They didn't have long to wait.

In the cold of the next morning's dawn, Bonner, on his way from his dark, warm dwelling place to the lines on the lake front, heard the bell toll in the steeple of the church. The doom-laden sound rolled out of the broken spire, traveling over a gray and bloodless dawn on a day that had not yet come. Night still dominated the sky, but Donner felt in his bones that the tolling of the bell would produce a heat that would bum away the morning mists.

He found Beck and Starling Junior crouched behind the makeshift defenses on the wide Lake Shore Drive.

"Ain't seen 'em," said Beck, shifting his bad leg to a more comfortable position, "but you can hear the fucks."

Bonner listened. Somewhere, out there, on the wide, dead lake bed, there was the growling of a thousand engines; motors straining to bring their deadly cargoes close, close in for the kill.

Men were streaming from the ruins of the city, rubbing sleep from their eyes, to take up their position with their comrades who had spent the night in watchfulness. They fanned out on either side of Bonner, Beck, and Starling Junior, taking their places behind mounds of rubble, junked cars, and hastily thrown-up earthworks. They toppled into slit trenches dug in the wilds of the green strips that the pre-Bomb men had tended on the edges of their grand waterside street. They climbed up into the wild old trees and hid in the second and third stories of the graceful old bombed-out buildings that stood there.

"It's gonna be hot," observed Beck. "Plenty hot."

Leatherman stood up in the front of his jeep. Berger was in the Caddy convertible on one side of him. Berger looked through the sun roof of a sleek, almost mint, BMW on the other. The rulers of the Snows and the Hots felt it natural to cede the position of prominence to Leatherman. Evil though he was, he seemed to have been bom to rule, he possessed that innate power that made other powerful men bend to his will.

Behind the three rulers were the massed armies of their three states. Engines revved in the cold air, men checked their weaponry. The three huge battle machines loomed above Leather and Carey and Berger.

The whole scene radiated the power of pure force, pure animal strength. Not one man, from Leather to the lowliest Stormer, thought that anything could prevail against them that day.

"I give the fucks an hour," shrieked Carey. "That's how long they'll hold out."

Berger looked over his shoulder at the armies. He didn't like Leatherman much, but he had to admit that it was his idea, that this vast, powerful thing was his invention. "By the time the sun goes down," Berger shouted, "we'll own Chicago."

Leatherman hadn't heard any of it. He stared into the rosy-fingered dawn and thought. Banner, you're dead.

Leatherman broke his trance and turned to Snotty and said something that no one else could hear.

"Move it, asshole," screamed Snotty.

As one, the great armies moved toward the ragtag band of defenders of the last free piece of real estate on the continent.

"Fuckin' A!" screamed a rider named Conroy. The killing machines, Brink's, Mac, and Porky, had passed out of the dawn shadows and into the first splashes of sun now illuminating the lake bed. There was silence down the line of defenders as they watched the enemy advance slowly. It was as if they had been transfixed by the sight of the men and machines sent to slay them.

The leading line of cavalry—a full squad of 'leps on motorcycles, specially chosen to break the first line of defense—suddenly gunned their engines and charged.

That broke the spell.

"Here they come!" screamed someone, and hundreds of guns were leveled, pointing straight out over the lake. Bonner felt a curious sense of excitement rise within him. It had started—the duel to the death.

When the 'leps were a hundred and fifty yards away and closing fast, the first volley from the Chi-cagoans roared out to greet them and introduce the raging Radleps to sudden death Chi-town style. It looked as if a steel wind had whipped along the charging ranks. There were sudden bursts of flame where gas tanks ignited, the screams of men and machines as bullets tore into bodies and body work.

Radleps vaulted into the morning sky, like riders thrown by skittish horses. The lake bed was littered suddenly with the broken bodies of dozens of men, the air was black with smoke, the ground greedily drank blood.

But they kept coming. The 'leps were mad, maddened by a desire to slay the men who had cut down their fellows. From each Radlep came an answering fire—wild, side-to-side shooting that peppered the ragged ranks of defenders. Bullets blistered the barricades, chopped through the trees. Men fell screaming in pain and outrage.

There was a second volley, this one more ragged than the first. More 'leps fell, more bikes splintered.

