David L. Robbins - Endworld 14 - Seattle Run

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2024-12-23 1 0 390.19KB 198 页 5.9玖币
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Seattle Run
#14 in the Endworld series
by David L. Robbins
PROLOGUE
High ground!
He needed high ground!
Captain Nathan Dale paused, perspiration beading his furrowed brow
despite the chill January breeze, and scanned his surroundings for a
suitable spot. His tattered uniform, now little more than strips of fabric
clinging to his battered, pale skin, did nothing to ward off the cold. He
surveyed the decayed, dilapidated structures nearest him, seeking
somewhere high above the ruins of the city once known as Seattle to
increase his chance of success.
Hurry! his mind shrieked.
Manta will be after you!
Dale's naked feet padded on the cracked sidewalk as he hurried to the
northwest, away from the Humarium, away from Pier 59. How far had he
gone? he wondered.
Not far enough.
From the rear, perhaps 50 yards distant, wafted a loud, shrill whistle.
They were coming after him!
Frowning in frustration, Dale rounded a corner and glanced to the
north. A cluster of buildings met his gaze, and even in the dark he
recognized the configuration of the architectural marvel dominating the
gloomy, oppressive landscape: the Space Needle!
Another whistle sounded behind him.
The Space Needle would be ideal for his purpose! Dale ran toward the
Needle, feeling the backpack he'd stolen sway back and forth as the
shortwave inside shifted with each step. He should have adjusted the
straps tighter, but there simply hadn't been time.
The wind increased, stirring his long brown hair.
Dale vividly recalled the first time he'd seen the Space Needle, as his
ship, the destroyer CN 003, had sailed into Elliott Bay. During the ship's
navigation of Puget Sound he had been preoccupied on the bridge, and he
hadn't bothered to note any of the landmarks until the destroyer had
passed West Point. Now, as he jogged in the direction of his possible
salvation. Dale tried to remember all he could about this particular
section of the former metropolis. Think! he goaded himself. He'd attended
several briefings on the layout of Seattle before departing San Francisco,
and the pertinent facts came back to him in a rush as he passed the
benighted Pacific Science Center.
The Space Needle was 605 feet high, perfect to broadcast from. It was
situated in the 74-acre Seattle Center, or what was left of the Center after
more than a century of abandoned neglect. Most of the buildings had been
extensively damaged by the elements during the intervening 105 years.
The quarter moon overhead provided scant illumination, just enough to
accentuate the stark barrenness of the relics from a bygone era and
emphasize the glory which once was.
A feral dog howled far off to the east.
Dale slowed slightly, reminding himself not to become careless. Manta
and his cronies weren't the only danger lurking in Seattle; there were the
Sharks, the wild animals, and of course, the bestial mutants in their many
bizarre shapes and sizes. He certainly didn't want to blunder into one of
them, not at night, not when he was unarmed. Fortunately, the Sharks
seldom ventured west of Interstate 5, and the wild animals and their
genetically deviate kin, the mutated fauna so prevalent since World War
Three, were not very numerous near the water.
Manta and company saw to that.
Dale's chest was aching, the consequence of his prolonged
imprisonment. Four months of improper nutrition and enforced labor had
taken their toll on his once-robust physique. An acute pain lanced his left
side as he neared his destination.
The Space Needle seemed to reach the very stars. The saucer-shaped
dome at the top, like the rest of Seattle, was enveloped by an inky
nocturnal veil. The metal tower supporting the dome, once polished and
gleaming as a lure to countless tourists, had long since lost its luster, and
the concave framework appeared to be tilting several degees to the west.
Dale stopped at the base of the Needle, catching his breath, doubled
over. How in the world was he going to get to the top? Broadcasting from
the Needle's pinnacle would serve to minimize potential interference from
the nearby structures, but the task of ascending the tower without the aid
of an elevator promised to tax his diminished strength to the utmost.
But what other choice did he have?
None.
Dale moved along the bottom of the tower, seeking an entrance. He
found a door ajar and halted, listening. His brown eyes detected a line of
faint black lettering on the light-colored door, barely visible but legible if
he placed his nose next to the large faded print. NO ADMITTANCE.
EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Where did it lead?
Dale cautiously entered the tower and was elated to discover a flight of
stairs. He craned his neck, trying to see the underside of the dome, but the
Stygian shadows swallowed up everything more than 20 feet overhead.
Was anyone… or anything… in the tower?
There was only one way to find out.
Dale squared his slim shoulders and started up the stairs. The air
inside the tower was muggy, making breathing difficult. He ignored the
discomfort as he forged ever upward, speculating on whether his gambit
would pay off. What were the odds someone would be listening when he
broadcast his Mayday? Shortwave sets were scarce, even in California, and
the number of shortwave enthusiasts had drastically dwindled after the
war. There were perhaps two dozen functional sets in all of California, but
if just one shortwave operator was monitoring the airwaves, then the hope
of a rescue, however slim the hope might be, outweighed the risks. One of
the hams, after all, had first monitored an S.O.S. coming from Seattle.
