David L. Robbins - Endworld 14 - Seattle Run.pdf

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Seattle Run
#14 in the Endworld series
by David L. Robbins
PROLOGUE
High ground!
He needed high ground!
Captain Nathan Dale paused, perspiration beading his furrowed brow
despite the chill January breeze, and scanned his surroundings for a
suitable spot. His tattered uniform, now little more than strips of fabric
clinging to his battered, pale skin, did nothing to ward off the cold. He
surveyed the decayed, dilapidated structures nearest him, seeking
somewhere high above the ruins of the city once known as Seattle to
increase his chance of success.
Hurry! his mind shrieked.
Manta will be after you!
Dale's naked feet padded on the cracked sidewalk as he hurried to the
northwest, away from the Humarium, away from Pier 59. How far had he
gone? he wondered.
 
Not far enough.
From the rear, perhaps 50 yards distant, wafted a loud, shrill whistle.
They were coming after him!
Frowning in frustration, Dale rounded a corner and glanced to the
north. A cluster of buildings met his gaze, and even in the dark he
recognized the configuration of the architectural marvel dominating the
gloomy, oppressive landscape: the Space Needle!
Another whistle sounded behind him.
The Space Needle would be ideal for his purpose! Dale ran toward the
Needle, feeling the backpack he'd stolen sway back and forth as the
shortwave inside shifted with each step. He should have adjusted the
straps tighter, but there simply hadn't been time.
The wind increased, stirring his long brown hair.
Dale vividly recalled the first time he'd seen the Space Needle, as his
ship, the destroyer CN 003, had sailed into Elliott Bay. During the ship's
navigation of Puget Sound he had been preoccupied on the bridge, and he
hadn't bothered to note any of the landmarks until the destroyer had
passed West Point. Now, as he jogged in the direction of his possible
salvation. Dale tried to remember all he could about this particular
section of the former metropolis. Think! he goaded himself. He'd attended
several briefings on the layout of Seattle before departing San Francisco,
and the pertinent facts came back to him in a rush as he passed the
benighted Pacific Science Center.
The Space Needle was 605 feet high, perfect to broadcast from. It was
situated in the 74-acre Seattle Center, or what was left of the Center after
more than a century of abandoned neglect. Most of the buildings had been
extensively damaged by the elements during the intervening 105 years.
The quarter moon overhead provided scant illumination, just enough to
accentuate the stark barrenness of the relics from a bygone era and
emphasize the glory which once was.
A feral dog howled far off to the east.
Dale slowed slightly, reminding himself not to become careless. Manta
 
and his cronies weren't the only danger lurking in Seattle; there were the
Sharks, the wild animals, and of course, the bestial mutants in their many
bizarre shapes and sizes. He certainly didn't want to blunder into one of
them, not at night, not when he was unarmed. Fortunately, the Sharks
seldom ventured west of Interstate 5, and the wild animals and their
genetically deviate kin, the mutated fauna so prevalent since World War
Three, were not very numerous near the water.
Manta and company saw to that.
Dale's chest was aching, the consequence of his prolonged
imprisonment. Four months of improper nutrition and enforced labor had
taken their toll on his once-robust physique. An acute pain lanced his left
side as he neared his destination.
The Space Needle seemed to reach the very stars. The saucer-shaped
dome at the top, like the rest of Seattle, was enveloped by an inky
nocturnal veil. The metal tower supporting the dome, once polished and
gleaming as a lure to countless tourists, had long since lost its luster, and
the concave framework appeared to be tilting several degees to the west.
Dale stopped at the base of the Needle, catching his breath, doubled
over. How in the world was he going to get to the top? Broadcasting from
the Needle's pinnacle would serve to minimize potential interference from
the nearby structures, but the task of ascending the tower without the aid
of an elevator promised to tax his diminished strength to the utmost.
But what other choice did he have?
None.
Dale moved along the bottom of the tower, seeking an entrance. He
found a door ajar and halted, listening. His brown eyes detected a line of
faint black lettering on the light-colored door, barely visible but legible if
he placed his nose next to the large faded print. NO ADMITTANCE.
EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Where did it lead?
Dale cautiously entered the tower and was elated to discover a flight of
stairs. He craned his neck, trying to see the underside of the dome, but the
Stygian shadows swallowed up everything more than 20 feet overhead.
 
Was anyone… or anything… in the tower?
There was only one way to find out.
Dale squared his slim shoulders and started up the stairs. The air
inside the tower was muggy, making breathing difficult. He ignored the
discomfort as he forged ever upward, speculating on whether his gambit
would pay off. What were the odds someone would be listening when he
broadcast his Mayday? Shortwave sets were scarce, even in California, and
the number of shortwave enthusiasts had drastically dwindled after the
war. There were perhaps two dozen functional sets in all of California, but
if just one shortwave operator was monitoring the airwaves, then the hope
of a rescue, however slim the hope might be, outweighed the risks. One of
the hams, after all, had first monitored an S.O.S. coming from Seattle.
A long time passed without a hint of pursuit.
A sudden draft of frigid air brought Dale up short. He gazed upward,
surprised to see the outline of the underside of the dome not more than 15
feet away. He was almost there! Excited, he hurried to the top of the
stairwell and found another open door. This one afforded access to the
dome. Even in the dim light, he could distinguish the jumble of upended
and broken furniture and other debris littering the interior. He walked to
the right, toward the windows ringing the former revolving restaurant,
and a fresh breeze tingled his skin and ruffled his beard. For a moment he
was distracted, wishing he had a razor. Four months without shaving had
produced a long mustache and a bushy beard, neither of which he liked.
The wind increased as he neared the windows. His eyes narrowed as he
noticed many of the panes were broken or missing.
Now was the time!
Dale halted and quickly unslung the backpack. He opened the top flap,
then nastily removed the shortwave unit. This particular model had been
manufactured shortly before the war, using the ultimate in prewar
state-of-the-art technology and miniature components. Unlike its bulky
predecessors, which had taken up a lot of space and required a big
external antenna, this streamlined, compact model incorporated an
antenna into its housing. And unlike the earlier versions, which had relied
on conventional AC electric outlets, this unit was energized by an
incredibly powerful battery.
 
What was that?
Dale stiffened, listening. He thought he'd heard a thumping noise
emanating from the bowels of the tower.
The gillmen?
Dale hastily flicked on the POWER button, and the dials and indicators
became aglow with a pale greenish light. He detached the silver pencil
mike from its holder and raised it to his lips. A hasty check of the meters
verified the unit was operating properly. Static crackled from the small
square speaker located in the upper right-hand corner of the unit.
Dale took a deep breath. "Mayday!" he began. "Mayday! This is a
Mayday call! Mayday!"
The static sounded like frying bacon.
"Mayday! Mayday! Can anyone hear me?"
Apparently no one did. The static continued to issue from the speaker.
"Mayday! Mayday! Does anyone have their ears on?" Dale implored,
crossing the first two fingers on his left hand. "Please! Does anyone have
their ears on?"
The static was abruptly, unexpectedly replaced by a low voice laced
with a touch of Western tang. "Of course I've got my ears on my head, you
cow chip. Where the heck else would they be?"
Dale gaped at the shortwave, stunned. Someone had heard him!
"Are you still there, pardner?" asked the voice, "If you like the notion,
we can shoot the breeze a bit."
"Mayday!" Dale blurted, afraid he would lost contact. "This is a
Mayday!"
"There you go again," the man at the other end commented. "This isn't
May, you ding-a-ling. This is the month of January. Didn't your ma ever
teach you how to tell what month it is? May is the one with all the
flowers."
 

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