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Authors: Craig Sargent
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themselves, doing little fumbling dances at the release for the shells.
“Come on, you little assholes,” Stone screamed down at his own fingers, demanding that they do what they were paid to. At
last the thumb and forefinger of his right hand managed to get it together enough to click the lever—and up popped one of
the long rockets. Stone grabbed it just as the light of the chopper began steering a path through the darkness back toward
him. He ripped the release off the launching tube and pulled it out toward him, so the unit snapped out on steel hinges. Stone
slammed the shell in and spun around alongside the firing cylinder. He slid back the “arm” signal and then turned to sight
up the chopper.
Sighting it up was not exactly the problem. It wasn’t like he couldn’t find it, but that the damn thing was suddenly right
there, looming toward him like some sort of flying pterodactyl of the Pleistocene Era searching for dinner. He couldn’t see
in the sudden blinding impact of the searchlight but could distinctly hear the snaps of the two Ingrams opening up on him
again. Stone tried desperately to sight it but could see only the light—a sun of brilliance taking out his vision.
Stone aimed at the light itself, at its blinding center even as it filled the very air above him, and pulled the trigger.
The tube at his side seemed to explode as the bike shook violently from side to side. Stone found himself thrown backward
by a sudden roar of such power that he felt as if his very flesh were being shaken from his bones. He found himself suddenly
sitting back on his ass, slamming down onto the hard roadway as his eyes snapped up straight ahead. The chopper, just fifty
feet in front of him, was on fire. Within, Stone could see the hit men coated with flames, like marshmallows sizzling with
blue licks of fire as they melt within a camp fire. Only these marshmallows were screaming. The horrible screams of those
who perish by fire.
But they didn’t have a hell of a long time to wait to die. The gas tanks of the chopper suddenly went, as the flames created
by the detonation of the 89-mm spread into the fuel pumps. The secondary went up like Mt. Vesuvius in the sky, blasting the
occupants and the craft itself out in all directions in a maelstrom of blazing particles. The ruins rained down for two hundred
feet around, depositing flaming debris in numerous piles in the darkness. Suddenly there were hundreds of fires burning around
the hillside, like some sort of sacrificial blazes. Fires to the gods. The dark gods. The death gods, who drank death, inhaled
the smoke of burning things like the intoxicating vapors of the finest opium. The smoke of the dead men—and the smoking, smashed
husk of the chopper—rose and mingled together, indistinguishable anymore as being man or machine. Rose higher and higher,
as if reaching to join the great atomic clouds far above.
Chapter Six
S tone rose slowly after the main storm of the chopper debris had fallen back down to earth. Dancing particles filled the air,
their crystalline shapes reflecting back little rays from the flames of the many fires below. That had been close, Stone thought
with a rapidly beating heart. Too close. He looked down and saw that the front of his jacket was singed, his eyebrows and
hair burned at the very edges.
Someone was after him bad, real bad. Enough to send out a fucking chopper, just to wait around in hiding—wait for Martin Stone
to show up. And, of course, acting like a predictable mouse in a maze, Stone had done so. It felt great to be loved so much.
He had made a lot of enemies in his short career out of the bunker, but somehow he hadn’t quite realized he was already on
the number-one shit list of the bad guys. Well, if nothing else, Stone thought with bitter humor, he must be doing something
right.
He looked around, suddenly realizing the pitbull was nowhere in sight. But even as he
“Come on, you little assholes,” Stone screamed down at his own fingers, demanding that they do what they were paid to. At
last the thumb and forefinger of his right hand managed to get it together enough to click the lever—and up popped one of
the long rockets. Stone grabbed it just as the light of the chopper began steering a path through the darkness back toward
him. He ripped the release off the launching tube and pulled it out toward him, so the unit snapped out on steel hinges. Stone
slammed the shell in and spun around alongside the firing cylinder. He slid back the “arm” signal and then turned to sight
up the chopper.
Sighting it up was not exactly the problem. It wasn’t like he couldn’t find it, but that the damn thing was suddenly right
there, looming toward him like some sort of flying pterodactyl of the Pleistocene Era searching for dinner. He couldn’t see
in the sudden blinding impact of the searchlight but could distinctly hear the snaps of the two Ingrams opening up on him
again. Stone tried desperately to sight it but could see only the light—a sun of brilliance taking out his vision.
Stone aimed at the light itself, at its blinding center even as it filled the very air above him, and pulled the trigger.
The tube at his side seemed to explode as the bike shook violently from side to side. Stone found himself thrown backward
by a sudden roar of such power that he felt as if his very flesh were being shaken from his bones. He found himself suddenly
sitting back on his ass, slamming down onto the hard roadway as his eyes snapped up straight ahead. The chopper, just fifty
feet in front of him, was on fire. Within, Stone could see the hit men coated with flames, like marshmallows sizzling with
blue licks of fire as they melt within a camp fire. Only these marshmallows were screaming. The horrible screams of those
who perish by fire.
But they didn’t have a hell of a long time to wait to die. The gas tanks of the chopper suddenly went, as the flames created
by the detonation of the 89-mm spread into the fuel pumps. The secondary went up like Mt. Vesuvius in the sky, blasting the
occupants and the craft itself out in all directions in a maelstrom of blazing particles. The ruins rained down for two hundred
feet around, depositing flaming debris in numerous piles in the darkness. Suddenly there were hundreds of fires burning around
the hillside, like some sort of sacrificial blazes. Fires to the gods. The dark gods. The death gods, who drank death, inhaled
the smoke of burning things like the intoxicating vapors of the finest opium. The smoke of the dead men—and the smoking, smashed
husk of the chopper—rose and mingled together, indistinguishable anymore as being man or machine. Rose higher and higher,
as if reaching to join the great atomic clouds far above.
Chapter Six
S tone rose slowly after the main storm of the chopper debris had fallen back down to earth. Dancing particles filled the air,
their crystalline shapes reflecting back little rays from the flames of the many fires below. That had been close, Stone thought
with a rapidly beating heart. Too close. He looked down and saw that the front of his jacket was singed, his eyebrows and
hair burned at the very edges.
Someone was after him bad, real bad. Enough to send out a fucking chopper, just to wait around in hiding—wait for Martin Stone
to show up. And, of course, acting like a predictable mouse in a maze, Stone had done so. It felt great to be loved so much.
He had made a lot of enemies in his short career out of the bunker, but somehow he hadn’t quite realized he was already on
the number-one shit list of the bad guys. Well, if nothing else, Stone thought with bitter humor, he must be doing something
right.
He looked around, suddenly realizing the pitbull was nowhere in sight. But even as he
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