Denver Run

by David Robbins

  Hickok planted a slug in the middle of the form. He turned and ran at top speed.

  The pine tree shook as round after round of M-16 fire poured into its branches.

  Hickok heard the faint buzzing of stray bullets as they tore through the forest.

  “This way!” a man yelled.

  Busybody!

  Hickok altered his course, bearing to the north.

  The troopers did likewise.

  There had to be a way to shake ’em!

  Hickok detected the inky contours of a low hillock ahead. He swung to the right, intending to put the hillock between himself and the soldier-boys.

  The vicinity of the hillock was especially dark and murky, obscuring all landmarks.

  Something snorted off to his right.

  Hickok stopped and crouched, scanning the gloomy vegetation for the source of the snort.

  Was it a mutate?

  Or worse?

  The gunfighter cautiously moved forward.

  The… thing snorted again.

  There was a familiar quality to the noise.

  What was it?

  Hickok could hear the soldiers clumping through the woods behind him.

  Terrific!

  Here he was, caught between the troopers and an unknown menace!

  Hickok backed up, seeking cover at the base of a huge boulder.

  There was a barely audible scratching from the top of the boulder.

  Hickok glanced up.

  A billowy black shape was dropping toward him.

  Hickok tried to bring his Pythons into play. His fingers were tightening on the triggers when the black figure engulfed him. A clinging material enveloped him, pinning his arms to his sides. He surged against the material, struggling to free his arms.

  What the blazes was it?

  He had to bust loose!

  A sharp blow landed on his right temple.

  Hickok reeled, stunned. He turned to the right, still striving to extricate himself.

  The bulky material was constricting around his body as pressure was applied from the outside.

  What the hell was happening?

  Hickok thrashed and kicked in a vain effort to dislodge his assailant.

  The constriction had spread from his arms, over his waist, to his legs.

  Was it a snake?

  Or one of the radiation-induced deviates?

  Hickok tripped and fell onto his stomach. Before he could assess his situation, he was grabbed and lifted from the ground. He could feel his body being carried.

  Had the soldiers caught him in some type of net?

  A blanket?

  That was it!

  Some type of heavy blanket!

  Someone had taken him unawares. They were transporting him some—

  His body was suddenly shifted and elevated. His mid-section made contact with another surface.

  Now what?

  He abruptly began moving, his torso bouncing up and down with the rhythm of whatever he was on.

  A horse?

  Was that it? Someone had captured him and was carrying him on a horse?

  Brother! Were they in for a surprise! They’d neglected to take his Pythons.

  As soon as they freed his arms they were dead meat!

  Chapter Seven

  The Freedom Federation Army was camped for the night on the northern outskirts of Loveland, Colorado. The fighters from the Clan, the Moles, and the Cavalry were in exceptional spirits. Another day in Colorado, proceeding toward Denver at a turtle’s pace, and still no evidence of hostilities from the forces of Samuel II. Some of them discussed the matter as they sat near their campfires to ward off the cold night air.

  Why? they wondered.

  And they were not alone in their speculation.

  Standing alone on the southern edge of his encampment, his immense chest and black-leather vest covered with an ill-fitting fatigue jacket, Blade brooded on the same subject.

  Why?

  First Fort Collins, and now Loveland. Both cities deserted, abandoned by their citizenry. Neither defended by the military.

  None of it made sense.

  Blade frowned, bothered by the persistant thought it might all be a trap. Why else would Samuel II let them have Fort Collins and Loveland unopposed? Why-There was someone behind him.

  Blade’s keen instincts sensed a presence even though his ears had not registered the slightest sound. He spun, his hands dropping to his Bowies.

  The diminutive figure three feet to his rear smiled.

  “Rikki!” Blade snapped. “What do you think you’re doing, coming up on me like that? If I were Hickok, you’d have a bullet in your brain right now.”

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi stepped closer. He shook his head. “Hickok would have heard me. And so would you if you weren’t so preoccupied. What is it? Are you still concerned about the prospect of becoming Leader of the Family?”