Then they were there. 'Leps roared up onto the wide avenue and crashed into the defenses and the defenders. They threw themselves forward, ignoring the bullets that whistled around them. Bonner knew them. They were psycho-'leps, the most feared, the craziest bunch of fighters on the continent. Leather's first wave, his suicide squad.

Bonner's shotgun jumped out of the holster strapped to his back. Both barrels roared together and splattered a Radlep's head like a broken egg. Bonner broke the gun to reload and in that second a 'lep scaled the wrecked car Bonner used for cover and pounced on him.

Bonner swung the only weapon he had handy, the shotgun, catching the 'lep's face in the breech of the weapon. Bonner snapped the stock closed and pulled a bloody gout of flesh out of the 'lep's cheek. Bonner could see quite clearly through the ragged hole into the Radlep's mouth: his blood-washed broken teeth, his blackened tongue slipping around like a snake roisted from beneath a rock. Blood poured down the man's throat. When he screamed in agony it gushed through his mouth and the hole torn in the side of his face.

More than anything, the tortured 'lep wanted to kill Bonner. But Bonner had drawn first blood and he would draw the last. The Outrider's knife slammed into the 'lep's guts and tore deep into the heavy sac of the stomach. Bonner felt the man dancing on the edge of the blade as the steel slipped and sliced, turning the 'lep's insides to a confused tangle of muscle and organs. Bonner drew the knife out, pulling some slimy innards out through the jagged hole. Surgically, he slit the 'lep's throat.

Bonner was awash in the dead man's blood. The life-liquid soaked warm through his clothes. He tasted it on his tongue, he felt it on his face, in his hair; his arms were stained to the elbow with it. He stepped back, his features twisted in fury, thirsting for another victim. He felt alive.

He snatched up his Steyr automatic, jumped onto the dented roof of the wreck, and started firing.

Beck had figured out well in advance that his lack of mobility would count against him. So he had found himself a quiet, well-protected little comer, and sat there propped up, blazing away at the Radleps. He also had a length of chain with a claw-shaped hook on the end of it. When he tired of shooting and wanted a little more personal action, he tossed it into the writhing crowds, hooked himself a 'lep, and reeled him in like a fisherman landing a catch.

Once a 'lep was in Beck's clutches, he died. Sometimes Beck finished them off with a knife, others he strangled. Another he enfolded in a massive bear hug and squeezed until he felt the man's ribs cracking, snapping and finally collapsing like an old plaster wall.

The Mean Brothers were the happiest they had ever been. Here were enemies aplenty for them to slay. They charged through the wriggling mass of men, harvesting dozens of bodies with their weapons. The Mean Brother with a shovel swung his iron death dealer again and again, the blunt blade cracking and wringing against skulls and shins and ribs.

The Mean with an axe chopped like an industrious woodsman, felling 'leps in bloody clouds. The big man had been seized with a desire to kill so strong that the knife wounds and scratches from stray bullets that criss-crossed the hairy flesh were never noticed.

Starling Junior's arrows cut blood swathes through the attackers. The muffled booms as the murderous projectiles found their targets echoed over the fray. Fountains of blood and flesh coursed into the mom-ing air, raining down on defender and attacker alike.

Riders died. The 'leps had been enfolded into the middle of the defending force, cut off from the rest of their number. They knew there was no escape—so they adhered to the Radlep code with a stunning, frightening ferocity: Kill as many people as you can before getting cut down yourself.

They made every shot count; when they ran out of ammunition, they reached for their knives and their machetes; when those were torn out of their hands, they fought with their claw-like hands. They kicked, they bit. They spat and screamed till it seemed as if the Chi-town riders had been attacked by demons, not other men.

The Hungry Men weren't above a little biting themselves. Oscar's huge jaws would clamp over the necks of his victims and pull away bloody, ragged hunks of living meat. Hot blood washed his dirty face and matted his beard.

The other riders, men like Swayne and Wiggy, the whores, the streetworkers, they all fought and many of them died unnoticed by their fellow fighters— themselves locked in a life-or-death, kill-or-be-killed struggle.

Bonner's little automatic grew blistering hot in his hands. He had long since lost track of the number of Radleps he had dispatched to hell. However, he knew one thing: however many it had been it was not enough. The Steyr, though, was past use. He tossed it away, braining a 'lep as he did so, and snatched up another automatic weapon that had fallen from the hand of an attacker. In the second before the Outrider began once again to send out his deadly, steel-jacketed message, he paused to look out over the lake bed.

