Battle Hymn (26 page)

"When I give the word to run, don't stop. As you come out the door, turn and run to your left around the building. You'll see the train. There're five boxcars. Get into them and then stay the hell out of the way."

"Lin!"

Lin stepped forward.

"Guards are swarming all over the gate. They know something's up."

"I know. Word just came through the tunnel."

"One of two things is going to happen, then. They'll find the tunnel and the alarm will be on. Or they'll finally come over here. We wait as long as possible for those still inside. When they start to move in this direction …" He hesitated for a moment. "I need some of your people to rush the guards."

The cannon fired again, eliciting muffled cries from within the warehouse. Gregory waited for the voices to subside. He drew a deep breath as he said the words, knowing what he was asking.

Lin smiled. "I planned on it from the beginning. Maybe we can get some guns!"

Gregory slapped Lin on the shoulder and returned to the door. He struggled with the fear that was tearing him apart. If someone had told him at that moment that he seemed to be a pillar of strength, he would have laughed hysterically. His mind kept racing, wondering if he was making the right decisions, wondering if he was going to get caught, wondering what he would find if he ever got home.

He tried to control his thoughts and watched the gate to the compound, which was wide open. Twenty more guards came rushing down the wall and poured in. He breathed a sigh of relief and then saw a knot of guards struggling to get out. They stopped for a moment and to his amazement Gregory recognized Hinsen. Hinsen paused, looking back and forth frantically.

Gregory held his breath. "Come on, you bastard, this way, come this way and you're dead."

Hinsen seemed to look straight at the warehouse for a moment, then turning to his left he started to walk along the compound wall, stopping at the section adjacent to the factory. In the distance a train whistle sounded, and for a second Gregory wondered if Alexi was giving a signal. The whistle sounded again. It was the incoming train the switch-master had told him about. He could only hope that the man was out there to route the train through the yard and then throw the switches back.

The cannon fired again, and from within the compound a deep throaty roar erupted.

"They're inside!"

The panicked scream was drowned out by a volley of rifle fire. The high, ululating shrieks of the Bantag storming into the building were instantly counterpointed by the hysterical wails of those still waiting to get into the tunnel. The crowd surged forward, and Hans held the crowbar up high.

"Damn it! Don't panic! Don't panic!" He grabbed hold of one of the diggers and pushed him toward the tunnel, the digger pausing for a second to reach back to the crowd and pull a Chin girl through. Hans let her pass.

Rifle fire echoed in the factory, a bullet whining over his head smacking into the brick wall behind him. He could sense that he was about to lose control, that the crowd would press forward in a final mad struggle for life. He tried to see past the surging crowd and caught a glimpse of a line of Bantag riflemen, relentlessly pushing down the length of the factory, driving a terrified mob before them.

In that instant he knew clearly a truth that had been with him from the moment he had started this desperate plan—there was no way that he was ever going to get out. No matter what they did, in the final moments there would be an all-out panic to reach the tunnel, and he would have to die trying to hold them back.

The crowd surged forward again, shrieking, pleading. Someone went down, others tripped over the first one, and then it all exploded out of control. Hans raised the crowbar but did not have the heart to strike as they pushed him aside, tearing at each other to get into the tomblike hole that led to life.

Slammed up against the wall, he gasped for air, raising his hands to his face to protect his eyes when a flurry of bullets slammed into the wall on either side of him. From around the side of the furnace came a Bantag, his rifle cast aside. He waded through the press, his saber rising and falling. Another Bantag appeared, raising his rifle, and it seemed as if their eyes locked. The Bantag, howling with the frenzy of battle, pointed the rifle straight at Hans.

The Bantag let out a shriek of agony, his gun somersaulting in the air as he fell, and Ketswana was there, pulling a saber out of the Bantag's back. He struck again, nearly decapitating the second warrior. He shoved his way through the crowd, his men crowding around him. He pushed on through the press, roaring a wild chant.

Reaching the tunnel entrance he turned, brandishing his saber. The mob gave way for a second. Ketswana reached out, grabbed one of his men, and bodily threw him into the entrance, then shoved a second one after him. He looked around, still shouting, and then he grabbed hold of Hans.

"Go!"

"You first!"

