War Weapons (2 page)

But just who was going to get the privilege of killing Martin Stone suddenly became an immediate concern as Stone heard a
crunching sound to his left and turned to see more of the blistered corpses. Only these seemed to be moving, their black bodies
shivering and crumbling as they rose. As Stone stood frozen in stark terror, the filth-coated things seemed to rise right
up off the ground and come toward him. Suddenly he saw human flesh, features beneath the outer layers of grime and rotted
flesh—New Army soldiers, three of them. They’d been lying in ambush just to snag someone, probably him. But there wasn’t a
hell of a lot of time to start asking questions as the pistol in the hand of one exploded and a slug tore along Stone’s head,
gouging out a straight little rivulet of red.

He became unfrozen and flung himself to the side as the other two opened as well, so there was a whole goddamn wall of fire
searching for his ass. Stone hit the dirt with the side of his shoulder slamming into something hard, but he kept his momentum
and rolled forward and right underneath a still smoldering half-track, its forward tires literally melted into a steaming
pile of stinking gunk so that the whole front of the vehicle had sunk down as if on its knees. But Stone didn’t have time
to worry about the aesthetic ramifications of the hiding place as another row of slugs tore into the dirt just inches from
his feet, which he pulled quickly in as he rolled farther under the armored vehicle.

Suddenly there was a howl, and Stone’s face grew pale—Excaliber. If the bastards had—He wouldn’t even think it. The fucking
dog was too smart, too quick for—But the anger instantly cleared his mind, flushing out all the confusion. All right, he had
been attacked. Big deal. He had been attacked so many fucking times now, just in the last month or so since he’d emerged from
his father’s hidden bunker in Colorado’s northern mountains, that he couldn’t keep track without a calculator. The question
was how to attack the attackers.

He rolled twice more on the cold ground as the fusillade continued unabated, slamming into armor. The assholes were obviously
willing just to fire away for a while. Well, that was fine with him. Stone quickly scanned the terrain on the other side of
the half-track. There wasn’t a hell of a lot out there that wasn’t burning or just a pile of debris. Stone slid up the side
of the vehicle and peeked through a crack in the top armor. There were five of them now—all wearing camouflage uniforms covered
with the remains of bodies. And they were closing in, firing constantly as they came forward a few yards apart. They still
thought their prey was under the vehicle as their shots slammed into the dirt on the other side or pinged off the armor.

Suddenly he noticed that the 90-mm cannon atop the halftrack was aimed straight ahead. Now if the son of a bitch still had
a shell left … Stone moved quickly forward in a crouch until he reached the small turret. It was hard to tell without getting
up there. From here it appeared that the cannon was loaded. The outer firing mechanism was in set position as far as he could
see. He could feel that his mind was ready to debate the issue for days, so he pushed himself up with a sudden spring of his
legs and clambered up the side of the vehicle. The moment his head appeared, the attackers raised their pistols, trying to
find his range. Slugs whistled by each ear. Stone grabbed hold of a bar at the very top of the turret and reached over with
the other arm, slamming his palm down on the firing button.

The huge 90-mm exploded out a geyser of smoke as the entire vehicle shook so hard that Stone had to hold on for dear life,
dangling from the top of the thing like a monkey from a tree. The huge shell tore out of the ten-foot-long barrel and into
the snowy air so hot that it melted a tunnel right through the curtains of white. It traveled the seventy feet or so toward
the advancing troops in about one one-hundredth of a second. Then it slammed into the chest of the man in the lead. The high
explosives in the shell, meant to take out a tank or the side of a building, instead turned all two hundred and seventeen
pounds of elite NAA commando into red spray and a few bones that spun off with the speed of bullets in all directions. The
force of the blast expanded out in a circle, catching the remaining four attackers and ripping them into shreds. Arms flew
off and faces opened up, revealing everything within them, which poured out as if from a pitcher. Fingers and ears spun off
into the air as if madly in search of new bodies that might be in better shape than the ones they had just left.

When Stone finally regained his balance and the armored vehicle stopped shaking enough for him to climb up top and look down,
there was nothing left. Nothing human, anyway. Nothing that you would send home to Mother, unless Mother was an undertaker
with a fancy for gluing things together again.