  “No,” Blade said, facing south again. “I’m puzzled as to why Samuel hasn’t made a move against us yet. Fort Collins, Loveland, and every spot in between have been handed to us on a silver platter. Why?”

  Rikki, his ever-present katana in his right hand, stood alongside Blade.

  “You are in command of this expedition. What do you think?”

  “There are several possibilities,” Blade stated.

  “I’d like to hear them.”

  “It could be a ruse to suck us into an ambush,” Blade said. “But why would Samuel go to all the trouble of evacuating the populace for that?”

  “What else?” Rikki probed.

  “They don’t have as many troops and armaments as we believed they did,” Blade continued. “We already know the war severely impaired their industrial production. Most of their munitions, their vehicles, weaponry, and ammunition are antiquated. The geographical area they control lacks crucial natural resources. Either they lost most of their men in Cheyenne when Yama and Lynx used that thermo on the Doktor’s headquarters, or their army is off somewhere else. If so, where?”

  “What other reasons might they have for not engaging us?” Rikki inquired.

  “They may have heard about what we did to the Doktor in Catlow,” Blade remarked, “and they’re afraid to take us on. But I don’t see that as very likely.”

  “There’s one thing you missed,” chimed in a newcomer.

  Blade and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi turned.

  He was four feet tall, this newcomer, dwarfed even by Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.

  Only four feet tall, weighing 60 pounds, he was the size of a child with the power of a giant. His wiry body was covered with thick, grayish-brown fur.

  His only clothing was a leather loincloth.

  “What do you mean, Lynx?” Blade asked.

  Lynx came closer. His gleaming green eyes, his pointed ears and pointy chin, and the reddish nails on the tips of his thin fingers all conspired to produce an inhuman appearance. As well they should. Lynx was one of the few surviving members of the Doktor’s Genetic Research Division, the Doktor’s personal assassin corps developed through his experiments in genetic engineering and his manipulation of test-tube embryos. Lynx had rebelled against the Doktor and joined the Freedom Federation’s cause.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi stared at the creature, perplexed. He hadn’t heard Lynx approach. How was that possible?

  “I may have a clue as to why Sammy’s got the heebie-jeebies,” Lynx offered in his high-pitched voice.

  “The heebie-jeebies?” Blade repeated.

  “I think it has something to do with the thermo,” Lynx said, ignoring the interruption.

  “The thermo?” Blade reiterated.

  Lynx squinted up at Rikki and held his right hand cupped around his tiny right ear. “Is there an echo here or what?”

  Rikki grinned.

  “When we were busting heads in Callow,” Lynx detailed, “the Doc said something real strange to me. The dork wanted to know what I did with the rest of the thermos.”

  “The dork?” Blade absently interj
ected.

  Lynx gazed up at the huge Warrior. “Are you on drugs or something?”

  “The Warriors do not contaminate their bodies with pollutants,” Blade replied stiffly.

  “Hey! Listen up, Dimples!” Lynx said. “I was only yanking your jock strap.”

  “My jock strap?”

  Lynx reached out and tapped Blade’s knee with his right hand. “Are you trying to drive me wacko?”

  “Why can’t you speak simple English?” Blade countered.

  Lynx shook his head. “Whatever you say. But pay attention. You know I used a portable tactical thermonuclear unit on the Doktor’s headquarters, right?”

  “Right,” Blade confirmed.

  “And you know we call these units thermos?”

  “I know that.”

  “Well,” Lynx elaborated, “the Army had a bunch of thermos near the Doc’s headquarters. They were blown all to hell when the HQ went up. But I don’t think they know that. I don’t think Sammy knows they were destroyed.”

  “Do you mean Samuel thinks we have some of these portable nuclear devices with us?” Blade asked.

  Lynx looked at Rikki. “There’s hope for the big guy after all.”

