Read Online Back From the Dead by Rolf Nelson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rolf Nelson
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Harbin grabs his shoulder and carefully rolls him over. His face is blank, stunned, uncomprehending.
A ringing, roaring, muffling of sounds. It’s all blurry, dark, and moving in slow motion. Helton stares up at Harbin’s mouth yelling, “COME ON! ON YOUR FEET! WE GOTTA GO!” and he closes his eyes for a second. He shakes his head gingerly, squints, and half sits up, looking sideways. Dust puffs kick up from the bullets hitting nearby. Harbin holds his rifle in one hand and helps Helton to his feet. He fires covering shots as Helton stumbles to the next flier, drops to one knee for aimed shots as Helton works his way up the stairs. Then he stands, tosses the last things through the door, runs up the stairs, and empties his magazine at the building. He ducks through the hatch, following Helton into the cockpit.
Sunlight shining in through the cockpit’s windshield casts stark shadows on the grimy seats and screens. Helton looks over the controls for a moment — the layout is much like that in the simulator he crashed — rubs his face, shakes his head gently to clear it, winces, then begins the launch sequence. He clumsily slips the electronic key into its slot, and Harbin places the severed hand on the scanner. Helton flips switches, struggling to keep focus. The drive system spins up, and its sound fills the cabin.
The flier rises smoothly from the landing field, leaving the wreckage of the other below, angles away, and heads toward a valley between two mesas. It sweeps up and around the building, across a small spur and around a bend in the valley, then swoops down to land near the cluster of waiting passengers.
The cargo bay is small, about seven meters long and five wide, lined with flip-down seats. Harbin stands next to the ramp, pulling tight the straps on a safety harness. The flier lands with a thump and a jerk. Harbin hits a large button on the bulkhead, and the rear ramp lowers rapidly to the ground. “Thank God!” someone yells, and the passengers start scrambling up the ramp as fast as they can, carrying the smaller children.
“EVERYONE MAKE IT?” Harbin shouts, in a voice trained to cut through the noise of battle and the fog of confusion.
“Yes,” one of the women replies happily, “All here!”
“One per seat and buckle up!” Harbin takes a young girl from her father and buckles her into a nearby seat with practiced speed and efficiency, then looks around the cargo hold to see others doing the same. “LIFT OFF! GO GO GO!” he yells toward the cockpit, then he slaps the ramp button, and it slowly starts to rise.
Back at the landing field one of the slavers runs, carrying a light machine gun with a long belt of ammo, headed for the remaining flier, a small open-topped two-man quad-rotor with ducted fans. He jumps into the flier, drops the gun into the pintle mount on the front right corner of the cockpit, grabs the controls, and hits a button. He waits a moment for the propellers to spin up, then takes off after Helton.
The cargo bay loading ramp is about two-thirds closed and rising slowly. A loud roaring fills the cargo bay as air rushes past and through the opening, tugging at hair and loose clothing. Passengers line the wall of the cargo bay, buckled into the flip-down seats, holding the duffels, ammo, and bandoleers. Harbin, now with a safety line clipped to his harness, checks their buckles. Next to him, a passenger is pouring a cup of water from a 20-liter can when a metallic CLANK sounds and the water can sprouts two holes, one facing the open ramp and one on the opposite side. Another bullet strikes one of the ramp lift pistons, hydraulic oil spurts out, and the ramp stops closing. Harbin jerks his head around to look out the opening and sees the small quad-rotor flying close behind them, the guard trying to pilot with one hand and aim a machine gun with the other.
Harbin snatches his rifle from the man holding it for him, barrel-down, steps to the back door and braces with a
A ringing, roaring, muffling of sounds. It’s all blurry, dark, and moving in slow motion. Helton stares up at Harbin’s mouth yelling, “COME ON! ON YOUR FEET! WE GOTTA GO!” and he closes his eyes for a second. He shakes his head gingerly, squints, and half sits up, looking sideways. Dust puffs kick up from the bullets hitting nearby. Harbin holds his rifle in one hand and helps Helton to his feet. He fires covering shots as Helton stumbles to the next flier, drops to one knee for aimed shots as Helton works his way up the stairs. Then he stands, tosses the last things through the door, runs up the stairs, and empties his magazine at the building. He ducks through the hatch, following Helton into the cockpit.
Sunlight shining in through the cockpit’s windshield casts stark shadows on the grimy seats and screens. Helton looks over the controls for a moment — the layout is much like that in the simulator he crashed — rubs his face, shakes his head gently to clear it, winces, then begins the launch sequence. He clumsily slips the electronic key into its slot, and Harbin places the severed hand on the scanner. Helton flips switches, struggling to keep focus. The drive system spins up, and its sound fills the cabin.
The flier rises smoothly from the landing field, leaving the wreckage of the other below, angles away, and heads toward a valley between two mesas. It sweeps up and around the building, across a small spur and around a bend in the valley, then swoops down to land near the cluster of waiting passengers.
The cargo bay is small, about seven meters long and five wide, lined with flip-down seats. Harbin stands next to the ramp, pulling tight the straps on a safety harness. The flier lands with a thump and a jerk. Harbin hits a large button on the bulkhead, and the rear ramp lowers rapidly to the ground. “Thank God!” someone yells, and the passengers start scrambling up the ramp as fast as they can, carrying the smaller children.
“EVERYONE MAKE IT?” Harbin shouts, in a voice trained to cut through the noise of battle and the fog of confusion.
“Yes,” one of the women replies happily, “All here!”
“One per seat and buckle up!” Harbin takes a young girl from her father and buckles her into a nearby seat with practiced speed and efficiency, then looks around the cargo hold to see others doing the same. “LIFT OFF! GO GO GO!” he yells toward the cockpit, then he slaps the ramp button, and it slowly starts to rise.
Back at the landing field one of the slavers runs, carrying a light machine gun with a long belt of ammo, headed for the remaining flier, a small open-topped two-man quad-rotor with ducted fans. He jumps into the flier, drops the gun into the pintle mount on the front right corner of the cockpit, grabs the controls, and hits a button. He waits a moment for the propellers to spin up, then takes off after Helton.
The cargo bay loading ramp is about two-thirds closed and rising slowly. A loud roaring fills the cargo bay as air rushes past and through the opening, tugging at hair and loose clothing. Passengers line the wall of the cargo bay, buckled into the flip-down seats, holding the duffels, ammo, and bandoleers. Harbin, now with a safety line clipped to his harness, checks their buckles. Next to him, a passenger is pouring a cup of water from a 20-liter can when a metallic CLANK sounds and the water can sprouts two holes, one facing the open ramp and one on the opposite side. Another bullet strikes one of the ramp lift pistons, hydraulic oil spurts out, and the ramp stops closing. Harbin jerks his head around to look out the opening and sees the small quad-rotor flying close behind them, the guard trying to pilot with one hand and aim a machine gun with the other.
Harbin snatches his rifle from the man holding it for him, barrel-down, steps to the back door and braces with a
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