Denver Run

by David Robbins

  “I wish they’d do something!” Spartacus complained.

  “No need for ’em to rush,” Hickok countered. “The longer they take, the better for us.” He slowly moved his right shoulder in a circular motion to relieve a stiffening of the muscles. The Healers had ministered to his wounds, applying a herbal ointment and a bandage to his left thigh and right shoulder.

  “How do you figure?” Spartacus said.

  “I reckon the odds are in our favor the longer this set-to continues,” Hickok elaborated. “I doubt they lugged a ton of provisions along. They might have enough for a few days, even a week. But if we can hold out, Blade and the others will return. Then we’ll wipe these pansies out.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Spartacus stated.

  “How so?”

  “We don’t know how much food they’ve brought with them,” Spartacus mentioned. “They could have enough to last a month. And we certainly don’t know when Blade will return. Who knows how long his campaign against Samuel will take? A week? A month? Six months? Remember, Blade vowed not to come back until the Civilized Zone was defeated. We both know Blade is a man of his word.”

  Hickok laughed. “Do you always look at the negative side of things?”

  “No,” Spartacus replied. “I’m being realistic.”

  Hickok cocked his head, listening. Odd noises were emanating from the forest: sawing sounds, hammering, and shouting.

  “Do you hear that?” Spartacus queried.

  “Sure do, Pard.”

  “They’re making ladders,” Spartacus deduced.

  “Most likely,” Hickok concurred.

  “Shouldn’t we be preparing?” Spartacus demanded, slightly irritated by the gunman’s poise when the Home was faced with imminent destruction.

  “I’m working on it,” Hickok informed him.

  Spartacus glanced over his right shoulder at the tank. “What about that?”

  Hickok followed the direction of his friend’s gaze. “The tank?”

  “Sure. Why not? The engine died right after we shot into it, but it may still work.”

  “And who’s gonna drive that thing?” Hickok asked. “You?”

  “I don’t know how to drive a tank,” Spartacus stated.

  “And the Founder didn’t leave us any books in the library on tank drivin’,” Hickok quipped. “Darn! I guess the man couldn’t think of everything!”

  “All right,” Spartacus said. “So none of us have driven a tank before.

  But one of us has driven the SEAL a number of times.”

  “I’m the only one who’s dri—” Hickok began, then stopped.

  “Exactly,” Spartacus declared, grinning.

  “I don’t know how to drive a tank,” Hickok commented.

  “You could try,” Spartacus urged him.

  “So could you.”

  “Are you chicken?” Spartacus cracked.

  “I ain’t no chicken,” Hickok responded indignantly.

  “Then why not try it? What have you got to lose?” Spartacus pressed him.

  Hickok stared at the metal titan. He had other notions on how to defend the Home, but the tank would definitely come in handy. If he could drive the critter. “Are those bodies still in there?”

  “Nope,” Spartacus answered. “I had some of the men take them out and bury them last night, along with those bodies we fished out of the moat.”

  “Keep a watch,” Hickok directed. He walked down the stairs to the inner bank and over to the tank.

  Some of the defenders on the west wall were watching him.

  Blasted busy bodies!

  Hickok nonchalantly hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and strolled around the armored vehicle, sizing it up. Treads. Cannon. Machine gun.

  What was it like inside?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Hickok clambered onto the massive vehicle. He stood on the body, near the cannon, and peered down the open hatch. The sunlight supplied ample illumination to reveal the interior. It looked sort of cramped way down there.

  “Do you need a lantern?” one of the men manning the drawbridge called out.

  Hickok glanced at the speaker, smiling. “Thanks. But I reckon I don’t need one.”

  More of the defenders were gazing at the gunman.

  Hickok peered into the tank again, frowning. Why couldn’t folks mind their own business?

  Oh, well.

  Here goes nothing.

  The gunman climbed onto the hatch, slid his lanky legs over the edge, and released his grip. He dropped to the floor and crouched, getting his bearings.

  Unbelievable!

  Hickok had never seen so many switches, dials, and gauges in all his born days! What the blazes were they used for?

  A small seat was located near the front of the vehicle, close to a panel filled with various indicators and buttons.

  Hickok eased onto the seat and examined the control bank. Let’s see.

  How would you turn on a tank? Would it have a key like the SEAL?

  There wasn’t any sign of a key.

  So much for that bright idea.

  Hickok noticed a large black button on the console before him. Why didn’t they label these things? He reached for the button, then hesitated, unsure of himself. What if the button fired the cannon? He’d wind up blowing one of the Blocks to smithereens.

  Maybe he just ought to forget it!

  Hickok studied another panel, situated above his head. If he was correct, then that panel activated the cannon.

  But what if he was wrong?

  The gunman spotted a narrow eye slit, or port, directly in front of him.

  He leaned forward and squinted through the opening. As near as he could tell, the cannon wasn’t pointing at any of the Blocks.

  So much the better.

  What to do? What to do?

  Frustrated by his own indecision, Hickok stabbed the large black button.

  The engine kicked over, thundered for a moment, and died.

  Maybe, Hickok hopefully told himself, the motor had kicked the bucket.

  Undaunted, the gunfighter tried the ignition again.

  The engine roared to life, and this time it didn’t conk out.

  Terrific!

  Now what?

  Hickok concentrated on a series of levers on his right. They vaguely resembled the gearshift in the SEAL.

  Were these what he wanted?

  Hickok gingerly took hold of one of the metal levers and attempted to move it forward.