  Blade’s features lit up. “That would explain it! That would explain everything! Samuel believes we have a thermonuclear device. He’s afraid we’ll use one against his army or on his cities. That’s why they haven’t hit us yet!”

  “It’s a logical deduction,” Rikki concurred.

  “This is great news!” Blade declared.

  “I’m glad I made your day,” Lynx quipped.

  Blade impulsively grabbed Lynx and lifted him from the ground, laughing all the while.

  “Put me down!” Lynx demanded, squirming in Blade’s grasp.

  “I could kiss you!” Blade exclaimed happily.

  “You do,” Lynx warned, “and I’ll bite your lips off!”

  Blade deposited Lynx on the grass. “Don’t you see what you’ve done?”

  “I told you something I thought you should know,” Lynx responded.

  “Big deal.”

  “But it is!” Blade stated. “You’ve given me the answer.”

  “The answer to what?”

  “The answer to how I’m going to defeat Samuel the Second,” Blade said, beaming.

  Lynx leaned toward Rikki. “I don’t care what he says,” he remarked conspiratorially. “Either he’s on drugs or he’s been hitting the brew. What do you think?”

  “I think I would like to ask you a question,” Rikki mentioned.

  “Sure, Rikki-Tikki,” Lynx said. “What is it?”

  “What exactly is a dork?”

  Chapter Eight

  It was the middle of the night. A chill wind from the north blew across the ramparts, causing several of the Family’s sentries to stamp their feet in an effort to keep warm.

  One man, standing by himself in the center of the western rampart above the drawbridge, was immune to the cold. He stood with his right hand on the hilt of his broadsword, dressed in his blue shirt, buckskin pants, and a brown-leather jacket constructed by the Weavers from deer hide.

  Spartacus was uneasy.

  Had he done all he could possibly do?

  His mind was racing a mile a minute. He had tried to get some sleep, but had tossed and turned until, exasperated, he had risen, donned his jacket, and walked from B Block to the western rampart.

  Was there anything he had missed?

  Spartacus was troubled to the depths of his soul. The Family’s very existence depended on his judgment in the crises ahead. If he failed, if he let them down, they would all perish.

  A sobering thought if ever there was one.

  Spartacus reviewed the steps he had taken so far. The Clan’s noncombatants had been placed in F Block and D Block. The Family’s children and elderly were in the cabins in the middle of the compound.

  Weapons from the armory had been distributed. Theoretically, he had done all he could to prepare for the assault.

  A skeleton crew was manning the ramparts during the night. At first light all of the fighters from the Family and the Clan would be on their assigned walls. Then would come the hard part.

  The waiting.

  How long would it take the enemy convoy to reach the Home? Probably by midmorning their vehicles would be within sight of the walls. Would they launch their attack in the afternoon, or wait another night?

  Spartacus glanced to his right. One of the Tillers was on guard duty, a lean youth who nervously hefted the Iver Johnson M1 Carbine he was carrying. The Tillers weren’t accustomed to handling firearms; working with a plow, reaping a harvest from the soil, was their stock in trade.

  Spartacus realized the M1 must feel as alien to the young Tiller as a plow would to him. Unlike the Tiller, he considered weapons a fundamental part of his life.

  Like his broadsword.

  Spartacus gazed down at his cherished blade. It hadn’t been his first choice; initially, he’d wanted to own the short sword. Unfortunately, the short sword had already been in the possession of Ares. Because the Founder, Kurt Carpenter, had only stocked one of each type of sword, Spartacus had been compelled to substitute the broadsword for the short sword. Now, years later, he wouldn’t part with the broadsword for anything; it had become an extension of his arm, of his personality. He looked down near his feet, at the Heckler and Koch HK93 leaning against the parapet. Spartacus had used it on many occasions on the Family firing range in the southeastern corner of the Home. But he lacked the sentimental attachment for the HK93 that he had for the broadsword.

  Guns were too impersonal. He couldn’t understand how someone like Hickok could prefer a pair of Colt Python revolvers to a trusty sword. A bladed weapon enabled you to—

  What was that?

