[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
inside."
It didn't take long. They rushed the building at a dead run, whooping and
screaming like a phalanx of John Waynes.
I led her through the bushes to where the walkway turned to block us. We
paralleled the steps and hotfooted it into the parking lot, using what weeds
grew there for cover. I kept my automatic ready.
The Auberge guards, in control of the high ground, seemed to be turning back
the assault. The Wells Fargo building blocked our view as we ran past. We
crossed Flower toward the hotel entrance.
Two kids sped around a corner, saw us, and whipped their rifles up to aim.
They were too slow. I had already dropped to a kneeling, twohanded shooting
stance. Ann crouched behind me. I had a sneaking suspicion she was fumbling
for her knife.
I sighted in on the boy to my left-a sandy-haired teenager who looked like the
lead in a high school production of The Idiot. The other-a lanky
Panarabian-divided his aim between my head and Ann's.
"Neither of you wants to shoot us!" I yelled. "One of you will be dead before
I drop!"
"Th-that w-would just mean one m-more soul for Y-Yahveh," the sandy one said.
He stuttered like a motorboat, and it wasn't from fear: the hands holding his
rifle never wavered.
"One more soul for Allah," the darker boy corrected.
Sandy glanced at the Panarab.
A wisp of smoke from the burning complex drifted between us. It carried a
smell of things dead and dying. The Panarabian kid paid it no mind. He'd
probably been raised during the Pax Israelia ten years before.
Sandy wrinkled his nose. I took a chance.
"Allah or Yahveh. Which God will get your soul? Which God is supreme?" I split
my aim between the two without dropping my guard.
"Allah," said the dark one.
"Yahveh," insisted the light one.
Something whooshed through the air behind me.
"Knock it off with the shiv," I hissed.
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Ann muttered something and stopped waving the blade around. The two boys
didn't even notice. They were involved in a theological discussion.
"Yahveh."
"Allah."
They glowered, slowly turning their rifles toward each other.
"Allah," the Panarabian said with a low growl.
"Yahveh," Sandy Hair retorted, racking the action on his M-16.
"Kali!" a voice screamed from the nearby underpass.
The boys spun about to look toward the source of the sound. Had they lived
long enough, each would have seen a bullet hit him in the chest. Two rifles
clattered to the pavement. Two young men followed them shortly.
I jumped up, gave Ann a shove in the direction of the Bonaventure, and
commandeered one of the rifles. I sped up to match Ann's athletic pace.
Footsteps raced behind me. I whipped about, a .45 in one hand and an M-16 in
the other.
"Tough guy," a gravelly voice rumbled. "Can't even plug a couple of punk
kids."
Randolph Corbin trotted his hulk up beside me, one thick hand grasping a
Springfield M-1A. The other hand clutched at his belly. His pug face was
distorted from breathing as if it were the latest fad. His brown turtleneck
shirt and tan slacks appeared to have been redesigned by a chainsaw. Soot
stained his clothes, hands, and face. The seat of his pants had been badly
singed.
I nodded toward the hotel lobby. "I see you didn't expect the Spanish
Inquisition, either."
"Right. And I can see that you were the answer they sought. Duck!"
I drove my shoulder into the sidewalk, rolled over, and brought the rifle up.
I fired.
Corbin placed three well-aimed rounds into the chests of as many armed
attackers. I dropped the other two with shots to the head-an old trademark of
mine and a damned stupid habit.
Somewhere to the south whined dozens of police sirens.
"Finally," Ann said, unimpressed. She tried to open one of the doors set in a
long wall of concrete. No luck. We raced toward the main lobby doors.
Corbin wheezed in great exhausted gasps. "You must know the Ecclesia is after
you. They attacked Auberge."
"Yeah," I said. "I had a sort of hunch about that."
"Even Auberge management didn't know, and they've got informants everywhere to
give them warnings about raids." He looked behind us at the carnage. "I guess
they never thought to infiltrate the Ecclesia."
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"But you did?" Ann said.
"A Buddhist friend of mine. She dropped too much acid at Bryn Mawr" "In here,"
I said. A side door surrendered to my kick. We rushed inside.
The Bonaventure was still in use, though it no longer qualified as the luxury
hotel it had once been. The radiation problems this far from Arco South posed
no danger, but fear was fear. True, a higher class of derelicts and bums
inhabited the less-than-gleaming towers. Most even paid rent. But bums were
bums.
To our right sat a greasy hotel clerk reading a newsplaque, the racing
information onscreen. His gaze drifted lazily up to us, his eyes widening when
he saw the three of us armed with rifles, pistol, and knife. His grease turned
to sweat.
"No trouble, man," he said in a piping voice. "We've got protection."
My thumb played threateningly with the pistol's slide safety. "You personally?
Right now?"
The clerk gulped like a sea bass and added more sweat to his face. Nervous
hands gripped the edge of the counter. His newsplaque clattered to the floor. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl freetocraft.keep.pl
inside."
