Gray Panthers: Dixie by David Guenther Page B

drops first. Medic Two will fly chase. Let’s do what we need to do, and everyone comes home.” Lemons worried about what more he should have planned, since like everyone else in both shuttles it was his first actual mission.
    The mood in the chase shuttle was optimistic. Dixie had kicked ass saving Earth. Then they had headed back to Dixie and kicked ass again in orbit. Now all they knew was that they were playing it safe before coming home. Lemons worried about the risk of biological warfare being used against them all.
    Scotty was the first to hear the shuttles coming in and wondered what they thought they were doing. He was impressed by the pilots’ formation flying as Sam dropped to his side.
    “What are they doing? Semmes reported the danger. I listened to him give the report,” Scotty exclaimed angrily.
    “I’m sure they want to send in a team to verify and get samples. No senior officer is going to say they did something based on what a lieutenant told them,” Sam replied.
    As the first shuttle stopped in midair and prepared to drop down, a red laser beam from the city’s self-defense battery sliced it in half. Miraculously, it didn’t explode or catch fire. The two halves crashed to the ground, spilling out the occupants. The second shuttle dipped and charged toward the laser battery. Four lines of red lasers shot out from the shuttle and merged on the self-defense battery, causing it to explode. A huge ball of fire rose and filled the sky with dense black smoke. The shuttle made one more pass over the city before turning back to the downed shuttle.
    Six injured survivors were trying to help each other out of the rubble, none of them realizing that the wobblers were almost upon them.
    “Damn! What’s that smell?” one of the marines asked. Though the air already reeked of fuel, scorched metal, and burnt insulation mixed with blood and other bodily fluids, a thick new stench overpowered the rest—a putrid combination of excrement and rotten meat. Two of the injured marines looked up in time to see the horror in front of them. They reached for their pistols, since their carbines had been lost in the crash.
    “I can’t do it!” The corporal reversed his grip on the automatic and punched a woman in the side of her face with it. As the woman fell, he stepped on her and swung again, making contact with an old man wearing a hospital gown. When the old man hit the ground, the corporal stepped on his soft stomach and propelled himself clear, congratulating himself for only getting a few bites and scratches in his dash to freedom.
    The wounded medic pulled a metal rod from the meaty portion of his thigh and quickly tied off his leg with a rag bandage. Nodding to the remaining survivors, he picked up the metal rod and swung it in the air.
    “Okay, you guys go the same way the corporal did and I’ll bring up the rear. since I can’t move as fast,” the medic shouted over the moaning sounds coming from the wobblers.
    The first marine picked up the flight helmet that had rolled away from the dead pilot and pulled down the visor to cover his face.
    “Follow me, you guys, and keep moving,” the marine yelled as he bent over and charged through the crowd, using his speed and power to make a trail behind him. The first wobbler in front of the powerhouse was a teen-age girl, who flew a half-dozen feet from the marine’s rush. The next wobbler, a heavyset man wearing a peacekeeper’s uniform, only slid a little to the side as the marine bulldozed through, blocking for those behind him. The next marine clubbed the peacekeeper alongside his head with his automatic, dropping him to the ground. The wounded medic was able to keep up but had to keep using the rod on those who had been knocked down and were clawing at his legs from below.
    The survivors caught up with the corporal about a hundred feet farther away from the city. Now that his fight-or-flight instinct had subsided, the corporal’s training kicked in and