S
TONE HEARD a sound unlike any he had ever encountered in his life. It was somewhere between the wail a hound dog might make
if it got a porcupine quill embedded in its nose and the scream an infant emits when it’s delivered from the warmth and safety
of the womb into a cold, fucked-up world. He instantly knew it was the dog. The bastards who had shot him were gone into hell,
but that wasn’t going to help Excaliber. With a heavy heart, Stone jumped down the other side of the armored car and rushed
toward the sound. It grew louder and shriller with each step until he had to put his hands over his ears, as it was quite
painful. And he did start to wonder, as he made his way forward, just how fucked up the pitbull was, in that any animal that
could produce a sound so loud and excruciating couldn’t be too ready for the grave.

As Stone came to a deep cannon shell–created hole in the ground a good seven feet deep by three wide, he saw that in fact
the animal didn’t appear hurt at all. Not that he could make out. Except its pride. Evidently it had dived for cover just
as Stone had when the first shots were fired—and had chosen what appeared to be a perfect foxhole. Only the hole was over
six feet deep and the animal couldn’t get out. It stared up at Stone with total and complete mortification on its face, its
“kick ass” rep—at least in the pitbull’s easily embarrassed psyche—on the line. Stone didn’t let himself laugh. He wanted
to, but the fixed stare the creature gave him dissuaded him from any such notion. Besides, Stone had no reason to rub it in.
He’d been down in that hole too.

“Come on, pal,” he said softly to the violently trembling fighting dog, which had calmed down enough to stop its wailings
and just let out a few pissed-off grunts. “Grab hold.” Stone lowered one end of the NAA utility belt he had grabbed off some
dead bastard in the bloody dawn battle. The pitbull snapped its jaw shut hard on the end of the belt and held onto it with
all 2400 pounds per square inch that its jaw muscles could exert—the strongest of any canine in the world. Stone braced his
legs against a rock a foot away from the edge of the still crumbling hole and pulled up hand over hand. Like a snapping turtle
hanging on to a fish meal that’s been hooked by someone else, the pitbull emerged from the hole at the end of the belt fishing
line, and Stone twisted his body around and deposited his catch on the ground. The dog gave him a twisted little look of thanks
and then trotted quickly on, not wanting to discuss the subject any fucking further.

He moved cautiously as he hit the main thoroughfare, now blocked with numerous burning and overturned vehicles, bodies hanging
out of them and covering the road, few of them moving. A shell suddenly whistled overhead from far outside the perimeter of
the fort, and Stone instinctively dived to the ground, this time grabbing the dog and pulling him down, somewhat unwillingly,
to the snow-covered ground. But the shell came down some hundred yards or so past them, falling into a pile of rubble that
had already been destroyed once and couldn’t get much more atomized. Still, the shell went off with a roar and did its best
to grind up the splinters a little more, send a few more particles of the leftovers of war up into the atmosphere.

The attacking forces would probably be leaving now, having laid waste to the place, having taken what still functioning weapons
they could haul off. But they wouldn’t even be able to use most of them. That was the advantage to having used such a criminal
force to attack. For Stone knew that their very anarchistic natures would prohibit them from really being able to put the
heavy-duty firepower to any large-scale use, whereas General Patton would have had the ability to conquer the entire country.
Unquestionably. The man was a brilliant general, both militarily, in deploying his forces, and in carrying out supply lines.
That was why Stone had to stop him. Had to pick the lesser of two evils for the moment. The Fourth Reich could not be allowed
to manifest itself.

What was it Patton had said that night they were half drunk together on expensive cognac? “It is my destiny to rule over a
perfect order—rid the world of the scum and vermin that make it impossible to progress—and build a society of perfect order.
A society modeled on the ants, the bees, those creatures who in their God-given wisdom know that social harmony is more important
than the individual.” Or some such words. Stone couldn’t really remember all that General Patton had said. He had said so
much that night. He had taken to Stone, after all, like the son he’d never had. And, with brandy in hand, had told him all
of his plans. That was why the betrayal would make him find Stone—and kill him. Unless Stone took out the granite-jawed bastard
first.

