James Axler – Zero City

Jarmal snapped a salute. “Yes, my lord. Of course. At once, Baron.”

The boy seemed to notice a difference in the sec man, then dismissed it, attributing the change to combat. Killing made some men uneasy. Personally, he enjoyed it immensely. “How many Molotov cocktails do we have?”

“Only the six, my lord. Lots more bottles but no more fuel. This is every drop that survived the alley fire.”

“More than enough. Take your strongest men and firebomb the front door and roof simultaneously. Let’s see them stop that!” Leonard scoffed in triumph. “Ha!”

“If this fails, sir, will we leave?” Jarmal asked.

“Wh-what was that?” the youth asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Leave. Depart. Go. We’re getting slaughtered and for no reason!”

The teenager stared. “Are you mad? They killed my father!”

“After he kidnapped and almost raped the woman.” Then, unable to stop the words, Jarmal said, “The crazy old bastard had it coming for years! Served him right!”

Leonard grabbed his blaster, then released the weapon. “Captain, you’re relieved of rank,” the new baron said in an icy tone. “You will lead the troops in the next rush on the building. Take his blasters.”

The Wolf Pack closed on the man, and under the muzzles of their blasters he was stripped of weapons.

“Haven’t got the guts to just shoot me here, eh?” Jarmal snarled, with nothing more to lose. “That’s a death sentence and you know it.”

Calmly, the youth returned to watching the losing battle. “Do as you are told, or your children will beg for the mercy of the Machine.”

Sporadic blasterfire continued from the building, and the sec men shot back from behind mailboxes, vending machines and inside the paint store.

“How did we ever let you get in charge?” Jarmal asked woodenly. “What the fuck were we thinking? You’re worse than Gunther.”

Leonard smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now go die.”

“You heard the boss—git,” one of the Wolf Pack said, sneering, jabbing the former captain with a rifle. “And make us proud, or else I’ll take care of your wife myself.”

“Mebbe we will anyway,” another stated, and the rest agreed, making vulgar suggestions.

Outraged, Jarmal tensed to charge them, then forced himself to calm down. Ignoring their catcalls and taunts, he turned on his heel and marched into the ranks of the sec men. Too furious to think clearly, Jarmal almost registered surprise when somebody pressed a knife into his hand. Keeping his expression neutral, he slid the weapon away quickly. Then a revolver was slapped into his palm, and the troops closed around their old sergeant, hiding him from sight as he checked the load on the blaster and tucked it into his shirt.

“You there, Private,” Leonard snapped, crossing his arms and posing as if on the display in the ville and not in the middle of a firefight.

The sec man turned slowly. “Sir?” he managed to croak.

“You’re in charge now. Firebomb that rad-blasted pit into rubble!”

“Yes, sir,” the sec man replied with a salute. If the baron noticed it was with his forbidden left hand, he didn’t comment on the fact.

Shouting orders over the blasterfire, the new captain directed men to take positions and six Molotov cocktails soared into the air. Two of the bottles streaked right into the open front of the building, spreading fire across the metal cabinets. The other four arched high, going for the rooftop.

STRUGGLING TO STAY CONSCIOUS, Doc jerked awake as he saw the Molotovs soaring through the cloudy sky. As he grabbed the blaster with both hands, fresh blood gushed from his wound, but the old man took careful aim and fired the LeMat again and again. The first shot missed completely. So did the second. But the third and fourth hit. Two of the bottles burst in midair, forming burning blossoms that rained harmlessly to the ground. The third Molotov impacted dangerously near Doc, and he dragged himself away, the gasoline spreading across the concrete but finding no pursuit to feed the hungry flames. The fourth hit the skylight and shattered, raining fire and glass into the building. The burning debris landed on the curtains and barbed wire of the third floor. But dry as dust, the predark cloth instantly ignited and the interior of the structure was harshly illuminated with hellish light. Soon red-hot embers floated downward, drifting harmlessly onto the terrazzo floors, and elevator cage. But several reached the first floor. Now only yards away from the basement, tendrils of smoke rose from the hot flakes on the carpeting, tiny glowing specks that pulsed with every breeze as if living things.