Perception Fault by James Axler Page B

shots from the top of the hill and grimaced. “There goes our cover. Hang on!”
    He tromped on the gas, and the 4x4 leaped forward, sending slower green shirts tumbling in his wake as the steel fenders clipped their legs and waists. The confusion worked in their favor again as the men either froze, wondering why one of their own seemed to be attacking them, or looking to their commanding officer as to what to do about the marauding vehicle.
    Ryan and his crew were able to make it halfway down the hill before any kind of organized action occurred around them. But when it came, it was heavy. Everyone was forced to duck for cover as it seemed every blaster on the hill opened up on them. Ryan felt the jolt as both tires on the right side were flattened, but he kept going, knowing the standard wheels on a mil wag could travel up to thirty miles, even when punctured. The vehicle listed to the right for a few seconds, then the tires on the left side were shot out, as well, and it leveled off.
    They roared down to the bottom of the hill, and Ryan hung a hard right, aiming for the barricade.
    Rachel leaned forward, so close Ryan felt her breath on his neck. “Hey, Ryan, how you gonna get inside? You’re driving an enemy wag and dressed in enemy clothes.”
    “That’s where you come in. Since you’re the baron’sdaughter, I figure once they get a look at your pretty head, they’ll welcome us with open arms.”
    “If they don’t blow you to pieces before you get within a hundred yards of that wall.”
    Right then the engine hitched, knocked loudly and stopped working with a jerk that made the whole wag shake as it coasted to a stop—still at least a hundred yards from the wall.
    “Fireblast! Everyone out. Head to the abandoned buildings over there.”
    Rachel grabbed his arm. “No, we run for the wall, full-out. With me in the lead, they’ll give covering fire. We go into the old refinery, we’re all dead!” When he turned to ask her why, she said, “Stickies live there. When you get to the wall, look for the pink metal. That’s the ground entrance.”
    “Okay, everyone out, move, move, move!” Ryan spilled out of the driver’s seat, grabbing his Steyr. He hurried to the wag’s back fender, tearing off the green shirt and throwing it away, his Sig Sauer a reassuring weight in his hand. “Krysty, Mildred, Rachel, get out and head for the wall. J.B., you all right up there?”
    “Don’t freak.” When Ryan spared a glance at his old friend, he nearly sat down in surprise. The left side of the Armorer’s face was a mask of blood, covering his forehead, eye, cheek, nose and jaw. J.B. jumped from the turret just as a burst from the nearest green shirts thunked into the back of the Hummer. “Shrapnel sliced my forehead. Looks worse than it is. Here.” He thrust the M-4000 into Ryan’s free hand. “Can’t see shit.” He took his precious glasses off and cleaned them on his shirt. Better. “Okay, what’s the plan?”
    Ryan shoved his blaster into his belt and checked the load on the shotgun. “You and everyone else haul ass tothat wall. I’ll hold them off for a minute, then be right behind you.”
    “See you there.” J.B. readied his mini-Uzi and moved toward the front of the wag. Ryan holstered his Sig Sauer and snugged the butt of the shotgun into his armpit. An enemy wag roared up and skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust, inadvertently providing cover for Ryan and his people from the other green shirts. The turret swung over, with what looked like an M-60 light machine gun on top, the gunner about to lay into the companions’ wag. It hadn’t quite gotten aligned when Ryan poked the M-4000’s muzzle out and unleashed a firestorm of hell.
    The blaster bucked hard in his grasp, and Ryan realized when half the magazine was gone that this one was loaded with double-00 buckshot. The scything cloud of pellets enveloped the wag, taking out the gunner in the turret, shredding both tires and starring the thick