It didn't take long. They rushed the building at a dead run, whooping and
screaming like a phalanx of John Waynes.
I led her through the bushes to where the walkway turned to block us. We
paralleled the steps and hotfooted it into the parking lot, using what weeds
grew there for cover. I kept my automatic ready.
The Auberge guards, in control of the high ground, seemed to be turning back
the assault. The Wells Fargo building blocked our view as we ran past. We
crossed Flower toward the hotel entrance.
Two kids sped around a corner, saw us, and whipped their rifles up to aim.
They were too slow. I had already dropped to a kneeling, twohanded shooting
stance. Ann crouched behind me. I had a sneaking suspicion she was fumbling
for her knife.
I sighted in on the boy to my left-a sandy-haired teenager who looked like the
lead in a high school production of The Idiot. The other-a lanky
Panarabian-divided his aim between my head and Ann's.
"Neither of you wants to shoot us!" I yelled. "One of you will be dead before
I drop!"
"Th-that w-would just mean one m-more soul for Y-Yahveh," the sandy one said.
He stuttered like a motorboat, and it wasn't from fear: the hands holding his
rifle never wavered.
"One more soul for Allah," the darker boy corrected.
Sandy glanced at the Panarab.
A wisp of smoke from the burning complex drifted between us. It carried a
smell of things dead and dying. The Panarabian kid paid it no mind. He'd
probably been raised during the Pax Israelia ten years before.
Sandy wrinkled his nose. I took a chance.
"Allah or Yahveh. Which God will get your soul? Which God is supreme?" I split
my aim between the two without dropping my guard.
"Allah," said the dark one.
"Yahveh," insisted the light one.
Something whooshed through the air behind me.
"Knock it off with the shiv," I hissed.
Page 144
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Ann muttered something and stopped waving the blade around. The two boys
didn't even notice. They were involved in a theological discussion.
"Yahveh."
"Allah."
They glowered, slowly turning their rifles toward each other.
"Allah," the Panarabian said with a low growl.
"Yahveh," Sandy Hair retorted, racking the action on his M-16.
"Kali!" a voice screamed from the nearby underpass.
The boys spun about to look toward the source of the sound. Had they lived
long enough, each would have seen a bullet hit him in the chest. Two rifles
clattered to the pavement. Two young men followed them shortly.
I jumped up, gave Ann a shove in the direction of the Bonaventure, and
commandeered one of the rifles. I sped up to match Ann's athletic pace.
Footsteps raced behind me. I whipped about, a .45 in one hand and an M-16 in
the other.
"Tough guy," a gravelly voice rumbled. "Can't even plug a couple of punk
kids."
Randolph Corbin trotted his hulk up beside me, one thick hand grasping a
Springfield M-1A. The other hand clutched at his belly. His pug face was
distorted from breathing as if it were the latest fad. His brown turtleneck
shirt and tan slacks appeared to have been redesigned by a chainsaw. Soot
stained his clothes, hands, and face. The seat of his pants had been badly
singed.
I nodded toward the hotel lobby. "I see you didn't expect the Spanish
Inquisition, either."
"Right. And I can see that you were the answer they sought. Duck!"
I drove my shoulder into the sidewalk, rolled over, and brought the rifle up.
I fired.
Corbin placed three well-aimed rounds into the chests of as many armed
attackers. I dropped the other two with shots to the head-an old trademark of
mine and a damned stupid habit.
Somewhere to the south whined dozens of police sirens.
"Finally," Ann said, unimpressed. She tried to open one of the doors set in a
long wall of concrete. No luck. We raced toward the main lobby doors.
Corbin wheezed in great exhausted gasps. "You must know the Ecclesia is after
you. They attacked Auberge."
"Yeah," I said. "I had a sort of hunch about that."
"Even Auberge management didn't know, and they've got informants everywhere to
give them warnings about raids." He looked behind us at the carnage. "I guess
they never thought to infiltrate the Ecclesia."
Page 145
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"But you did?" Ann said.
"A Buddhist friend of mine. She dropped too much acid at Bryn Mawr" "In here,"
I said. A side door surrendered to my kick. We rushed inside.
The Bonaventure was still in use, though it no longer qualified as the luxury
hotel it had once been. The radiation problems this far from Arco South posed
no danger, but fear was fear. True, a higher class of derelicts and bums
inhabited the less-than-gleaming towers. Most even paid rent. But bums were
bums.
To our right sat a greasy hotel clerk reading a newsplaque, the racing
information onscreen. His gaze drifted lazily up to us, his eyes widening when
he saw the three of us armed with rifles, pistol, and knife. His grease turned
to sweat.
"No trouble, man," he said in a piping voice. "We've got protection."
My thumb played threateningly with the pistol's slide safety. "You personally?
Right now?"
The clerk gulped like a sea bass and added more sweat to his face. Nervous
hands gripped the edge of the counter. His newsplaque clattered to the floor. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]