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Authors: Craig Sargent
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wrecked
building and the heart and lungs followed close behind as if they didn’t want to be the last ones to desert the sinking ship.
The corpse rocketed backward, slamming into the garbage barricade, and slid to the roadway, joining the trash.
The rest of the Yankee team stopped in their tracks as if caught in a rundown play between first and second bases, their bats
raised in their trembling arms. Their leader was dead. He had run the team, as general manager and top hitter, for years.
The Babe was dead; long live the Babe. And even as they hesitated, trying to regroup, Stone turned the handlebars hard and
twisted back on the accelerator. The bike squealed around on a dime, slamming into one of them who had stopped just a few
feet away, sending him flying into another little bunch, which toppled over. Stone leaned forward, hoping the dog was making
himself scarce on the seat as bats came whizzing in from all over the fucking place. He suddenly knew how a hardball felt
as it came in over the batter’s box.
But the bike shot through the crowds, and within a few seconds he was beyond their reach. He flew back up the hill he had
just traveled down and went a quarter-mile or so to the top before coming to a skidding stop and again twisting the bike around
in a one-eighty. The Yankees had stopped and now looked at him from a thousand or so feet away. Stone knew he had plenty of
time. Setting the kickstand down, he stepped off the bike and unlatched the Luchaire 89mm. He popped the top shell up from
its autofeed and slammed it into the firing tube alongside the bike. He had built this one so it could be fired while he was
riding, unlike the previous model, which he had to stop and aim for. Making sure the Luchaire was sighted straight ahead,
he remounted and started the be forward again.
“Hold your ears, dog,” Stone said as they started down the hill toward the barricade and the psycho Mickey Mantles who were
waiting. The startled heads of the team of killers turned in unison. They weren’t expecting this. Nor were they expecting
the sudden roar that erupted from Stone’s bike as he pulled the trigger on the rocket system. A tail of red and yellow erupted
just behind the bike as the missile burst forward in blurred acceleration. It took less than a second for the high-explosive
shell to hit into the obstacle a hundred feet ahead.
There was a huge roar and a cloud of smoke rushing everywhere as bodies and tires, sinks and logs, chairs and broken TVs went
flying off as though a cyclone had just swept through a garbage dump. Stone didn’t wait to see the total results of his little
urban-renewal project. He slammed his finger down on the .50-caliber, spraying out a scythe of death in front of him—and tore
forward through the smoke, aiming right for where the blast was still rising. Bodies seemed to be everywhere. Stone didn’t
know if they were after him or just reeling back from the explosion. And he didn’t wait to ask. The Harley ripped through
them—and then through the blast-created opening in the barricade.
It wasn’t a clean opening; the bike shimmied and shook around as the wheels caught on pieces of flaming debris. But it was
room enough. For suddenly, with junk being thrown up behind him by the churning paddlewheels of the Harley, he was through.
The bike suddenly shot out the other side as if it was flying from a cannon, and Stone was a hundred yards down the highway
before he slowed a little and twisted his head around to see what God and his Luchaire had wrought.
It was a mess. He had not just blasted a ten-foot-wide hole through the manmade Maginot Line, but had set the whole thing
on fire as well. It burned along a hundred-foot-long stretch and the fingers of flame were moving fast. Atop the barrier,
burning men screamed and ran this way and that trapped in a world of pain. Well, the road would be opened up from now on.
That was for damn
building and the heart and lungs followed close behind as if they didn’t want to be the last ones to desert the sinking ship.
The corpse rocketed backward, slamming into the garbage barricade, and slid to the roadway, joining the trash.
The rest of the Yankee team stopped in their tracks as if caught in a rundown play between first and second bases, their bats
raised in their trembling arms. Their leader was dead. He had run the team, as general manager and top hitter, for years.
The Babe was dead; long live the Babe. And even as they hesitated, trying to regroup, Stone turned the handlebars hard and
twisted back on the accelerator. The bike squealed around on a dime, slamming into one of them who had stopped just a few
feet away, sending him flying into another little bunch, which toppled over. Stone leaned forward, hoping the dog was making
himself scarce on the seat as bats came whizzing in from all over the fucking place. He suddenly knew how a hardball felt
as it came in over the batter’s box.
But the bike shot through the crowds, and within a few seconds he was beyond their reach. He flew back up the hill he had
just traveled down and went a quarter-mile or so to the top before coming to a skidding stop and again twisting the bike around
in a one-eighty. The Yankees had stopped and now looked at him from a thousand or so feet away. Stone knew he had plenty of
time. Setting the kickstand down, he stepped off the bike and unlatched the Luchaire 89mm. He popped the top shell up from
its autofeed and slammed it into the firing tube alongside the bike. He had built this one so it could be fired while he was
riding, unlike the previous model, which he had to stop and aim for. Making sure the Luchaire was sighted straight ahead,
he remounted and started the be forward again.
“Hold your ears, dog,” Stone said as they started down the hill toward the barricade and the psycho Mickey Mantles who were
waiting. The startled heads of the team of killers turned in unison. They weren’t expecting this. Nor were they expecting
the sudden roar that erupted from Stone’s bike as he pulled the trigger on the rocket system. A tail of red and yellow erupted
just behind the bike as the missile burst forward in blurred acceleration. It took less than a second for the high-explosive
shell to hit into the obstacle a hundred feet ahead.
There was a huge roar and a cloud of smoke rushing everywhere as bodies and tires, sinks and logs, chairs and broken TVs went
flying off as though a cyclone had just swept through a garbage dump. Stone didn’t wait to see the total results of his little
urban-renewal project. He slammed his finger down on the .50-caliber, spraying out a scythe of death in front of him—and tore
forward through the smoke, aiming right for where the blast was still rising. Bodies seemed to be everywhere. Stone didn’t
know if they were after him or just reeling back from the explosion. And he didn’t wait to ask. The Harley ripped through
them—and then through the blast-created opening in the barricade.
It wasn’t a clean opening; the bike shimmied and shook around as the wheels caught on pieces of flaming debris. But it was
room enough. For suddenly, with junk being thrown up behind him by the churning paddlewheels of the Harley, he was through.
The bike suddenly shot out the other side as if it was flying from a cannon, and Stone was a hundred yards down the highway
before he slowed a little and twisted his head around to see what God and his Luchaire had wrought.
It was a mess. He had not just blasted a ten-foot-wide hole through the manmade Maginot Line, but had set the whole thing
on fire as well. It burned along a hundred-foot-long stretch and the fingers of flame were moving fast. Atop the barrier,
burning men screamed and ran this way and that trapped in a world of pain. Well, the road would be opened up from now on.
That was for damn
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