The bunker was a stout concrete building, its original purpose lost forever in time. But the windows were sealed with iron plate, the walls reinforced with multiple layers of bricks, the domed roof smooth concrete over riveted sheets of cold iron.
“Hurry!” a corporal shouted, standing in the doorway, one hand on the portal, the other gripping the jamb. Sec men stood behind him, firing their blasters in controlled bursts at the bloodthirsty throng racing across the field. Dozens of sec men poured into the building, plunging deeper into the structure to make room for their brethren guards so close on their heels.
Carrying a flamethrower, a sec chief appeared from within the bunker. “That’s everybody. Close the door.”
“We have a man out there!” the door guard dared to respond.
The sec chief squinted into the chaos. A single sec men was running toward the bunker only a few yards ahead of the slave army. Arms pumping, legs flashing, the blue shirt raced pell-mell across the field, leading the way for the howling killers, a herald announcing the holocaust.
“Fuck him! This is a direct order. Close the door, Corporal.”
Confused, the sec man jerked his head at the running blue shirt so close to the bunker, and the slaves so close behind. With a grave expression, he began to push the heavy door closed, the opening narrowing by the heartbeat.
“Wait,” the runner wheezed. “Please, wait!”
The armored door closed with a boom, the heavy locks sliding noisily across the array of iron bands.
Stumbling to a halt, the sec man stood in the middle of the field staring dumbfounded at the bunker. “Damn you,” he panted. “Damn you all to hell.”
A longblaster shot took the man in the shoulder, spinning him, blood spraying from the impact. Now facing the triumphant slaves, the blue shirt made no effort to run or draw the weapon at his hip. There seemed to be no point to the act. Howling in victory, the slaves swarmed over the standing man, and he disappeared within the mob.
Reaching the bunker, the slaves fired their blasters at the door and walls, the 7.62 mm rounds chipping the bricks but nothing more.
“Find some explosives!” shouted a big woman, a pistol in one hand and a bloody piece of scalp in the other. “Let’s blast our way in!”
A scrawny man stood before the door as if defying it with his mere presence. “I say we break it down and catch the bastards alive!” he shouted. “Then we crucify the lot of them! Who’s with me?”
The slaves cheered their approval. A bracing girder used for supporting the dish was found, and ten of the largest slaves grabbed hold and charged at the iron door. The end of the steel girder flattened as it hit, and the door shook dangerously on its hinges.
“Again!” screamed the leader, and the girder slammed against the iron portal, making it rattle loosely.
“It’s coming free!” a woman shouted. “We’re almost in!”
A tiny slot opened in the door and several blasters fired. Two slaves toppled over with ghastly head wounds. But more rushed boldly to take their place, and one man shoved an AK-47 into the port and emptied the clip, twisting the barrel about in a circle, trying to chill everybody on the other side. Screams of pain told of some degree of success.
The girder crashed against the door once more, and suddenly clear moonlight washed over the battlefield.
Startled, the slaves paused in the attack, some of them plainly frightened. Above the complex, the ever present storm clouds were thinning away to nothingness and twinkling stars could be seen overhead, the fat moon a silvery orb to rule the sky.
“Beautiful,” a woman cried.
A man recoiled in fear. “Ain’t natural. No clouds in the sky? Ain’t natural, I tell ya!”
The leader of the slaves started to reply when he heard a low-key humming and realized there was a surge of power going through the high-tension lines feeding the dish, the accumulators audibly charging. His heart pounding, the slave had no idea what to do. Was this an attack? Were the blues electrifying the door?