Zvarinograd
05-05-2004, 15:34
Arthur Gainutdinov knelt next to the man and touched his neck. There was a pulse, and the man was breathing. While the others didn't appear to be injured, the guard was face down in a small puddle of blood. Arthur rolled him over and saw the side-arm still clutched in his hand. Arthur took the gun and pulled back the collar of his shirt and examined the wound. A soft-slug had pierced the right shoulder, doing considerable damage, but it didn't seem immediately life-threatening.
Then he spotted a small fire extinguisher near one tunnel wall, and noticed for the first time that there was something odd in the air beyond the new building smell, a pungent and sickeningly sweet odor. He looked again at the extinguisher's tank. They'd been gassed.
He could reconstruct the scene in his mind. Someone, possibly in a pressure suit or breathing mask, had hidden along the tunnel in wait. As the truck approached, they'd flooded the tunnel with gas. The driver had been affected first, and the truck had crashed, but one of the guards had fought off the gas long enough to stagger out of the truck and pull his weapon. The guard had been shot for his trouble. Arthur noted that the gun in the man's hand hadn't even been fired.
He looked at the truck again. The cargo bed was empty. They've stolen it.
Now he knew he was outnumbered. It would have taken at least two people to lug the crate out of the truck, and it would be logical to have at least one more as a lookout. He lifted the scooter, fired it up, and made his best guess at the direction they might have headed. His guess was deeper into the new construction zone.
He didn't expect to find the hijackers, given their head start. His only hope was that the cumbersome crate would slow them down.
As he approached a tunnel junction, he spotted a silvery object lying on the deck. He stopped the scooter short of the junction and leaned it against the wall. He cautiously walked over and picked up the object, retreating quickly into the cross-tunnel so as not to be spotted. He rolled the brushed aluminum cylinder over in his fingers. A spray paintcan. Red.
The tunnel to his right dead-ended a few hundred yards on, and the normal overhead lights hadn't been installed yet. Only a few scattered work lights set up amid the scaffolding pierced the gloom. He pulled the gun out of his pocket and, keeping his back close to the wall, inched forward. He heard voices, and an intermittent hissing sound. A spray paintcan.
He spotted the dark figure at the end of the corridor, hanging off a scaffold, putting the finishing touches on an enormous version of the symbol he'd seen before. The symbol covered most of a large set of pressure doors leading into the uncompleted underground laboratory.
He stepped out of the shadows and pointed his gun at the figure. "Don't move! I've got a gun."
The figure let go of the scaffolding and dropped into the shadows. Arthur let off a wild shot but knew he hadn't hit anything. He hadn't used a gun in years, and he'd have to be much closer to have a prayer of hitting anyone. Unfortunately, he couldn't count on his adversaries being as unskilled.
Ducking low, he moved closer, using scaffolding and piles of construction material as cover. He popped his head up, and someone took a shot at him, but he had time to make an important discovery. The crate was sitting on the deck right in front of the spray-painted symbol.
That was good news and bad. It meant he might yet have a chance to recover it, but it also meant that whoever had been carrying it was now no longer so encumbered. He moved closer still, and popped up long enough to let off another round, just to keep their heads down.
He was back under cover by the time they responded with return fire. He popped again, and spotted a helmet only a four or five meters away. He squeezed off a shot and the soft-slug pancaked against the plating with a metallic splat just to the right of the figure.
So it begins.
-----
He slumped to the deck and tried, with limited success, to catch his breath. He looked around. They were gone, out through the elevator while he'd been struggling to survive in the brief skirmish, having two soft slugs lodged on his right shoulder. Then he spotted the crate. It sat on its side near the door, half covered with a sheet of light-paneling. He pulled himself to his feet and managed to tug the panel clear. What he saw crushed him.
He fell to his knees in front of the crate, which appeared to have been shot repeatedly at close range, close enough that even soft-slugs had ripped through its aluminum jacket.
He looked up at symbol painted on the doors, and screamed in rage.
Then he spotted a small fire extinguisher near one tunnel wall, and noticed for the first time that there was something odd in the air beyond the new building smell, a pungent and sickeningly sweet odor. He looked again at the extinguisher's tank. They'd been gassed.
He could reconstruct the scene in his mind. Someone, possibly in a pressure suit or breathing mask, had hidden along the tunnel in wait. As the truck approached, they'd flooded the tunnel with gas. The driver had been affected first, and the truck had crashed, but one of the guards had fought off the gas long enough to stagger out of the truck and pull his weapon. The guard had been shot for his trouble. Arthur noted that the gun in the man's hand hadn't even been fired.
He looked at the truck again. The cargo bed was empty. They've stolen it.
Now he knew he was outnumbered. It would have taken at least two people to lug the crate out of the truck, and it would be logical to have at least one more as a lookout. He lifted the scooter, fired it up, and made his best guess at the direction they might have headed. His guess was deeper into the new construction zone.
He didn't expect to find the hijackers, given their head start. His only hope was that the cumbersome crate would slow them down.
As he approached a tunnel junction, he spotted a silvery object lying on the deck. He stopped the scooter short of the junction and leaned it against the wall. He cautiously walked over and picked up the object, retreating quickly into the cross-tunnel so as not to be spotted. He rolled the brushed aluminum cylinder over in his fingers. A spray paintcan. Red.
The tunnel to his right dead-ended a few hundred yards on, and the normal overhead lights hadn't been installed yet. Only a few scattered work lights set up amid the scaffolding pierced the gloom. He pulled the gun out of his pocket and, keeping his back close to the wall, inched forward. He heard voices, and an intermittent hissing sound. A spray paintcan.
He spotted the dark figure at the end of the corridor, hanging off a scaffold, putting the finishing touches on an enormous version of the symbol he'd seen before. The symbol covered most of a large set of pressure doors leading into the uncompleted underground laboratory.
He stepped out of the shadows and pointed his gun at the figure. "Don't move! I've got a gun."
The figure let go of the scaffolding and dropped into the shadows. Arthur let off a wild shot but knew he hadn't hit anything. He hadn't used a gun in years, and he'd have to be much closer to have a prayer of hitting anyone. Unfortunately, he couldn't count on his adversaries being as unskilled.
Ducking low, he moved closer, using scaffolding and piles of construction material as cover. He popped his head up, and someone took a shot at him, but he had time to make an important discovery. The crate was sitting on the deck right in front of the spray-painted symbol.
That was good news and bad. It meant he might yet have a chance to recover it, but it also meant that whoever had been carrying it was now no longer so encumbered. He moved closer still, and popped up long enough to let off another round, just to keep their heads down.
He was back under cover by the time they responded with return fire. He popped again, and spotted a helmet only a four or five meters away. He squeezed off a shot and the soft-slug pancaked against the plating with a metallic splat just to the right of the figure.
So it begins.
-----
He slumped to the deck and tried, with limited success, to catch his breath. He looked around. They were gone, out through the elevator while he'd been struggling to survive in the brief skirmish, having two soft slugs lodged on his right shoulder. Then he spotted the crate. It sat on its side near the door, half covered with a sheet of light-paneling. He pulled himself to his feet and managed to tug the panel clear. What he saw crushed him.
He fell to his knees in front of the crate, which appeared to have been shot repeatedly at close range, close enough that even soft-slugs had ripped through its aluminum jacket.
He looked up at symbol painted on the doors, and screamed in rage.