Page 169 of Dustwalker
A few of the remaining gearheads fired wildly at the fourth floor. The sounds of cracking brick and splintering wood dominated Ronin’s audio receptors as bullets ripped through the wall and sprayed debris across the room. Several rounds struck him. Most were stopped by his armor, but one partially penetrated the casing of his right thigh, and another pierced his casing just above his left hip.
Diagnostics reported mobility reductions due to the damage. He dismissed the alerts flashing across his interface; such damage could be addressed later.
Dozer released a frustrated growl and turned sharply away from the window, lifting a hand to her face. Her left optic had been damaged. Muttering another curse, she raised her rifle and fired a burst out the window.
Ronin returned to his position, shifting his weapon to his left hand to compensate for his inability to twist his hips more than a few degrees.
The gearheads scrambled beyond the tree line. Bullets chewed through the trunks, shredding wood, and kicked up clods of dirt and grass from the ground. The gearheads fired blindly from behind their cover. On the road, more figures approached.
They weren’t friendly reinforcements. It was too early for that, and help was probably too much to hope for, anyway. Warlord owned most of the guns in Cheyenne.
“Won’t be long before they try to flank us, if they haven’t already,” Ronin said.
Dozer’s gaze was grim and unwavering. “I haven’t used you as a bullet shield yet. Maybe that’ll be my chance.”
Below, at least twelve more gearheads joined their eight damaged comrades. With both sides of the conflict behind some sort of cover, a hail of bullets would only waste ammunition. Alpha Team’s supply wouldn’t last through a day-long firefight.
How many bullets had Warlord stockpiled?
“Fuck!” Ramirez’s voice called Ronin’s attention to him. Pale-faced, the soldier gritted his teeth and pressed a hand to his abdomen. Blood oozed from beneath it.
“That doesn’t look good,” Dozer said quietly. She fired three more shots in quick succession.
Ramirez leaned back against the wall and slid down onto the floor, leaving a streak of blood behind him.
Ronin and Jensen rushed to the wounded soldier, kneeling on either side of him.
“Shit, Ramirez…shit! Okay. We got McGowan downstairs, he can patch you up until we get you to the Doc.” Jensen scrambled to his feet. “I’ll get him, and you’ll be okay. Just?—”
Ronin grabbed Jensen’s sleeve, halting him.
“What, man? We gotta get help for him!”
Leaning forward, Ronin met Ramirez’s gaze. The youth’s breathing was shallow. Sweat rolled down his face from beneath his helmet. “Breathe.”
“Fuck, it hurts,” Ramirez said through his teeth.
“Just focus on me and breathe. You can’t stay here, Ramirez.”
Ramirez squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “No, no. I can’t walk. Hurts too much.”
“I know, but if we don’t move, the next bullet that comes through that wall might kill you.”
Jensen rubbed a hand over his face, smearing dirt across his cheek. “We shouldn’t move him.”
No one came out of the Dust clean. No one.
More gunshots boomed outside.
Ronin laid the ancient rifle on the floor. “Help is downstairs.”
Ramirez shook his head again. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t slow his breathing.
Ronin’s processors raced, running through a myriad of possibilities, most of which had a high likelihood of ending in the young soldier’s death. But Ronin’s memory kept returning to the dark rooms downstairs—rooms that were equipped for human care. If any of that equipment was still functional…
Ronin slipped one arm beneath Ramirez’s legs and the other around his back. Something ground and stuttered in his hip. The soldier cried out as Ronin stood, clamping both hands down on his wound.
Jensen muttered curses, pacing restlessly.