"Damn your eyes, go!"

Hans tried to fight back, but the giant's meaty hands were wrapped around his collar. Lifting him in the air, Ketswana dropped him. Hans half fell into the tunnel, landing on top of the man who was still on the ladder below him. He wanted to scramble back out, but Ketswana towered above him.

"Go!" he insisted. "You're slowing us down!" The warrior stood like a pillar above him.

"Damn it, come with me. We still need you!"

"Die here? Like hell. Go! I'll follow."

Hans paused for a second, then scrambled down the ladder. Crouching low at the bottom, he got down on his hands and knees and prepared to crawl through. Several of the lamps had been knocked down, so the tunnel was wrapped in darkness. The pumper was gone, and the air was fetid, choking. He scrambled along, bumping into the man ahead of him. The pace was maddening—crawling for a dozen feet, then stopping for as many seconds, then crawling again. Someone bumped into him from behind and cursed in an unknown tongue. His eyes started to water from the stale air, and he began to feel lightheaded. The sounds of the conflict back in the factory became faint, and suddenly he felt the tunnel begin to slope upward. For a second he thought he heard a train whistle, and in a moment of fear he thought the train was already pulling out. An instant later gunshots echoed up ahead.

Dale Hinsen watched as the train clattered past and turned onto a siding. He saw the switchman throw the switch back after the train had passed. He watched the train thoughtfully as it slowly clicked down the track, passing a lone engine sitting in the middle of the yard, steam venting from it.

A single train out here. He looked back at the factory again. There was no way through the factory wall and then from there over the compound wall.

A tunnel. It had to be a tunnel!

Hinsen looked around wildly, his attention focusing on the train again.

That had to be it! A tunnel and take the train. But where … a foul curse escaped him when he realized that the food warehouse was directly between where he stood and the only train that could take Hans and his scum to freedom.

"They're in the warehouse!" Hinsen roared. "In the warehouse!"

His guards stared at him, confused.

"Damn it all! They dug a tunnel straight into there!" He pointed at the building. "Stop them!"

One of the guards looked down at Hinsen, confused by the fact that a cattle would dare to give him orders.

Hinsen started forward but then stopped. "Go on!"

Another of the guards finally stepped forward. Hinsen watched intently. The door to the warehouse began to open, and the advancing guard slowed down.

At a flash of light in the doorway, the guard spun around, clutching his shoulder. Then the door slid wide open, and an explosion of humanity burst out of it.

"Hinsen! You bastard!" Someone was running toward him.

Hinsen backed up, not sure what he was seeing … it was wearing a Bantag helmet but swearing at him in Rus. The figure slowed, raised its hand. Hinsen dived to the ground as the revolver cracked again. The bullet that grazed his shoulder knocked him backward. A flurry of shots rang out. Curling up in a ball, clutching his injured shoulder, Hinsen saw his three remaining guards firing back. A dozen men came charging out of the mob that now poured through the door. Several of them dropped, but the group pressed on, leaping at Hinsen's guards.

Kicking backward, he struggled to escape the melee.

"Hinsen!"

He looked up at a man wearing a Bantag cape, but what caught and held his attention was the gun pointing straight at his head. Even as Hinsen shrieked, he saw the finger squeeze the trigger … and the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.

Another volley of shots echoed behind Hinsen, and several of the men who had overwhelmed his guards went down.

"I'll see you in hell!" Gregory screamed, and he ran.

The line of men started to pull back, several of them clumsily working the heavy breeches of the Bantag rifles captured in the rush. Hinsen looked back over his shoulder and saw a swarm of Bantag guards pouring through the factory gate.

One of the guards ran toward him and Hinsen extended his hands, smiling with relief.

The guard raised his saber. A realization suddenly dawned. "I'm one of you!" Hinsen shrieked. "I'm one of you!" even as the blade descended with enough force to cut a man in two.

"Move it! Move it!"

Hans stood by the tunnel exit, pulling the last escapees out, shoving them toward the door. Two of Ketswana's men came through, there was no one for a moment, and then a curly black head appeared. Hans reached down and pulled Ketswana up through the hole.

"No one behind me," Ketswana gasped.

Hans could see the horror in the man's eyes. A stream of blood poured from a wound that had laid open his scalp and nearly severed his left ear.

