David L. Robbins - Endworld 20 - Dallas Run.pdf - Cień Zagłady (eng) - goku88

DEATH, TEXAS STYLE

Blade burst from the alley to find a battle being waged.

Geronimo, Lieutenant Garber, Private Griffonetti, and Private

McGonical were under assault from dozens of assailants. Grungy figures

lined the roofs, were framed in windows, or had taken cover behind every

available shelter.

Blade saw a tall man on the roof across the street let fly with an arrow

from a compound bow. The shaft sped true, slicing into Griffonetti's

throat and protruding out the back of his neck. Without a moment's

hesitation, Blade angled the M-60 upward and squeezed the trigger. The

heavy slug tore into the assailant and catapulted him from sight.

A man and a woman were charging from the right, each with a chain

looped around their waist, each armed with a sword.

Blade pivoted, lowering the machine gun's barrel, and sent several

rounds into each foe. They were flung to the road on their backs, kicking

and shaking in their death throes.

A chunk of brick struck Blade on the right temple, filling his head with

excruciating pain, and he twisted and glanced up to discover a man with a

beard in a second-floor window, about to hurl a bigger piece of brick.

Blade gritted his teeth and fired, and the man screeched as he staggered

backwards and vanished…

Dallas Run

#20 in the Endworld series

David Robbins

LEISURE BOOKS W NEW YORK CITY

Dedicated to Shane — this one is for you, Little Guy.

A LEISURE BOOK® March 1990 Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY

transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and

retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except

where permitted by law.

The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are

trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

Chapter One

Nelson hated border-guard duty.

He squinted up at the bright April sun, mentally cursing the Civilized

Zone Army. While he was at it, he also cursed his immediate superior

officer, Lieutenant Garber, and the commander of the armed forces,

General Reese. For good measure he added in President Toland, the heat

wave, and life in general.

Six more months, he told himself.

Six more months and he could kiss the damn Army goodbye! His

two-year enlistment would be up and he could return to civilian life. He'd

be free again! Free to let his hair grow if he wanted, free to wear whatever

clothing he liked, free to stay out as late as he desired or to sleep in until

noon without having an officer or a noncom standing over his bunk and

bellowing for him to get his lazy butt out of the sack.

Oh, sweet freedom!

Nelson smiled at the thought of his honorable discharge, and shifted

his attention to the stark, oddly ominous structures silhouetted against

the southern horizon. The skyscrapers of Dallas, even at a distance of 15

miles, gave him the willies. He recalled all the horror stories he'd heard

about the savagery reigning in the former metropolis, about the

scavengers and the gangs and the mutations, and he wondered why

anyone in their right mind would choose to live there, to exist in such

squalor and filth amidst such danger. Living in Dallas didn't make any

sense, not when the Civilized Zone border was so close.

He gripped the strap of the M-16 slung over his left shoulder with his

left hand and rested his right on the top rail of the gate blocking off

Highway 289. Sweat beaded his brow under his helmet and caked his

sides under his green fatigue shirt. He longed for a cool drink or a cold

bath. In four hours, at six P.M., he would be off duty, and he could hardly

wait to strip off his uncomfortable uniform and sink into a tub of icy

water.

"Daydreaming about Cindy, Art?"

Nelson started at the sound of the familiar voice and pivoted to his left

to find Sergeant Whitney emerging from the white hut at the side of the

road. "No," he blurted out.

"What's with you?" Sergeant Whitney asked, and grinned. "Why are

you so jumpy?"

Nelson shrugged. "Didn't realize I was, Bob."

"I could understand a case of nerves if we were pulling the night shift,"

Whitney mentioned, stretching and staring at the far-off skyscrapers. "But

it's the middle of the afternoon, for crying out loud."

"I guess pulling sentry duty at this post gives me the creeps," Nelson

said.

"Me too," Sergeant Whitney admitted. "Those screams an hour ago

were some of the loudest I've heard. It sounded like some poor woman was

being torn limb from limb."

Nelson remembered and shuddered. Screams and wails from the

direction of the decrepit, crumbling city were not uncommon, but during

the past week all of the men pulling shifts at Sentry Post 17 had noticed an

increase in the number of such cries, as if an unidentified terror stalked

the inhabitants and was slaying them one by one. "Potts told me that on

his shift last night he heard someone screeching for nearly an hour."

"You can't believe Potts. You know how that turkey likes to exaggerate,"

Sergeant Whitney said.

"Yeah," Nelson agreed, glad he was on duty with a reliable, disciplined

man like Bob Whitney. The two had known one another for seven months,

ever since Nelson had been assigned to the Southern Perimeter Command,

the unit responsible for manning all of the sentry posts along the southern

border of the Civilized Zone. Despite their difference in rank and career

status, with Whitney planning to stay in the Army for 20 years and hoping

to eventually become an officer, they had developed a mutually respectful

friendship. Nelson had taken his sweetheart, Cindy Hampton, over to the

Whitneys on several occasions.

"One of these days General Reese will get his wish and be allowed to

take a battalion into Dallas to clean out the scavengers and the other

grungy riffraff," Sergeant Whitney remarked.

"I'm surprised he hasn't already," Nelson responded.

"General Reese can't make a move into the Outlands without President

Toland's permission, and Toland is a politician."

"So?"

Whitney made a snorting noise. "You must not know much about

politics. Politicians, Art, always take the path of least resistance. When

faced with a crucial problem, they'd rather cower in a corner than take the

bold stand necessary to solve the problem."

"I still don't understand," Nelson said.

"Permit me to educate you," Sergeant Whitney said, and pointed

toward the city. "Out there lies the Outlands. Any and all territory lying

outside of the boundaries of the organized factions is considered part of

the Outlands."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Okay, smartass. There are those who advocate assembling a huge force

composed of a regiment from the Civilized Zone and elements from each

of the other six factions in the Freedom Federation. They want this super

detachment to venture into the Outlands and eliminate the raiders, the

mutants, the gangs, and anyone or anything else that stands in the way of

progress."

"Sounds like a great idea to me," Nelson commented.

"There are many people who don't agree," Whitney noted. "They believe

our armed forces are overextended as it is, what with maintaining the

peace and protecting our borders. Any large-scale excursion into the

Outlands might leave us open to attack from one of our enemies. There's

also the issue of governmental control. Some people don't think the

Civilized Zone, or any other Federation faction, has the right to annex

additional land without the consent of the inhabitants of the Outlands.

These people even have a motto." He paused. "Government by the people,

not over the people.' "

"So you're saying that President Toland won't authorize a military

strike into Dallas or any other part of the Outlands because a lot of voters

would be upset with him?" Nelson queried.

"Give the man a gold star," Sergeant Whitney quipped.

Nelson pondered the implications for a moment. "But who knows

what's going on out there? For all we know, there could be someone in the

Outlands organizing an army to invade us."

"Could happen," Whitney acknowledged.

"What will it take to bring President Toland to his senses?" Nelson

wondered.

"A brain transplant."

They both started laughing, but the laughter died abruptly seconds

later when a high-pitched shriek rent the sluggish air, arising from a

cluster of dilapidated buildings less than 200 yards from the sentry post,

on the right side of Highway 289.

"What the hell!" Nelson exclaimed, unslinging his M-16.

Sergeant Whitney placed his right hand on the butt of the Browning

semiautomatic strapped to his right hip. "Damn! I've never heard one that

close before."

"Do we check it out?"

David L. Robbins - Endworld 20 - Dallas Run.pdf

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