"That's odd," Chase said. "My sentiments exactly." He crawled on all fours to the rear of the vehicle and crouched next to the links of the half-track. Taking a few deep breaths, he prepared himself to leap and run. The distance was about twenty yards. He glanced over his shoulder. "Get ready."
Cheryl reached up at arm's length and gripped the handle. She nodded and Chase sprang out. He ran as swiftly as he could, encumbered by the one-piece coverall and the air tank, swerving and ducking, leaping over piles of congealed rubbish. He was glad he couldn't smell the stench, which was probably rife with typhus and assorted deadly germs.
Two shots boomed out and reverberated along the street. He didn't see them strike, but thanked God it wasn't him. The decomposing corpse of an unidentifiable animal lay in the gutter. He saw a staring yellow eyeball filled with maggots, almost lost his footing as he skidded around the corpse, and staggered the last few yards before flattening himself against the rough stucco wall. The rifle barked again and the plate-glass window on the front of the bank, miraculously preserved until now, shattered and fell with a tremendous crash.
One sniper or more? He still didn't know. Looking back, he saw that Cheryl had opened the cab door. Once she and Dan were inside the sniper would have a clear shot through the windshield, so now it was up to him to act as decoy. The upper-story windows were his best bet, Chase decided, and stepped into full view, both arms extended, left hand gripping his right wrist, and fired twice. Keep the bastard occupied and he wouldn't be able to concentrate on the vehicle. Cheryl and Dan needed those few vital minutes to start up and drive away.
Chase ducked back out of sight. There had been no return of fire and it occurred to him that the sniper wasn't all that hot. Four--five? --shots and wide of the mark every time. Could be his weapon was old and in poor condition.
Even so, an imbecile with a blunderbuss would have the corner of the bank fixed in his sights by now. He'd be waiting, finger curled lightly on the trigger, for Chase's next appearance. Time for the old B-movie routine.
He scoured around and found a splintered strut of timber and a piece of checkered material that might once have been on a cafe table. He draped the cloth over the end and poked it out. The bastard was ready and waiting all right--the strut jerked in his hand as a bullet ripped through the cloth and whined away.
Chase dropped to his knees, braced his right shoulder against the wall, and fired twice, then whipped his arm back. As he did so he heard the rattle and clank of the half-track moving away. The electric motor was virtually silent, just a soft pulsing hum. Picking up speed, the vehicle trundled up Collins Avenue, and the sniper reacted with a fusillade of shots. Chase had been expecting it, waiting and watching, and he saw the flare of the rifle in the darkened window directly above the curly x in Roxy's 101 Varieties Pizza Parlor.
With deliberation he took aim and fired three times. The cry brought gooseflesh to his upper arms and across his shoulders. Not human, surely? More like the screech of a wounded animal.
Sweating and yet cold, Chase flattened himself against the wall and watched the half-track, now a good thirty yards away, turn off at an intersection and disappear from view. He moved off along the side street, staying close to the protective lee of the buildings in case sniping was a popular pastime in the district. Crossing the street at a brisk jog, he turned right into the one parallel with Collins Avenue, glancing into every doorway and shattered shopfront, shoulders hunched as if anticipating at any second a shot zinging out from the ruined buildings.
He didn't have fond memories of Miami from his previous visit and this trip had done nothing to modify his opinion.
Distantly the horn sounded and he ran gratefully toward it. His heart hammered in his chest and his rapid breathing fogged the faceplate. He wasn't in shape, Chase realized, even for someone in his mid-forties. But that strange guttural cry, he guessed, had done as much to make his heart race as the physical exertion. What the hell was it?
Nearing the corner he slowed to a walk and buckled the automatic into its holster. Glass crunched underfoot, making him stop dead in his tracks. There was a queer dragging sound and he spun on his heel, seeing a childhood terror made real, lurching toward him from a doorway with reaching arms and dead eyes staring straight ahead. The outer layer of flesh had peeled away, leaving a drab pasty white. There were eyes but no eyelids. There was a gash of a mouth and two raw holes in place of nostrils. The bone of the skull showed through the peeling strips of skin, and in his stricken terror, when the mind seizes on irrelevant details, Chase saw that the fingernails on the outstretched hands had fallen off leaving red tatters of flesh.
