Virtual Vandals Part 17

Matt went inside. Once this had been the front parlor, but it had been turned into a studio apartment. A soggy foam mattress squished with rainwater as Matt pulled it aside. The furniture in here had apparently been left as junk, and Matt had to agree with that a.s.sessment. Everything was cheap and shoddy. Still, enough of it held together to be potentially useful now. He wedged the rusty metal bed frame against the door. "See what's in the next apartment," he ordered as he started pulling a warped chipboard bookcase forward to add to the barricade.

Luc called out, "There's an old trunk in here that must have been too heavy to carry."

Matt had joined him, and they dragged the big, moldy leather trunk toward the door. That was when they heard Caitlin gasp. "We've got to get out of here-and quick!" She ran back toward them, and Matt and Luc abandoned the trunk.

Caitlin led them up the hallway. This was a larger apartment, and they could see daylight coming from the doorway of a room in the distance. Light also came from a wrecked window on the air shaft, where rainwater had lapped like a miniature lake. The leakage had also done a job on the hallway floor. Part of it had crumbled away, falling into the cellar below. A six-foot hole stood between them and the rear of the house!

Matt stepped toward the hole. The floor gave way sickeningly under his feet. "We might make it with a running jump," he said.

"Or the impact of landing might take us through the floor and down there." Luc peered into the shadowy cellar.

What they needed was a bridge, and fast.

"The door to the front apartment!" Matt said. The three of them rushed back to the front of the house, twisting and pulling at the door to free it from its bent hinges.

Maybe the noise carried. Maybe it was just bad luck that Buzzards came to check the house. When the outside door didn't give immediately, a yell went up. Fists crashed on the old oak panel, and Matt heard more voices outside-the search party must be gathering at the doorstep.

He heaved desperately, and the door came free. "Let's go!" he hissed, and the three of them stumbled down the hallway with the heavy door.

At the same moment, one of the g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers outside decided to try and shoot his way in. Pistol shots echoed down the hall, and a bullet whined off the bed frame in the hastily a.s.sembled barricade.

He's seen too many holos, Matt thought. There's no lock for him to break There's no lock for him to break.

Even so, other Buzzards followed their gang-brother's example. Bullets tore through the outer door and the plywood panels covering the windows. Matt, Luc, and Caitlin piled through the entrance to the rear apartment, glad to put a couple of walls between them and the firing line. Then the firing stopped.

"Your barrier won't last very long against that," Luc panted as they dragged the door past the abandoned trunk.

"What if they go through the houses on either side?" Caitlin asked. "They could be waiting for us out back."

"Let's hope they don't think of that right away," Matt said. "One problem at a time."

Matt and Luc stood on either side of the door. They boosted it forward to cover the hole. Would it work?

Luc turned to Caitlin. "You're the lightest. Why don't you go first?"

She simply shook her head.

Luc's lips went tight. "We don't have time to argue." Moving slowly and carefully, as if he were walking a tightrope, he stepped onto the makeshift bridge.

Breath hissed in between Matt's teeth. He could see see the floor sagging at either end of the panel. But Luc reached the far side and continued on. "It's solid here," he reported. the floor sagging at either end of the panel. But Luc reached the far side and continued on. "It's solid here," he reported.

"C'mon, Caitlin," Matt said. "You saw that it held."

"It sank sank," she said in a choked voice.

There was no time for fooling around. Matt stepped onto the door-bridge. He could think of a couple of hundred things that were more fun than that simple seven-foot stroll. Every step seemed to affect the balance of the improvised bridge and its unsteady underpinnings.

He let go of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he reached the far side. Luc had already gone ahead, exploring the rear rooms. Now he came back, dragging a stinking wooden box. "They were books, I think," he said. "Before the mildew got them."

Matt's attention was on Caitlin, who still stood frozen on the wrong end of their bridge.

"Come on-now!" Matt called. "If we made it over, you'll be okay."

"I-I can't," she choked.

Luc set his burden down. "Cat, come to us," he said. "We cannot carry you. The floor can't take the weight."

She took a baby step forward, then another.

Off toward the front of the house, they heard a splintering crash. "Here they come," Matt said.

