wires when so much flesh and blood were at stake. Waylon’s back was turned to me as he shot M-2 out of the air. I seized the opportunity. I bolted from behind the column, hurling the useless controller away as I ran.
The ruin of a large, warehouse-like building stood in the mist off to my right. I ran for it, hoping to reach cover before Waylon could turn and find me. I was almost there when he opened fire. My heart seized with terror at that deadly, rattling sound. A bullet ricocheted off the wall of the building just ahead of me. I threw up my arms to protect my face as I was hit by flying shards of plaster.
Then I was there, dodging behind the same wall, out of the range of the stream of bullets.
I raced along beside the building. If I could reach the far side before Waylon came around behind me, I might have a chance of breaking around the corner for cover and then dashing all the way into the trees.
I ran full tilt, my face contorted with the effort, barely aware of my own exhaustion and breathlessness. All I could think was that any second Waylon might clear the corner behind me and pump a stream of machine-gun bullets into my spine.
I was nearly there. Running. Nearly there.
And then two guards stepped out in front of me, blocking my way.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Zero It was two of the guards I’d hit with tear gas. A moment later, the third one joined them. Then the fourth-the lanky blond guy M-2 had laid out with his blaster. All four of them blocked my way with machine guns lifted directly at me.
There was nowhere to go. No way to escape without being turned into Swiss cheese. I pulled up short. I saw the Homelanders’ fingers tighten on the triggers of their weapons. I thought they were going to shoot me dead then and there.
“Put your hands up!”
The voice came from behind me. I looked around and saw Waylon at my back. He had his machine gun trained on me too.
“Put ’em up!” he shouted again.
I raised my hands over my head. I turned to face him.
He stalked toward me angrily. I expected him to pull the trigger any second. But he kept coming until he was standing mere inches away from me, his furious eyes peering into mine. He stood like that a long second, his teeth bared. Then…
“Pig!” he said, and he slapped me.
It was a hard shot with the back of his hand. It landed full force to the side of the face, nearly knocking me over. I fell two steps to the side, my face stinging, my head feeling thick, my vision blurred.
Before I could recover, Waylon grabbed me by the front of my fleece and swung me around, hurling me against the side of the building. I gave a loud “Oof!” as the impact knocked the wind out of me. Waylon gripped the fleece harder, twisting it back so that his fist pushed into my throat, cutting off my air. He leaned in close to me as I struggled for breath.
“I ought to kill you right where you stand,” he said in his thick guttural accent. “And I will kill you, that’s a promise. I will kill you just as surely as I killed your friend in the bunker.”
“Waylon…,” said one of the other guards, a husky man with a big handlebar mustache.
“Shut up!” Waylon shouted-and the handlebar guy did as he was told.
Waylon’s face was close to mine. His fist dug into my throat. He grinned as I gasped and choked. Something stirred in my mind, some memory of him linked with fear. I didn’t know who Waylon was-I still couldn’t recover his image from wherever it was hidden in my brain-but it was there, all right, somewhere, and the memory was associated with terror.
“But before I kill you, we’re going to have a talk,” he told me. “We’re going to finish the conversation we started before you ran away. And this time, there’s not going to be any escape. This time, you’re going to tell me everything.”
“Waylon…,” said the handlebar guy again.
Waylon ignored him. He was enjoying himself too much. He was enjoying his threats, enjoying the fear he must’ve seen in my eyes, enjoying my fight for breath as he twisted his fist into my throat.
But even as his threats and his rank breath washed over me, I understood what the handlebar guy was trying to tell him, I understood what was going to happen next, and I was getting ready for it.
“There’s no one left to help you,” Waylon said. “All of Waterman’s friends have run off like the cowards they are. There’s only one other person who knows about you at all. And before you die-which will be in agony, by the way-you’re going to tell me who he is, and you’re going to die knowing that I’m going to kill him too. Because we’re almost ready to-”
And then the bunker blew up underneath us.
The time on the bomb had finally winked down to zero. The explosives went off and the blast was tremendous. Everything in that bunker-including Waterman’s body-must have been blown to smithereens.
And it rocked the ground above as well. It shook under my feet like an earthquake had hit. The four guards staggered-but they’d been waiting for it-waiting and trying to warn Waylon that it was coming. But Waylon hadn’t listened. He’d been so completely distracted by his dealings with me that the noise and the rumble took him totally by surprise.
His eyes went wide and he lost his grip on me, instinctively grabbing his gun to keep it secure as he stumbled a step to the side. It was only a step. He was about to recover.
But before he could, I punched him.
It was a full-force uppercut. I’d been ready to throw it, waiting for the chance. And, to be perfectly honest, it had a little extra charge in it because, for some reason, I just didn’t much like this guy. My fist connected with his jaw. He would’ve gone flying backward if I hadn’t grabbed hold of his arm with my left hand at the same time. Quickly, I twisted him around and wrapped my arm around his throat, holding him in front of me, between me and the other guards. I took hold of his gun and twisted it upward, jamming the barrel under his chin.
The four guards had recovered from the force of the blast and had their guns leveled at me, but they froze when they saw me using Waylon as a shield.
“Stay where you are,” I told them. “I don’t want to kill him, but I will.”
And I would’ve too.
Waylon was still heavy in my grasp, nearly unconscious from the uppercut to his chin. He was woozy and staggering. Only by using all my strength could I keep him in place in front of me.
“You got nowhere to go, West,” the blond guard growled at me furiously.
But I was already backing away from him, backing away from all of them, edging toward the trees that surrounded the ruins.
“West!” the blond guard shouted in his fury and frustration.
I kept going, backing away, holding Waylon up in front of me, holding his gun up under his chin. As I came to the edge of the ruins, there was some sort of structure standing there in the morning mist: the slanted ruin of a wall, I guess, with rebar sticking out here and there from the concrete.
I slipped behind the structure, out of range of the guns of the other four guards.
Just then, Waylon started to come around, started to struggle in my grip. I slammed him into the concrete. He grunted. And while I had him pressed dazed against the wall, I stripped the machine gun off his shoulder.
I backed away from him, the gun leveled at him.
He turned slowly. His dark face looked lopsided as it swelled in the place where I’d slugged him. His eyes were bright-nearly white it seemed with the light of the hatred burning in them.
“Where do you think you’ll go?” he snarled at me. “The police want you. Your own people don’t know you. You can only bring danger to your friends. Even if you get away, I will hunt you down, so help me.”