“We cut a deal with the muties,” Sheffield said, slinging the longblaster and drawing his handcannon. “Get the kitchen staff.”
Collette blanched. “You’re going to arm the slaves?”
“Get them!” he roared, spittle flying. “Now!” A sergeant grabbed a couple of privates and rushed into the back rooms of the armory. Moments later, the blues herded a collection of slaves wearing aprons into the throne room, mostly whitehairs and a few children learning the tricks of cooking for a hundred men at a meal.
“Cripple them,” the baron ordered and began to shoot the slaves in the knee.
The men and women fell helpless to the floor, screaming in pain, their legs destroyed forever.
“Muties like their meat alive,” he said, dragging the weeping cook to the front door and throwing the bolt. “Okay, let’s give them a meal!”
Shoving the wounded outside, the sec men bolted the door closed again. The crying slaves stood in the darkness, looking around in wide-eyed fear. Then the cougar approached and the humans hobbled away in a panic, trampling one another in a frantic bid for life. The giant cat fell on the whitehairs, ripping them apart, blood going everywhere.
While the beast was busy eating, Sheffield led the rush out of the armory, the blues carrying every box of ammo they could. Darting through the hole in the electric fence, the blues shot their way across the compound, using the grens to blow a thunderous path through the carnage until they reached the base of the towering dish.
Sheffield unlocked the door, and the blues piled into the concrete bunker.
“Now what?” a sec man asked.
Heading for a control panel, the baron flipped some switches and grabbed a microphone. “This is Baron Sheffield,” he said softly, the words booming outside over the PA system. “Wound the slaves and cut them loose. Let the muties eat them, and get to the blockhouse now! We lock the door in five minutes!”
Soon, squads of blue shuts began to arrive at the blockhouse, hideous screams cutting the night as the crippled slaves were caught by the hungry muties. An old slave wearing a dirty blue shirt tried to sneak inside the bunker, but Collette caught him at the door and stabbed the whitehair in the belly, then kicked him away from the structure. Clutching his wounded stomach, the slave hobbled away into the savage night.
“Time,” the baron said, glancing at a wall chron. “Lock it.”
The four heavy bolts were thrown and a cross bar dropped into place across the iron door. The noise level from outside lowered immediately. Taking a chair at the control panel, Sheffield sighed in relief, glad that he had decided to reinforce the bunker after the revolt. The man only wished he had done more, maybe lined the outside walls with Claymores, or something, but who could have foreseen a mass attack by starving muties?
“Going to need more slaves after this,” a sec man gripped, hugging his longblaster.
“How many made it here?” a sergeant demanded, looking over the assemblage of troops. The bunker was large, but the crowd seemed nowhere near large enough.
“I counted fifty coming in,” Collette answered brusquely. “We lost half our guys.”
“Better than losing all,” a private stated.
“When the muties are finished, they’ll try to get inside to us,” Sheffield warned. “Try real hard. We just have to hope the door is strong enough to last until the Kite comes back on-line.”
“How much longer, sir?” a lieutenant asked, licking dry lips.
Sheffield looked at the wall chron. “Another hour.”
Suddenly, something large slammed into the locked door, rattling the hinges and bolts. Leveling their weapons, the blues retreated from the portal and braced themselves for a pitched battle inside the confines of the bunker.
Chapter Fourteen
A red dawn dispatched the night above North Carolina, and the sec men of Beta team shuffled from the doorway of the overturned dish, yawning and fixing their clothing.
“Now that’s why I became a sec man,” a private told his comrades as he rubbed his stubbly chin. “Damn near wore myself to a nub.”
“All you had in the first place,” another chided.