It was as if he'd said the magic words. Caitlin suddenly scooted forward, her arms outstretched as if to balance herself. Although she was lighter than the boys, her sudden, jerky movements put more stress on the bridge.

Matt's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached as he listened to the creaks and moans of rotten wood.

Cat had almost reached the far end-but the bridge was dipping!

"Anchor me," Luc said to Matt.

Bracing himself on a solid section of flooring, Matt clamped a strong grip onto the back of Luc's belt. The French boy leaned forward, reaching out to grab the tottering Caitlin's frantically fluttering hands.

He caught her! Matt pulled backward, dragging all three of them from the soft spot. Their bridge dangled crookedly, just a hair away from collapsing. If they hadn't managed to get Caitlin off in time...

They heard voices coming down the front hallway. Luc whirled round, grabbed the box of mildewed books, and swept it on to the bridge. The extra weight sent the door panel crashing down into the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Matt was already pulling Caitlin into the rear room, toward the windows.

There was actually gla.s.s in the frames. Matt wrestled the window open, then helped Caitlin through.

The building didn't have much of a backyard. Matt realized that the back rooms had been tacked onto the original structure. There was just a yard or two of muddy, graveled ground and a five-foot-tall wooden fence.

Matt quickly swarmed over, then reached down to help Caitlin up. Luc had caught up with them and was already scaling the boards.

There was a yard beyond the fence, ten yards of weedy, gra.s.sy, empty s.p.a.ce before they could reach the shelter of the frame house in the distance. Someone had tried to take care of the old building. It had been painted white, with green trim around the windows.

A yell from behind showed that their pursuers had finally gotten around the grand canyon. As Matt glanced back, a head appeared over the back fence, and the flat crack! crack! of a shot rang out. of a shot rang out.

Matt had a second to be glad that the gang didn't have the time or ammunition for target practice. A bullet whirred past him like an angry hornet, shattering a window in the house ahead.

Using his forearm, Matt smashed away the jagged fragments still left in the window frame and swung Cat up.

"See what's ahead," he told the girl, sticking out a hand to Luc. He had to get the French boy in quickly. More Buzzards were appearing at the fence and clambering over.

Matt half hauled Luc into the room, which was filled with bundles of newspapers. Matt stared in disbelief. How long had it been since the Washington Post Washington Post came out on paper? The newsprint was brittle, flaky, and dry as tinder. came out on paper? The newsprint was brittle, flaky, and dry as tinder.

Through the window, Matt saw another Buzzard hop down from the top of the fence. This one held a rifle.

Matt squinted. The body of the weapon seemed too bulky....

"Run!" he suddenly snapped to Luc. "That idiot's got a grenade launcher!"

They tumbled along a twisting pathway among chest-high piles of paper, getting out of the room just as a dull fwoomp! fwoomp! announced the firing of the launcher. announced the firing of the launcher.

A spitting canister spewed a cloud of what Matt figured was tear gas.

The guy is a double idiot, he thought, slamming the door. Tear gas might be useful in the Gardens at Carrollsburg, against people who try to hunker down in their homes. But we're not trying to stay here. We're trying to get out. And a cloud of tear gas will just slow up the pursuit But we're not trying to stay here. We're trying to get out. And a cloud of tear gas will just slow up the pursuit.

But then he heard something more than the hiss of gas. Was that the crackle of flames?

Matt swore. The blasted grenade had set the piled papers on fire!

He ran at top speed for the front rooms.

This is a wooden house, a nervous voice chattered inside his skull. The whole place could go up! The whole place could go up!

Black smoke was already trailing him as he pounded along. Matt caught up with Caitlin and Luc, who were peeking out the front door.

"Fire!" Matt announced in a breathless voice. "Out! Now!"

"But-" Caitlin began.

Matt wasn't about to argue. He threw the door open and stumbled out onto a rickety porch.

Then he saw what the others had been trying to warn him about. A quartet of searchers stood at the far end of the block.

He should have been shot down, but the Buzzards were too distracted.

He ducked back, standing flat against the wall of the old house. The back of the house they'd just emerged from was completely engulfed in flames, which shot into the sky, smearing a pillar of smoke across the red sky of sunset. Here, on the front porch, hidden in shadows, they should be invisible to the searchers.

