David L. Robbins - Endworld 20 - Dallas Run

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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?"

"You know better," Sergeant Whitney replied. "We stay put."

Nelson listened with bated breath, the short hairs at the nape of his

neck tingling. Between the gate and the buildings stretched a field of

brush and scrub trees in which nothing moved. On the left side of the

roadway an expanse of field extended for over 500 yards before ending at

a row of abandoned frame homes, many of which were partly collapsed. "I

don't see anything."

"Keep your eyes peeled," Sergeant Whitney directed. "I'm going to call

this in." He turned and entered the sentry hut.

A drop of sweat trickled onto Nelson's left eyelid, and he mopped at his

brow with the back of his left hand, feeling annoyed at himself for his

excessive nervousness. Why was he so antsy? He'd pulled guard duty more

times than he could count, and he'd never felt so apprehensive before. Was

his mind playing tricks on him, or was it trying to warn him of impending

peril? He took a few deep breaths to steady himself.

Another shriek sounded, louder than the previous cry.

Nelson glanced at the hut and saw Sergeant Whitney using the radio to

contact Lieutenant Garber. He licked his lips and scanned the field on the

right, and a flicker of movement approximately a hundred yards from the

gate drew his attention. His brown eyes narrowed and he leaned forward.

The bushes in a thicket were shaking violently.

He raised the M-16 to his shoulder and sighted on the center of the

thicket, hoping the cause of the movement was just a mutation of some

kind, a two-headed coyote or a six-legged skunk or some other form of

genetically warped animal. In the 106 years since World War Three,

mutations had proliferated. Encountering genetic deviations was an

ordinary occurrence. The ecological chain had been severely disrupted by

the massive amounts of radiation and chemical-warfare toxins unleashed

during the holocaust, and physical deformities were commonplace in all

wildlife. According to an article he'd read in the Army News, the experts

believed that embryonic development was no longer predictable. So if a

four-eyed rabbit or a feral dog with two tails should pop out of that

thicket, he wouldn't be surprised.

The bushes ceased shaking.

Nelson breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, lowering the M-16 to his

waist. How could he allow himself to become so worked up over a lousy

moving bush? He grinned at his stupidity, and the grin froze on his face

when a figure, doubled over at the waist and racing too fast for details to

disbelief rooted him to the spot for all of three seconds, and then Nelson

dashed toward the hut. "Sarge! Sarge!"

Whitney appeared in the doorway, an M-16 in his right hand. "Calm

down, Art. What is it?"

"I saw someone," Nelson reported, and pointed at the thicket.

"Only one?" Sergeant Whitney asked, walking to the gate and peering

at the field.

"Yeah."

"Male or female?"

"I couldn't tell."

"Were they armed?"

"I couldn't tell," Nelson said, embarrassed by his lack of perception. "I

caught a glimpse of someone running into the weeds, but I couldn't

distinguish any features."

They waited in an expectant silence for over a minute, but nothing else

happened.

"I know I saw someone," Nelson insisted.

"And I believe you," Whitney assured him.

"What did the lieutenant say?"

"I didn't speak to him," Sergeant Whitney answered. "Dutch told me

that Lieutenant Garber is at Sentry Post 19. There was an incident there

two hours ago."

"What kind of incident?"

"Dutch wouldn't tell me. But he's relaying our message to the

lieutenant."

Nelson pursed his lips, troubled by the news. Dutch Miller was the

Communications man on duty at headquarters, and Dutch would never

withhold information unless under direct orders, which meant the top

brass had clamped a lid on whatever had transpired at Sentry Post 19.

"Listen," Sergeant Whitney said. "Do you hear that?"

"What?" Nelson responded, tilting his head. " I don’t—" he began, and

then he heard the sound too. A peculiar low intonation coming from far to

the south. "What is it?"

"Chanting, I think. Dozens of people."

"Who the hell would be chanting out there?"

"Beats me," Sergeant Whitney said with a shrug. "But I don't like it one

bit."

