Apocalyptic fiction; Science fiction; Short stories; Sieges -- Fiction; Space ships -- Fiction
The heavy metal wire appeared suddenly in the gloom, and he fell flat
on his face in a little gulley as the tread of a guard's feet sounded
from a distance. A small flashlight flicked on and off as the footsteps
approached. Matt hugged the ground, holding his breath as the soldier
moved silently by. Then he was up against the fence, dragging the
climbers from his pockets, strapping them onto his boots. Cutting the
heavy fencing wire was out of the question--the sound would ring out in
the stillness like a pistol shot. But the barbed wire at the top could
be cut with only a small sound. He struggled up the bare fence, a few
inches at a time.
It seemed like hours. He knew the guard's timing down to the second,
and he worked himself up, panting. It was the dog-watch; the men would
not be too alert, even men fighting for their lives--
He clung to the fence with one hand, and snapped the four barbed
strands with a hand tool, felt them curl away with a _ping_. He dragged
his body up and caught his knee on the top of the fence. In an instant
he had dropped to the ground inside the enclosure--
On his feet, he crouched and ran for the tall, dark ship. The
intervening buildings provided him cover. Down one of the concrete
streets a dozen men were huddled around a small fire near the gate,
talking and laughing. Matt slipped across the street, and saw the
ship's mammoth scaffolding rise up in the darkness.
It was a beautiful ship, tall and silvery, enshrouded like a statue
waiting to be unveiled. He glanced about the grounds around, and
his eyes widened. Great tanks of fuel stood nearby, recently-opened
cartons of supplies were everywhere in evidence. A huge pile of oxygen
cylinders formed a heavy pyramid. Matthews walked over to one of the
open crates, peered into it. Heavy material, plastic, metal--
Space suits.
* * * * *
He opened the pack on his back, drew out the bundles of dynamite
carefully, separated them from the coil of wire to the small detonator.
Somewhere in the distance he heard talking, and he hurried his
movements. Finally the deadly bundles were free.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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