Perception Fault by James Axler

grimaced as he climbed over the gearshift. “Where? More here, be assholes and elbows ever’where.”
    “Just move. Get in the turret with J.B. if you have to. Take the shotgun if you head topside.”
    Both men spoke at the same time. “How am I supposed to shoot with him—”
    “Too crowded aim anythin’—”
    “I don’t care if you have to reach under each other’s legs to pull the trigger, just figure it out!” Ryan slammed the driver’s door shut and spun the wheel. Already sluggish with six aboard, the off-roader moved even more slowly with another person, the engine developing a nasty rattle as he maneuvered the way around and started heading back the way they had come. “J.B., how much ammo left in the Fifty?”
    “About a hundred rounds, which I’m going to need if you’re doing what I think you’re doing.”
    “You got it.” Ryan raised his voice to be heard over the growling engine. “Everyone get out your blasters and be ready to lay down a curtain of lead when we see the coldhearts. Should blow right through them before they can get their acts together, make a run for the main gate or entryway or wherever Rachel’s going to tell me to go.”
    In the back, he heard Rachel ask Krysty, “Is he always this nuts?”
    Krysty cocked the hammer on her revolver, her expression calmly grim. “I have a hard time deciding between just nuts and plain bat-shit crazy sometimes.”
    Ryan just grinned as he pressed the gas pedal to the floor. In all respects, she was probably right—it was a crazy idea, but he also knew the almost incalculable value of surprise, and that was his ace in the hole. All they needed to do was punch a hole in the line and squirt through, and they’d be inside the ville in no time. Assuming the people they faced didn’t have RPGs or mortars or any of a dozen other things that would end his little surprise run before it began.
    The mil wag slowly but steadily picked up speed, until the speedometer needle had crept up to a shaky fifty miles per hour. The rattle from the engine had grown louder, and Ryan prayed to the invisible gods of machinery that it would last a few minutes longer. It wouldn’t do to have them coast to a stop right in front of the approaching enemy force.
    “Ryan, I do hope you know what you’re doing,” Doc said as he readied his ponderous LeMat to shoot out of the passenger window.
    “Trust me. I’ll be the last thing they expect. Besides, how many wags can they have left?”
    He thought he heard Rachel mutter something in the back, but couldn’t make it out over the wind and the engine noise. Glancing down, he noticed a red warning light flickering on the instrument panel, and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
    “All right, we’re coming up on the last turn! J.B., aim for any wags that look like they could come after us! The rest of you just keep shooting to keep their heads down. If you chill one, great, but we’re really just looking for a distraction. Here we go!”

Chapter Eight
    The opening to the canyon was covered in shadow, and Ryan felt a brief chill wash over him as they shot through it and into the hot, bright sunlight beyond. When he did, however, his jaw dropped, and the thought that his plan might not have been the smartest crossed his mind.
    The entire hillside was covered with green shirts—more than a hundred, coming down the hill in loose units. Scattered among them were several mil wags, apparently serving as rally points, since each one had a large group clustered around it.
    Ryan’s packed Hummer burst out of the rocky valley like a rabid wolf among sheep, sowing panic and confusion from the moment it appeared.
    J.B. started the carnage with a touch on the trigger of the .50-caliber blaster that sent a short burst into the nearest vehicle, the bullets carving through the warm bodies of the sec men and into the armor-plated hood and windshield, reducing the driver and passengers to blood-soaked meat. One of the bullets had