Eclipse at Noon by James Axler

DOC HAD TAKEN a glancing blow across the side of the head from a falling roof beam. The hut was directly in line with the full force of the explosion, and one end wall had caved in completely, opening it up to the night. Burning gasoline had been dashed all over the entire building, in through shattered windows, setting the splintered walls alight, inside and out.

Jak knelt beside the old man, arm around his shoulders, quickly beating away a few small flames that flickered on the stained frock coat.

“Wake up, Doc!” he yelled, his voice cracking with the excitement.

The pale eyes blinked open, and a gnarled hand brushed a curl of hair away from the forehead. Doc grinned vaguely. “By the Three Kennedys! The whole place smells as though someone has spilled some gasoline and then Ah, now my memory begins to function a little better. Ryan and dear John Dix have”

Jak shook him exasperatedly. “Fuck it, Doc! Whole place burning. Time got out. Sec men be here any second now. Magus and fat man.”

Doc nodded, reason and sanity seeping back into his face. “I am with you, dear snow-topped child. But we are a little devoid of weaponry, are we not?”

“Lotta chills out there. Get us some blasters. Check out Krysty and Mildred. Look for Ryan and J.B. and run. Get out here like goose shit off a shovel.”

Doc allowed himself to be stood up and brushed down. He looked around through the smoke and flames that were rapidly destroying the hut. “En avant, mes camarades,” he said, coughing hoarsely. “One for all and all for one. Upon my soul, but this is both the best of times and the worst of times.”

Jak began to drag him toward where the doorway gaped wide open. “Move it, Doc,” he snapped.

GERT WOLFRAM’S PROUD forest ville was in ruins.

The high sec fence had been felled in a dozen places, and more than half the gun towers were either down or were well ablaze. The explosion of the two gas tanks had been so hugely devastating that scarcely a single building was undamaged. Only the main dormitories and the quarters of Wolfram himself, and the Magus, were far enough away to have avoided the initial blazing spray.

Barely thirty seconds had passed since the moment of ignition, and at least a quarter of the sec force was either dead or badly wounded. And all of the rest were deeply shocked and utterly disorganized.

Even Wolfram himself, for all of his deep-rooted cunning and evil wit, was barely running along on automatic, following the only man in the camp who seemed to have some semblance of combat sense left.

“Let’s run in those huts and chill some of the sons of bitches, Magus,” he panted, stumbling through the swirling, stinking fumes, waving a pudgy hand to try to clear his sight. He breathed noisily through his open, blubbery mouth, his tiny eyes flickering from side to side.

The lean figure just ahead of him paused and turned, the steel-trap mouth clicking into a grim smile. “Why not walk on over and chill them all, friend?” He laughed loudly, the voice rasping like a hacksaw blade down a windowpane. “Best chance of getting out of this, Gert, is to take some hostages.”

The fat man nodded. “Yes, yes. I see that, Magus. I like that idea, indeed I do.”

“Then let us get on with it.”

BEFORE STARTING the last phase of the rescue attempt, Ryan and J.B. stood together, checking out the compound. The sky was beginning to lighten a little with the first promise of the false dawn, just visible through the wreathing clouds of stinking smoke that smeared their way above the pines.

“Wonder when the stickies are going to get themselves interested in the explosion and the fire and the smoke?” Ryan said. “Reckon we want to be away from here before they come running for some of their fun.”

J.B. nodded. “Sure.” He pointed. “Look. Fat bastard and a metal-eyed, skinny bastard heading for the hut where they got Krysty and Mildred.”

But the smoke thickened and obscured the two figures, hiding them from sight.