The two ran for the door together. As they cleared the warehouse, Hans saw a line of Bantag skirmishers deploying out from the gate, rifle fire flashing, a bullet whipping so close to his face that he felt the wind of its passage. The Bantag began to press forward. Breaking into a rim, Hans sprinted toward the train, which was inching along, thundering puffs of smoke erupting from its stack. Swarming around the sides of the train, dozens were still struggling to get on board. A man running beside Hans, carrying a Bantag rifle, staggered and fell, the back of his head gone. Hans reached down, snatched up the rifle and a bandoleer of ammunition clutched in the dead man's hands, and kept going.

Its wheels spinning, the train was slowly picking up speed.

"Hans!"

He saw Gregory standing in the wood tender, holding a rifle. Hans slowed his pace and waited for the engine to go past, hot steam swirling around his legs. A hand reached out from the cab, and grabbing hold, he felt his legs go out from under him. He threw his rifle up into the cab and then struggled to gain a hold with his other hand. He finally kicked his way to a foothold and scrambled up into the cab. Gasping for breath, he crawled over to the open firebox and saw that Ketswana had leapt up behind him.

Hans struggled up, then dodged to one side as one of the firemen staggered backward and then crumpled against the side of the cab, blood pouring from his chest.

Hans jumped into the tender and worked the breech open on the rifle, then slammed a round in. Bantag were swarming the side of the train, slashing into those still struggling to get on board. Hans pointed straight down and fired a shot into a warrior's face from less than ten feet away. He went down. Out of the crowd someone scooped up the Bantag's gun and started to run alongside the cab. He threw the gun up into the tender even as a bullet cut him down.

Hans looked back at the crowd still pressing around the train, sickened by the panic and horror. He slammed another shot into the breech and dropped a Bantag who was scrambling to climb into one of the open boxcars.

The sound of the track rumbling beneath him changed as the train lurched through the first switch. Hans saw two men running on the opposite side of the cab, and Ketswana reached down to pull them in.

"Hans!" Gregory was by his side, pointing up, struggling to work the breech on his rifle.

Standing atop the cab was a Bantag waving a scimitar. Hans raised his rifle, squeezed … the gun was empty.

With a wild shriek the Bantag leapt down. Going down on one knee, Hans braced the butt of his rifle on the floor of the cab and impaled the Bantag on the bayonet. The creature continued to shriek even as Hans shoved him to one side. The surviving fireman turned on the Bantag with a wild shout and smashed him with a log.

The train continued to gain speed as it roared through the second switch and out onto the main line. Several dozen were still running alongside. Sickened, Hans watched as one by one they either were cut down by Bantag rifle fire or collapsed by the side of the track, unable to keep up.

Another line of Bantag guards came running out from the west side of the compound, racing for the track, four of them carrying a section of rail.

"Gregory!"

He pointed at the four, realizing they were trying to get ahead of the engine to throw the rail across the track. Gregory leaned over the side of the tender, took aim and fired. The four continued forward.

Hans slid another round into the breech of his rifle and closed it. The weapon, designed for a Bantag nearly eight feet tall, was unwieldy for him. The train swayed and lurched as it thundered down the tracks. He found his target, lost it, and then swung back on it again. The lead warrior of the four was no longer visible, blocked by the engine. He shifted to the last of the four and squeezed the trigger. The Bantag spun around, going down, still holding on to the rail. Thie other three struggled to pull free even as the engine thundered past.

Hans suddenly recognized the one in front … Karga.

"Karga, you son of a bitch!" Hans roared, standing up triumphantly. Karga looked up, screaming with rage as Hans offered a universal salute of contempt.

Despite the rifle shots snapping around him, the joy of the moment overwhelmed him. Karga finally disappeared from view as the train rounded a sharp curve. All the time they continued to gain speed, and Hans stood atop the pile of wood in the tender, still unbelieving, as the wind, thick with the smell of wood smoke, eddied around him. They roared up a low rise, and he could look back and see the factory compound, now nearly a mile away. Several of the barracks were on fire. He knew what horror was unfolding back there, and again the wave of guilt tore into his soul. Before the night was over, those left behind would be dead.