A long time passed without a hint of pursuit.
A sudden draft of frigid air brought Dale up short. He gazed upward,
surprised to see the outline of the underside of the dome not more than 15
feet away. He was almost there! Excited, he hurried to the top of the
stairwell and found another open door. This one afforded access to the
dome. Even in the dim light, he could distinguish the jumble of upended
and broken furniture and other debris littering the interior. He walked to
the right, toward the windows ringing the former revolving restaurant,
and a fresh breeze tingled his skin and ruffled his beard. For a moment he
was distracted, wishing he had a razor. Four months without shaving had
produced a long mustache and a bushy beard, neither of which he liked.
The wind increased as he neared the windows. His eyes narrowed as he
noticed many of the panes were broken or missing.
Now was the time!
Dale halted and quickly unslung the backpack. He opened the top flap,
then nastily removed the shortwave unit. This particular model had been
manufactured shortly before the war, using the ultimate in prewar
state-of-the-art technology and miniature components. Unlike its bulky
predecessors, which had taken up a lot of space and required a big
external antenna, this streamlined, compact model incorporated an
antenna into its housing. And unlike the earlier versions, which had relied
on conventional AC electric outlets, this unit was energized by an
incredibly powerful battery.
What was that?
Dale stiffened, listening. He thought he'd heard a thumping noise
emanating from the bowels of the tower.
The gillmen?
Dale hastily flicked on the POWER button, and the dials and indicators
became aglow with a pale greenish light. He detached the silver pencil
mike from its holder and raised it to his lips. A hasty check of the meters
verified the unit was operating properly. Static crackled from the small
square speaker located in the upper right-hand corner of the unit.
Dale took a deep breath. "Mayday!" he began. "Mayday! This is a
Mayday call! Mayday!"
The static sounded like frying bacon.
"Mayday! Mayday! Can anyone hear me?"
Apparently no one did. The static continued to issue from the speaker.
"Mayday! Mayday! Does anyone have their ears on?" Dale implored,
crossing the first two fingers on his left hand. "Please! Does anyone have
their ears on?"
The static was abruptly, unexpectedly replaced by a low voice laced
with a touch of Western tang. "Of course I've got my ears on my head, you
cow chip. Where the heck else would they be?"
Dale gaped at the shortwave, stunned. Someone had heard him!
"Are you still there, pardner?" asked the voice, "If you like the notion,
we can shoot the breeze a bit."
"Mayday!" Dale blurted, afraid he would lost contact. "This is a
Mayday!"
"There you go again," the man at the other end commented. "This isn't
May, you ding-a-ling. This is the month of January. Didn't your ma ever
teach you how to tell what month it is? May is the one with all the
flowers."
"No! Please! You don't understand!" Dale exclaimed. "This is a Mayday
call! It means I have an emergency!"
"An emergency? Is that what Mayday means? I don't know radio lingo.
I've never talked on one before," the man said.
"We need help!" Dale declared.
"Tell me all about it," the man advised. "But first, I'd like to know who
the dickens I'm chattin' with."
"Dale. My name is Captain Nathan Dale."
"Howdy. My handle is Hickok," the man said. "Now what's this
business about you needin' help?"
"There are hundreds of us, men, women, and children, being held
prisoner by a mutant!" Dale explained. "We need to be rescued."
"Where are you callin' from?" Hickok asked.
"Seattle," Dale answered. "Where are you?"
"Minnesota," Hickok replied. "Northern Minnesota, to be exact. Near
what was once Lake Bronson State Park. From the Home."
"From your home?" Dale repeated, wondering if this Hickok was a ham
radio operator.
"Not a home," Hickok corrected him. "The Home. It's the name of the
compound where I live."
"Are you a ham?" Dale queried.
There was a pause before Hickok responded. "Some folks might
disagree, but no, I don't think I am. I'm not much for showin' off."
"No," Dale said impatiently. "Not that kind of ham. Are you a ham
radio operator?"
"Didn't you hear me?" Hickok rejoined. "If I don't show off in person,
I'm not likely to do it on the radio, now am I?"
Dale gripped the microphone in annoyance. What was with this guy?
Was Hickok playing games, or was he really a simpleton? Dale decided to
try another tack. "What kind of set do you have?"
"Set?" Hickok replied quizzically.
"Yes! The set you're using now!" Dale prompted. "What kind is it?"
There was another pause before Hickok answered. "It's called a radio.
Haven't you ever used one of these contraptions before?"
Dale suppressed an urge to scream. "I know what it is. But can you send
as well as receive? Can you relay a message to California?"
"California?"
"Yes. I need to have word relayed to Governor Melnick. He must be told
about the Cutterhawk, about Mama!" Dale said urgently.
"Governor Melnick? I know him," Hickok stated. "I met him when I was
in California last week."
"You know—" Dale began, then froze as a penetrating whistle sounded
from the direction of the stairwell. He was running out of time! "Listen,
Hickok! You've got to help me! To help us! Get word to Governor Melnick!