But their safety was only temporary. Inside the house, the flames were encroaching-getting closer to them every second.

The escapees couldn't stay there much longer. Matt hoped it was dark enough-there weren't any streetlights in this desolate part of town. It was time to take action-even desperate action. He took a deep breath. Maybe they wouldn't notice he wasn't wearing the gang's colors.

"Yo!" Matt yelled to the g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers. "We got 'em trapped out back. Come on!" He waved toward the back of the house.

Yelling their heads off, the four heavily armed youths charged back around the corner.

Matt turned back to the doorway. Heat was pouring out of the house-along with corrosive smoke. Cat and Luc were coughing as they stumbled out, their hands smearing black stains across their mouths and chins.

Got to get out of here, Matt thought. This fire will act like a beacon for every Buzzard in the area.

He set off at a determined jog-trot, the others reeling after him. This was an east-west street. Just a few blocks, a quarter of a mile at most, and they'd reach the safety of the Navy Yard....

A furious shout erupted behind them. "There he is!"

The searchers he'd scammed were back, and they'd brought plenty of friends. Matt risked a look over his shoulder. Perhaps three quarters of a block stretched between the escapees and the gang hunting them.

They're not great shots, Matt told himself. But there are enough of them back there, and some have automatic weapons. If we don't get out of the way, they could get lucky really fast But there are enough of them back there, and some have automatic weapons. If we don't get out of the way, they could get lucky really fast.

"Move!" The word came out more as a croak as he pushed his pace into a run. At least if they got around the corner....

Then, ahead, he saw dark, wiry figures rounding the street corners.

Matt swerved, leading his companions to the shelter of a stone stairway. He swallowed, tasting the bile flavor of blackest despair. They were cut off, pinned front and rear by two groups of gang members who'd be delighted to kill them. They'd have been better off back in the belfry!

20.

A shouted command rang out, and all of a sudden, brilliant lights lanced through the early evening dimness. The g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers ahead scuttled aside like roaches caught on the kitchen floor. The lights advanced at a walking pace. Matt made out the shapes of four Humvees, accompanied by figures on foot toting heavy rifles.

Matt caught a flash of green from the newcomers' clothing. But these weren't Buzzard reinforcements. The green came from the fatigues of U.S. Marines.

Behind the guard detail, lights flashing, was a fire truck! The driver honked his horn, eager to get on with the job of dousing the flames.

Matt suddenly found himself blessing the idiot who'd launched the grenade and set the house on fire. True, it had acted like a gigantic signal flare, drawing in all the Buzzards searching for them.

But it had also drawn the firefighting team from the Navy Yard!

And since the fire was in a supposedly derelict area, the powers that be had sent a Marine escort in case there might be trouble.

The Buzzards had been temporarily taken by surprise. Still, they outnumbered the Marines by a good ten to one. They could try to overrun the troopers and still attempt their big knockover.

But the Humvees had to have radios. If they could warn the Marines-get the word out....

Matt turned to Luc and Caitlin. "Come on. We've got to tell them what they're stepping into. What's going on."

He stepped away from the feeble refuge of the steps and walked into the gleam of the headlights, his hands up.

Marine rifles snapped in his direction, but Matt kept walking forward, making sure his empty hands were visible. "You've got about two hundred gang members ahead of you," he warned. "They've ma.s.sed here-"

"For an attack on the Gardens at Carrollsburg," Cat Corrigan interrupted, stepping past him. She, too, kept her hands in the air. "They kidnapped my friends and me. I'm Caitlin Corrigan, the Senator's daughter."

"Smart girl," Luc muttered.

Matt glanced at the other boy.

"Word of the kidnapping must be out by now," Luc said. "The soldiers will have to take her seriously."

Matt was about to explain that they were Marines, not soldiers, when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

As the standoff developed, Rob Falk must have crept up through the shadows to the steps of the row house that the escapees had just left. Now he rose up out of his hiding place, the old M9 pistol he'd taken from Serge Woronov in his hand, his eyes glittering.

"Oh, no, b.i.t.c.h," he gritted. "You're not wrecking everything I've worked for."