James Axler – Judas Strike

“Baron Kinnison!” the sec man cried out.

Shoving the pillow against the sec man’s chest, Kinnison shot him directly in the heart, the cushion muffling the shot. The man sagged, and Kinnison hauled him to a chair, propping up his head with the reverse side of the pillow, and placed the shotgun across his lap. Ah, quite lifelike.

Kinnison felt troubled about the death, but it would have been unwise to waste a moment learning if the man was glad to see him, or ready to shout a warning. The baron consoled himself with the fact that every throne in history was built on the dead. Such was the way of the world.

Going to a suit of armor standing in a nearby wall niche, Kinnison lifted the visor and fumbled about inside until finding the switch. He lost a fingernail forcing the mechanism to operate. Been too long since it had last been oiled.

As the pedestal disengaged, he pushed it into the wall and squeezed his bulk into the cramped passageway beyond. Bandages and skin were scraped off painfully until he was deep enough into the passage before he could swing the secret door closed again. Obviously, the baron had been much thinner when he last used it.

Lighting the candle he had been saving from the stash in his cell, the baron forced himself along the passageway, the rough bricks tearing the scabs off his sores, the salty damp clothing burning like red-hot coals against his diseased flesh. It was becoming difficult to breathe in the cramped quarters, but Kinnison forced himself onward. Victory or death.

Reaching a flight of stairs formed by the back side of stone lintels, Kinnison froze as the sound of marching could be clearly heard from the hallway underneath, closely followed by blasterfire and wild shouting. Nuke those feebs! His army was attacking early. Now racing against the clock, Kinnison maneuvered faster through the narrow crevice until reaching a small storage room hidden inside the thick walls of the predark post office. Panting from the exertion, he fumbled with a wooden chest, breaking the wax seal along the edges, and extracted a bundle of oiled cloth. Lovingly, he unwrapped the machine pistol and quickly thumbed an empty clip full of fat greasy bullets from a plastic sandwich box. One of the most important lessons his father had ever taught the young baron was to never leave a rapidfire loaded for long periods. The spring in the clip would get weak over time, making the blaster jam exactly when you would need it the most. Vital data, indeed.

Going to a spyhole, Kinnison worked the bolt on the MAC-10 and peeked out at the roof of the mansion. A squad of sec men was smoking seaweed cigars and casually talking as they milled about. The news of the mass escape hadn’t reached up here yet, but it would soon. He had to move.

Carefully, the baron counted their numbers until he was sure all of them were in sight at the same time. Then putting the barrel of the MAC-10 machine pistol to the hole, he cut loose at their shins, blowing away clothing and flesh until the screaming men were lying on the roof, and he emptied the clip into their faces.

Pushing open the panel, Kinnison now heard the alarm bell and knew he had won the race by only a heartbeat. Going to the Firebird launch pod at the edge of the roof, Kinnison looked down upon his domain, savoring the sight. Then he turned and, lifting a Firebird from the pod, hugged it close until his fat arms warmed the missile and he felt a stirring of the pilot within. Leaning close, Kinnison whispered the words of command to the tiny mutie and slid the Firebird back into place. Then he lit the fuse with the lantern that was always present and watched it sizzle steadily. Ten minutes to go. All was ready.

Waddling to the doorway, he slid the external bolts home, sealing off the roof from anybody who might alter his settings. Then returning to the secret passageway, Kinnison worked his way to the ground floor, leaving streaks on the walls from his forced travels. His shirt and pants were in rags, most of his bandages flapping loose, exposing his horrible mottled flesh beneath. The oozing sores still stung from the bath of salt water from the jailers, and Kinnison was ashamed to admit losing a finger in the passageway.