  Spartacus glanced up and out over the field in front of the western wall.

  There it was again.

  A dull rumbling sound of some sort.

  “Horses are coming,” the young Tiller announced.

  Spartacus grinned. There were certain advantages to working with horses and a plow after all. He bent over and retrieved his HK93.

  Approaching horses undoubtedly meant Boone and the Cavalry riders, but he couldn’t afford to take chances.

  The pounding of heavy hooves drew nearer.

  Spartacus peered into the darkness. A vague, swirling mass became visible in the field, making a beeline for the drawbridge. He waited until he was certain the riders were all wearing buckskins, then he moved to the top of the stairs. “Open the drawbridge!” he shouted to the three men below.

  Boone was at the head of the column of riders. They reined in, constraining their mounts until the drawbridge was fully lowered.

  Spartacus hurried down the stairs to greet them.

  Boone urged his steed forward, its hooves thumping on the wooden bridge as he crossed and entered the compound.

  “How’d it go?” Spartacus inquired.

  Boone grinned and jerked his right thumb over his shoulder. “See for yourself.”

  The rider behind Boone was carrying an extra load. The indistinct form of a man was lying on his stomach across the horse’s rump, his body completely enveloped in a bulky brown hide. Loops of rope restrained him from his shoulders to his knees. Only his moccasin-covered feet protruded from under the hide.

  “What’s this?” Spartacus asked.

  Boone slid to the ground as his men milled about. “We were working our way to the Army camp when a lot of shooting broke out.”

  “Were they shooting at you?” Spartacus queried.

  “Don’t think so,” Boone answered. “There was a lot of lead flying around. It was too dark to tell what the fracas was all about. One of my men saw this one sneaking through the trees and pounced on him.”

  The figure in the hide was struggling to break free and yelling. His words were too muffled by the hide to make any sense.

  “We wrapped him up in a horsehide and brought him bac
k here,” Boone went on. “We weren’t able to get close to the camp, but questioning one of them will get us the information we need.”

  “Let’s take a look at our guest,” Spartacus proposed.

  Boone nodded at the rider, who unceremoniously dumped his cargo onto the hard earth.

  The man in the horsehide uttered an audible grunt.

  Boone walked to the hide and began unraveling the lariat securing the prisoner.

  Spartacus covered the figure while the Cavalry riders watched. Boone had done well. This man would talk, or Spartacus would use him for a pincushion.

  That was when he finally noticed.

  “He’s wearing moccasins,” Spartacus noted. “I thought that the soldiers all wore black combat boots.”

  Boone was still undoing the rope. “Maybe he was a scout. I hear they sometimes wear civilian duds.”

  The man in the horsehide had quieted.

  As Boone continued to undo the rope, the folds of the horsehide loosened. The lower edge flapped in the wind, exposing the form underneath to the waist.

  “He’s got a gun!” one of the riders cried in alarm.

  Actually, he had two. A pair of pearl-handled revolvers, one in each hand.

  Boone rose and started to draw his .44 Magnums.

  “I don’t think those will be necessary,” Spartacus said.

  Boone paused and glanced at Spartacus, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Take a good look at those revolvers,” Spartacus suggested.

  Boone knelt and stared at the handguns. It took a minute for it to dawn on him. He looked up at Spartacus. “It can’t be!”

  “You know it can’t be,” Spartacus said, “and I know it can’t be. But…”

  He walked up to the hide and leaned over the prone figure, placing his mouth up to the hide in the general vicinity of the man’s head. “Hickok? Is that you?”

  The form in the horsehide exploded, jerking and thrashing in an attempt to free himself. A string of barely audible, colorful phrases punctuated his effort.

  “Calm down!” Spartacus advised. “We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”

  Boone quickly finished removing the lariat from the thick hide. He grabbed the bottom edge and lifted, pulling the hide clear of the man inside and stepping back.

  Just in time.