Tell him the Cutterhawk was taken, that we hit a mine. Tell him we're
being held by a mutant called Manta. The S.O.S. we picked up was phony,
a ruse Manta uses to lure in victims."
"Calm down," Hickok said. "Don't you worry none. If you need help, my
pards and I will bail you out."
"Contact Melnick!" Dale reiterated. "Warn the governor about Manta!
The bastard uses humans as slaves! And if we don't cooperate, we're fed
to—" His words caught in his throat as a footstep padded on the floor
behind him.
"Fed to what?" Hickok asked.
Dale whirled, expecting one of the mutants, a gillman or gillwoman.
It was Manta, his distinct outline unmistakable, a black form against
the backdrop of the room.
"Dale? Are you there?" came Hickok's voice from the speaker.
"You!" Dale exclaimed, forgetting the mike was still on.
"Yeah, it's me," Hickok said. "Who were you expecting? The Lone
Ranger?"
"You're too late!" Dale declared triumphantly. "I've called for help!"
Manta moved closer.
"Who the blazes are you talkin' to?" Hickok questioned.
"Your jig is up!" Dale gloated. "They're on to you now!"
Manta spoke, his voice sibilant and raspy. "So?"
"Dale! Who's that?" Hickok queried.
Manta suddenly reached out with his right hand, gripping Dale's
throat, his nails digging into the officer's flesh.
"Dale?" Hickok said.
Dale thrashed and squirmed, dropping the mike, striving to break free.
The creature called Manta slowly lifted the human into the air, his
shadowy figure blending with the night. "Do you think I care, foolish one?
Let them come! They can't stop me! Nothing can stop me!"
Dale bucked and kicked, gasping for breath.
"Who's that?" Hickok demanded. "Dale? What's going on? Are you all
right?"
Mama's face tilted toward the shortwave. "No, Mr. Dale is not all right.
He is… indisposed… at the moment."
Dale was wheezing and gagging.
"Who are you?" Hickok inquired.
"I am Manta," the creature stated imperiously.
"The joker Dale was tellin' me about? The one usin' humans as slaves?"
Hickok asked.
"What other use is there for human scum?" Manta commented.
Dale's arms dropped to his sides and he went limp.
"Where's Dale?" Hickok wanted to know. "What have you done to him?
He'd better be in one piece when I get there, or I'll make you regret the day
you were born!"
"Are you threatening me, human?" Manta asked.
"You bet your ass I am!" Hickok responded. "I'm comin' after you, you
mangy coyote!"
"I'll look forward to meeting you," Manta commented sarcastically. "In
fact, on behalf of the Brethren, allow me to extend a formal invitation.
Come to Seattle, if you wish. Bring your friends, why don't you?" He
dropped the unconscious officer onto the floor.
"We'll come, all right!" Hickok vowed. "Count on it!"
"I am," Manta stated.
"You are?" Hickok said, puzzled.
"Of course," Manta affirmed. "I can always use more kelp harvesters."
"Kelp harvesters? What are they? And who's the Brethren?" Hickok
questioned.
"Come to Seattle and find out," Manta declared arrogantly. So saying,
he lifted his right foot and brought it down on top of the shortwave, his
calloused heel smashing the unit in one violent, powerful blow. The set
sparked and popped for a moment, then fell silent. Manta's sable
silhouette slraightened. "So you conlacted would-be rescuers?" he
addressed the human at his feet, then snickered. "I must assemble the
Brethren. We must insure your liberators receive the reception they
deserve!"
A gust of wind howled through the Space Needle.
Chapter One
The VTOL arced in out of the southwest, a gleaming, streaking dagger
in the azure sky, swooping low over the forest, the pilot unerringly on
course. "One minute to ETA," he announced for the benefit of his sole
passenger.
That passenger, a giant of a man attired in a black leather vest, green
fatigue pants, and black combat boots, stared at the countryside sweeping
past below with a mixture of fascination and apprehension. "I'll never get
used to this," he absently mumbled, momentarily forgetting every word he
spoke was amplified by his helmet mike and picked up by the pilot's
helmet.
"Give yourself some time, Blade," the pilot promptly responded,
chuckling. "This is only the second time you've flown in one of these
babies."
"I could fly in a Hurricane a hundred times, Laslo," Blade remarked,
"and I'll never get used to what this feels like."
Captain Peter Laslo laughed. "It is mind-boggling, isn't it?"
"You don't know the half of it," Blade mentioned, gazing to the north,
catching sight of his white helmet reflected in the aircraft's windshield.
"Do you want to go straight in or give your friends at the Home a
show?" Captain Laslo inquired.
Blade grinned. "Give them a show. It isn't every day they get to see a
functional jet. They've only seen this one twice before, when you flew here
to take Plato, Hickok, and myself to the summit meeting in Anaheim, and
when you brought Plato and Hickok back four days ago. So give them a
treat."
"Will do," Laslo said.
The Hurricane roared over the Home at 647 miles an hour, then
banked to the east, its engines thundering.
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