7.
 In the morning, after a quick breakfast of crackers, tack, and dried vegetables, Taxi and Sam surveyed the compound. She spotted a distant crew of shapes moving hazily toward what looked like fields. They carried what looked like tools. The vehicles sat where they had all along, untouched. She knew Sam knew better than to argue any more with her. Taxi saw the fear in his eyes, a fear of losing her, and said as they scrambled down the crumbling hill: “I’ll try to get it over with as fast as possible.”
They came to the chain link fence, and it seemed much taller from the ground rather than on top of the hill — at least three, maybe four meters, she thought — and in excellent shape. The links were covered uniformly with a rubbery looking dark green substance that probably kept it rust-free. The ground all around looked almost as if someone had raked it. The ground was sandy-colored, strewn with sandy colored gravel and pebbles. Prickly dark-green weeds grew straight up, with space inbetween for isolated clumps of stunted grass. Something kept the vegetation here to a minimum, she thought, but the indication was life was not being interdicted. The sandy ground and sparse vegetation continued beyond the fence, in a no-man’s land about 150 meters wide (a stone’s throw), and extending beyond sight to the left and right.
A small animal poked its pink nose out of its burrow. Taxi handed the tommy gun to Sam and, after a brief struggle, used her knife to get the animal out alive. Only a little blood streaked its gray and black spotted fur, and it struggled feebly. “Possum,” she said. “I’ll see if the fence kills it.”
Taxi stuck the animal into one of the chain link cells and quickly pulled her hand away. The fence did not spark, and no alarms went off. The little animal wriggled free and ran in zigzags back to its burrow.
Sam gathered a handful of stones. He threw a few against the fence; nothing. He threw a few into the no-man’s land; nothing.
They waited.
Taxi looked straight up. “Fence doesn’t seem to have any barbed wire kinda stuff. I think I can go right over.”
Everything was quiet. They strained to listen for any sounds of danger, but all she heard was a gentle wind rattle in her ears and make the weeds sway.
Taxi stripped off her web belt and other gear. She kept only her .45, slung around her neck by a white lanyard and tucked into her trouser belt. She took off her boots and camo hat. She stuck the hat into one boot and a small flask of water in the other boot. She wrapped 15 rounds each into two kerchiefs, put one kerchief in each boot. She tied the boots shut so they wouldn’t lose their contents. Sam had a spare belt, and she borrowed it to make a sling for her boots. “Okay, Sammy. This is it.”
He embraced her with a whimper. “I need you.”
She squeezed back, stroking his hair. “I need you too, sweetie. You keep an eye out for me, okay? Watch for my signal.”
She waited one last moment, listening. Nothing.
She twirled the belt over her head, releasing it and the boots to go sailing over the fence. They landed with a thud on the gravel inside. With her bare feet and cat-strength thighs and arms pumping, Taxi M’Koo ran straight up the fence, rolled over her belly on top, and half-fell, half-lowered herself down the other side. The whole maneuver took, like, thirty seconds.
She hit the ground running, headed for the other fence. Along the way, she scooped up her boots.
That was the moment the ground shook and sand flew up in various places. She heard Sam scream.
She spied dull, dented coppery mushrooms rising out of the ground.
Even then, she stood spinning the boots.
The mushrooms weren’t that at all, but brassy crab things, crab-bots, and they raced toward her from all sides.
The boots flew into the air.
Taxi heard the blazing of the .45 rounds from the tommy gun as Sam shot at her predators.
They were old, she saw, but they functioned well. Someone, something was keeping them in top shape. One was directly in her path. No room to maneuver around it, for others were closing in fast. They had her trajectory figured out.
For a second, she confronted it: A hooded, sinister thing, with fish eyes (black pupils, gold-leaf irises) gleaming from the dark under its carapace. It moved on six or eight metal crab legs, but had four long, powerful looking articulated arms with vise-like grips that reached for her. She heard the whirring of its gears, smelled the heat of its internal oils and the rubbery aroma of fresh wiring, heard the crunch of gravel as it dug itself in for stability as the vise grips came dangerously close to her face.
She unloaded the .45 into its face, and the fish eyes winked out. The vice grips snipped weakly in the air. Again and again, the tommy gun chattered, and she heard rounds impacting the thick carapaces and bounce off.
As other crab-bots closed in, Taxi jumped over the injured bot’s back, sprinted to the fence, prayed it wasn’t electrified, and started up. Half a minute later, she stood on the other side. “Sam, don’t waste ammo on them. Their armor is too thick. Shoot them in the face if you can.”
“Take care, baby!” he cried back.
Taxi reloaded the .45. She had 30 rounds total. She listened carefully as she put the boots on. She worked so fast she was breathless. No sound. The bots stood frozen, watching her. There must be twenty of them, she thought. Be a helluva time getting out. The one she’d shot began moving slowly, smoke dribbling from its guts. It moved a few paces and then sank down as if dead.
She surveyed her surroundings. She was on a hillock of dry white grass. Below, spreading in all directions, was a normal looking chapparal of mesquite, reeds, grass, and bushes. Probably close to a stream, she thought.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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