The main force was moving inexorably towards them, the three killing machines to the fore. In that instant, Bonner realized that without a miracle, th'-:

brave defenders of the Open City would lose.

Floyd, the leader of the Lash of the Little People, saw the approaching machines and knew that they had to be stopped.

He looked left and right and saw that a large number of his force was still fighting.

"Rufus! Bunny! Carlos! Johnny! Mount up behind me!" he screamed. All of the Lashmen summoned, save Johnny, answered the chief's call. Johnny would have, but he took six inches of a Radlep stiletto in the eye and died when the point scythed through his brain. Beck caught the offending 'lep with the claw on the end of his chain and pulled him in.

The Lashmen jumped on their bikes and followed their leader out onto the lake bed. Floyd bent low over the handlebars of his scooter and drew a bead on the foremost death machine, Mac. The machine guns picked him up and they chattered in unison, splattering the valiant little dwarf into a dozen bloody chunks. Enraged by the sudden demise of their leader, the remaining Lashmen kept their course, but zigzagged to avoid the deadly rain that poured from the death machines.

From within Mac, the driver, watching through his slit, saw the suicide force coming towards him and screamed with maniacal laughter.

"Come on, you little fucks! Come to papa!"

The man changing gear at his side thought he had lost his mind.

The 'leps on the barricades were being mopped up. Bonner witnessed the heroism and sudden death of the Lash leader and instantly recognized what was going on. The Lashmen were following a basic tenet of war: Carry the war to your enemy, don't wait for him. Bonner determined to follow.

Bonner's shotgun blasted a 'lep off the prostrate form of a rider named Wiggy.

"Thought that was my number," said Wiggy, "thanks." He wiped some Radlep off his face.

"C'mon," said Bonner, "I need you."

"You do?" said Wiggy. Bonner, the Outrider, needed him.

Bonner grabbed the man by his shoulder and dragged him away from the fighting. Parked in a broken side street was Bonner's war wagon.

"Can you fire that?" demanded Bonner, pointing to the big machine gun that was mounted on the rollbar of the machine.

Wiggy spat on his hands. "Reckon."

"Good." Bonner's big engine blasted into life. The car tore through the fray and toward the lake bed. The other defenders up and down Lakeshore saw the Outrider and rushed to their own machines. They would attack in a body, they would smash their enemies before they set foot in Chicago.

The Mean Brothers hitched a ride on Bonner's car as it passed. They were not to be denied. In a minute, the entire motorized force of Chicago was rushing out onto the vast brown plain.

Leather, Carey, and Berger, watching from behind the lines, couldn't quite believe it.

"What the fuck is going on?" demanded Leather-man of no one in particular.

"They ate up your fucking psycho-'leps like they were fucking pancakes," spat Berger contemptuously.

"I thought we was supposed to attack them, not the other way round," said Carey.

"The machines will chew 'em up," said Leatherman with a confidence that he didn't feel.

The machines did chew up the Lashmen who had rushed to attack them. But in destroying them, the machines destroyed themselves.

Bunny, Carlos, and Rufus each chose a machine for themselves and rushed towards it, their handguns blazing. High-caliber slugs though they were, they just bounced off the thick armor plating of the roaring mechanical monsters.

The machine guns chattered, tearing great gouts of dirt from the ground, but failing to harm the remaining three Lashmen. They were locked on course now, a crazy look in their blazing eyes. The drivers of the three machines saw them coming and wondered— then knew—that the midgets were going to ram them.

"Fucking good joke!" screamed the driver of Brink's.

Lucky watched from beside Leather. He stared at the suicide charge and muttered under his breath:

"Don't, please don't."

Carlos never made it. A blast of fire burst out of the flame-throwing turret of Porky and fried the courageous rider. The skin sizzled off his bones and the gas from his own tank carbonized his remains to a pile of charcoal.

Bunny and Rufus were going as fast as their bikes could carry them when they smacked into Brink's and Mac. Bonner winced as the riders hit, but instead of hearing the dull thud of body against steel, a far more shocking sound greeted his ear. There was a deafening explosion, pieces of the two war machines were tossed high into the air. Tons of metal plate flashed out from the epicenter of the detonation that seemed to have been in the very guts, the very center of the death machines.