"Me neither," Nelson concurred. The chanting had a droning, rhythmic

quality, rising and falling in an eerie cadence, the individual words, if

there were any, indistinguishable.

"I'm calling for reinforcements," Sergeant Whitney announced, and

went to take a step, but he glanced down the road and did a double take.

"Do you see what I see?"

Nelson looked, and for a moment doubted his own vision.

A white horse and rider were approaching the sentry post at a sedate

pace. One instant the highway had been empty, and the next they were in

the middle of the road, as if they had materialized out of thin air, near the

structures about 200 yards away.

"Where'd they come from?" Nelson asked.

"Maybe they came from behind those buildings and we didn't notice,"

Sergeant Whitney conjectured.

Nelson squinted, discerning dark, flowing, shoulder-length hair on the

rider. "It's a woman!"

"Yep."

"What's a woman doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"How should I know?"

"Where'd she get a white horse?" Nelson asked in astonishment.

"What I'd like to know," Whitney said, "is where are her clothes?"

Nelson studied the rider, his eyes widening in amazement as he realized

Whitney spoke the truth. The woman appeared to be naked! Except for

the hair falling over her breasts, she wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing.

"This can't be happening. I must be dreaming."

"Cover her," Sergeant Whitney instructed, resting the barrel of his

M-16 on the top rail.

"Do you want me to frisk her when she arrives?" Nelson asked

hopefully.

"Wait until I tell Cindy on you," Whitney joked.

The woman rode ever closer, the clopping of the horse's hoofs growing

louder and louder. Her right hand held the reins, her left lay on her left

thigh.

"Who are you?" Sergeant Whitney called out when the woman was 50

yards off. "What do you want?"

She did not reply.

Sergeant Whitney wagged the M-16. "Didn't you hear me? What's your

name?"

Still she came on without responding.

"Do you want me to shoot her?" Nelson offered in jest. "She might be

hiding a hand grenade in her hair." He chuckled at his own joke and

stared at the woman. At a range of 40 yards he could see a smile on her

rather lovely features. He also saw strange greenish dots on her body, dots

that grew in size with each passing yard until, at 75 feet, the dots had

blossomed into distinct green splotches marking her skin from her chin to

her feet.

Sergeant Whitney had also seen them. "Halt!" he shouted. "Stop where

you are!"

But again the woman refused to acknowledge the noncom.

"I'm warning you!" Whitney yelled, elevating the M-16. "This is an

official entry point into the Civilized Zone. No one enters without

permission. Stop or I'll shoot."

The naked woman continued to ride toward them.

"Please! Halt!" Whitney commanded, and aimed at her forehead. "I'll

count to three, and then I'll fire."

Nelson watched her move forward, flabbergasted by her audacity.

"One!" Sergeant Whitney declared.

She smiled even more broadly.

"Two!"

The woman was only 20 yards from the gate when she unexpectedly

reined in. "Hello," she greeted them in a pleasant, melodious voice. "Don't

shoot me."

Sergeant Whitney slowly lowered his M-16. "Who are you?"

"My name is Marta," the woman said. She leaned down to pat her

mount on the neck, exposing her large breasts to their view. "This is

Victor."

"I'm Sergeant Whitney of the Civilized Zone Army," the noncom

informed her, and motioned at Nelson. "This is Private Nelson. I'm afraid

we can't allow you to proceed any further north. We'll have to notify our

superior officer of your presence. You can't enter the Civilized Zone unless

Lieutenant Garber personally approves your admittance and you pass your

physical." He paused and eyed her quizzically. "You do want to enter, don't

you?"

"We plan to, yes," Marta said, straightening.

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DEATH,TEXASSTYLEBladeburstfromthealleytofindabattlebeingwaged.Geronimo,LieutenantGarber,PrivateGriffonetti,andPrivateMcGonicalwereunderassaultfromdozensofassailants.Grungyfigureslinedtheroofs,wereframedinwindows,orhadtakencoverbehindeveryavailableshelter.Bladesawatallmanontheroofacrossthestreetletfl...

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David L. Robbins - Endworld 20 - Dallas Run

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