He made his way along the edges of things, sides of cars, corners of buildings, always on the alert. The pitbull followed
at his heels, body spread out and low almost like a cat, neck long, constantly sniffing at the air with pink nostrils constantly
scanning every shadow, every mound of burning rubble with all its senses. His breed were fighting pitbulls—bred to take on
tigers. Every bit of its sensory apparatus honed by evolution to detect danger, to react even faster than the attacker, faster
than a striking tiger. Thus the dog saw the hand suddenly rising from behind an overturned jeep, the metal glistening in its
hands from the red and orange rays of a nearby fire roaring high. The pitbull barked sharply to warn Stone and moved its stance
forward, like a hunting dog pointing nose-first toward the attacker.

Stone turned in a flash, having been with the animal long enough to know what that particular growl meant. He followed the
pointing form and saw the uncertain eyes of an NAA-er, his gun hand wavering for a second between the dog and Stone. His last
mistake. As he suddenly realized it was the human he should shoot and started to swing the 9-mm Beretta back around, Stone
had already raised his .44 and pulled the trigger. The huge slug ripped into the central portion of the skull at the very
instant that the attacker sent the command to his finger to fire. But it never reached the hand. The slug tore into the sniper’s
head and whipped his brain tissue into an instant mousse, servable at all the best parties. The body crashed backward, the
trigger finger as stiff as a piece of rock, the way it would remain forever-more.

“Son of a bitch,” Stone muttered under his breath as he let the mag drop back to his side, but he didn’t put it away. Everyone
was out to get him around here. Mafia crime lords, bikers, toothless bandits, New American Army troops. He might as well just
shoot everything he saw, as it was most likely out to do him dirty.

He moved down the street even more cautiously than before. With the smoke and the snow still falling, though more lightly
now, and the bodies and burning vehicles everywhere as if World War II had just been dropped into the center of Bradley, it
was hard to tell what the hell was going on. Everything seemed to dance and twist in shadows all around him—souls writhing
within the twisting columns of smoke. But at last he made it to what was left of Patton’s headquarters—now a heaped pile of
timber, blood-soaked rugs, broken furniture. The general had been quite a collector of antiques, paintings, what-all had turned
up when his troops went out on search-and-supply missions. All had been brought back to the fort for his personal use. Now
it lay smashed, beautiful works of art. It gave Stone’s heart a tug to see such beauty destroyed, annihilated. He had seen
them and admired them—when Patton and he had been on better terms. There—a Manet, with numerous holes burned through it, lay
draped over a cracked support timber. There —a Greek bust with a .45 slug slammed into its mouth so that its sculpted, rock
lips were now just dust and the whole center of its face a gouged-out crater like the face of the moon.

Suddenly Stone’s heart gave a little skip. For he saw, rolled up like a rug to be taken to the cleaner’s, the immense masterpiece
the general had given him after his successful mission into the nearby mountains to destroy a horde of bandits. He rushed
across the debris, dropped to one knee, and ran his hand across it. No holes, no burn marks. He reached up and unraveled it
just a bit to see. Yes—it was the Michelangelo—the Creation—safe and sound. Stone could see the very tip of an angel’s finger
reaching out through the clouds. It gave him some kind of deep shiver that the painting had survived. It seemed to have been
destined to. And Stone felt that as ridiculous as it probably was, it seemed like some kind of honor that he should be entrusted
with such a priceless work of art. So much had been destroyed. There wasn’t going to be a hell of a lot left for future generations.

He heard a sudden commotion behind him and turned to see the pitbull sighting down on an immense rat that scurried past them
with a piece of what looked like human flesh in its sharklike black jaws. The English bullterrier shot forward with all the
strength of its pistonlike legs. Excaliber snatched the foot-long rodent up right around the central portion of its body.
He snapped down once hard before the creature had time to struggle. The rat’s backbone and ribs cracked loudly into splintering
pieces like a turkey wing at Thanksgiving dinner. Then the rodent’s body was ripped into two parts, and Excaliber opened his
mouth and tossed his head hard, flinging the two blood-spewing parts out into the air.