Bonner watched not only the two war wagons vanish in a cloud of smoke and fire, but he saw a large part of the men massed in the (they thought) protecting wings of Brink's and Mac cut down by the blizzard of hot metal that the explosions set off.

Suddenly the lake bed ran with liquid again, only this time, instead of the life-giving water of the old days, it was the red blood of a thousand men. Gas tanks were exploding in like winking stars on a bright night, men lacking limbs wandered in a daze around a blackened battlefield. Those unhurt slowed their pace and stared vacantly at the army rushing out to destroy them. Devils, Snowmen, Stormers stopped where they stood and prepared to defend themselves in a battle they knew they could not win.

Only the remaining 'leps and Porky pushed on. The 'leps continued to advance because they would not admit the day was lost. Porky kept going because the driver didn't know what else to do.

From the Chi-town riders came a scream of hate and victory. They urged their bikes and cars on. They wanted the battle, they sensed that the day was theirs.

Leatherman nodded to himself. He was losing. Two out of three death machines were gone. Something had gone wrong. He had a feeling he knew what it was. The 'leps that had been left behind as his guards were snorting and stamping in annoyance. They wanted to go fight.

"Leather," rasped Snotty, "please . . ."

Leather nodded. "Go, my man, go kill the fucks . . ."

"What about you?"

"I think Chilly'11 stay with me. Right, Chilly?"

Chilly, Leatherman's Radlep driver, an old 'lep now, close to the end of the course of the disease, nodded. "I'll stay with you, boss ..."

Woolcott, Doug, and Marko looked uneasily at the Leather. The Man was giving up. He was saying it was all over. Woolcott spoke for them all.

"Sure, you can get one of your skaggy 'leps to stay with you, but I ain't. I am outta here . . ."

"Me too," said Marko.

"And me," said Doug.

"Leather!" screamed Berger. "Your own fuckin' men are deserting you!" Berger didn't notice that there weren't quite as many Devils and Snowmen around as there were at the beginning of the engagement.

Leather didn't appear to have heard. "Snotty, before you go, do me a favor . . ."

"You got it, boss," said the 'lep.

"Have your men kill these fucks—" he pointed at Woolcott, Doug, and Marko. "And get rid of these guys too while you're at it." He gestured towards Berger and Carey.

No sooner had the words left Leather's mouth than the fifteen Radleps obeyed. They didn't think, they just blasted. Bullets ripped up the flesh of the Prince of the Snowstates and the Lord of the Hotstates.

"You sonofabitch," wheezed Berger.

Carey died crying like a baby. "I'm the Prince ..." he whined.

Woolcott, Doug, and Marko just fell down, their bodies slashed this way and that with the Radlep slugs.

Al just walked away, hoping no one would notice him.

"Anything else, boss?" asked Snotty, swinging a leg over the saddle of his bike.

"Yeah," one more thing, "get me that fuckin' Lucky."

Lucky was found sitting behind the wheel of a jeep and dragged before Leatherman.

"Things ain't exactly going your way, huh, Leather?" he said, smiling.

"Nope," said Leather, "and I figure you had something to do with it,"

Lucky laughed. "Yep. Pretty simple. A big charge of powder behind the chassis and the body. Percussion caps in the rams. First time those babies ploughed into anything they were gonna blow. I didn't figure on no suicide attack from the little guys, though. That's a shame . . ."

Leather looked at the battle a mile away that still raged. " 'Bye, Lucky."

"Now?" asked Snotty.

"I guess I was sorta lucky," said Lucky before Snotty blew his brains out.

"Now you can take off," said Leather.

"Thanks, boss." Snotty gestured to his band to start their engines.

"Hey, Snotty," shouted Leatherman. "I want you to know, it was always the 'leps with me. I never gave a shit about the Stormers. I was always with the 'leps."

Snotty nodded. Then the band of killers tore off across the lake bed.

Leatherman settled himself in the passenger seat of his jeep. "Let's get out of here. Chilly."

"Where to, Boss?"

Leatherman sighed. "Damned if I know."

Web Site Contents (Unless Mentioned Otherwise) ©2012 By Atlan Formularies, Post Office Box 95, Alpena, Arkansas 72611-0095
Phone: 870-437-2999 - Fax: Out of Order -  Email: Addresses

[ Back ] [ Home ] [ Up ] [ Next ]