  There was a tremendous crunching and grinding noise, but the tank didn’t budge.

  What was he doing wrong?

  Hickok scanned the instrument panel. He tried to recall every word Plato had said about the SEAL, and the directions given in the SEAL’S

  Operations Manual. The SEAL was fitted with an automatic transmission.

  Hickok remembered reading about another type of transmission, one called a manual transmission. Or something to that effect.

  What had the book said?

  He vaguely recalled a mention of an object known as a clutch. But where would you find a clutch in a tank? Did a tank even have a clutch?

  What were those funny pedals on the floor?

  Hickok cautiously placed his right foot on one of the pedals. He depressed the pedal and the motor suddenly revved even louder, but the tank still didn’t move.

  Blast!

  Annoyed, his right foot continuing to press on the pedal, Hickok pounded on the nearest lever. “Piece of junk!” he shouted, aggravated by his apparent failure.

  Without any warning, and before the gunman quite knew what was happening, the tank unexpectedly lumbered into motion.

  Backwards.

  Straight backwards.

  Toward the moat.

  Hickok frantically jerked on the lever, striving to halt the huge behemoth in its tracks. The rear end suddenly tilted downward at a sharp angle, throwing the gunman from his tenuous seat onto the floor. A hard object goug
ed him in the back, between his shoulder blades. He scrambled onto his stomach and clawed for the lever as the front section continued to elevate, slanting the floor at a 45 degree angle.

  The engine was sputtering.

  Hickok’s fingers were inches from the lever when the tank’s movement abruptly ceased.

  The motor had died again.

  Hickok froze, listening. He debated whether to start the engine and drive the tank forward. The task would be a piece of cake now that he knew how to operate the lever. All he had to do was move the lever in the opposite direction. He grabbed for it under the false assumption the tank was perched on the bank of the moat.

  He was wrong.

  Water gushed over the rim of the open hatch, splashing over the gunman’s head, cascading into the tank.

  Hickok gawked at the hatch in astonishment.

  He wasn’t on the bank!

  He was in the blasted moat!

  The water was gaining in volume and intensity as the tank resumed its backward slide.

  Hickok stood, resisting the pummeling of the water, and jumped toward the opening. His hands briefly clutched the edge of the hatch, but the surging water and the slippery metal conspired to knock him to the floor before he could climb from the vehicle.

  Four inches of water already covered the floor of the tank. Additional gallons poured in every second.

  Hickok leaped for the hatch again, and missed. He sputtered as the falling water struck him in the face, filling his inadvertently open mouth.

  This was another wonderful mess he’d gotten himself into!

  The steel colossus was still inching backwards into the moat.

  Hickok determined to try one more time before there was too much water accumulated inside the tank and his movement was impaired. He grit his teeth and vaulted toward the hatch. His fingers gripped the edge, and he clung to the opening as the water battered his soaking body.

  He had to hang on!

  The force of the water was increasing.

  Over six inches covered the floor.

  Hickok felt his fingers beginning to slip. He tried to clamp down tighter on the hatch, but his fingers couldn’t apply any more pressure.

  If he didn’t make it this time, he wouldn’t get another chance!

  Hickok attempted to pull himself up through the hatch, but the water resisted his every effort, a liquid wall of immeasurable pressure, an irresistible force impossible for one man to overcome.

  But not two men.

  Hickok was clinging by his fingertips, about to drop to a watery doom, when a pair of strong hands grabbed his wrists. He could feel his benefactor straining to haul him to safety. Hickok took a gamble. His rescuer would need some help. The gunman swung his legs to the left, pressing his feet against the side of the tank for extra support, and pushed, releasing his hold on the hatch as he did.

  The gambit worked.

  Hickok’s momentum, added to the heaving of his helper, carried him up and through the hatch. He sprawled on the top of the tank, his legs within the tank, and glanced up.

  “This is getting to be a habit,” Spartacus remarked. He was standing on the forward section of the tank, which was still above the water line.

  Hickok coughed and pulled himself from the hatchway.

  The tank was lowering even further into the moat.

  “Let’s get off this thing,” Spartacus suggested. He turned and sprang to the inner bank, not two feet from the front of the vehicle.

  Hickok coughed as he slid below the cannon to the only portion of the tank clear of the water. He rose to his knees.

  “Hurry it up!” Spartacus cried, waving him on. “It’s going down!”

  Hickok nearly lost his balance and pitched into the moat as the tank abruptly lurched to one side. It was all the incentive he needed. His legs uncoiled under him and he bounded to safety on the bank.

  “It looks like it’s hit bottom,” Spartacus commented.

  Hickok, bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees, his breathing labored from his exertion, stared at the tank.

  The armored titan had finally come to rest on the bottom of the moat.

  The water covered about two-thirds of the vehicle, including the top hatch. Most of the cannon and the rest of the front was angled upward only a couple of feet from the inner bank.

  “Pretty slick move,” Spartacus mentioned.

  Hickok, certain his ears were waterlogged, glanced up at his friend.

  “Huh?”

  “Pretty slick move,” Spartacus repeated. “It almost worked perfectly.”

  “It did?” Hickok absently said, wondering what in the world Spartacus was raving about.

  “Sure,” stated his companion. “How were you to know the water would rush in there so fast? But I still think it’s a great idea, blocking the entrance the way you did.”

  Hickok gazed at the moat, his eyes widening in amazement. He had managed to sink the tank directly in front of the drawbridge.

  “I never would have thought of it,” Spartacus admitted. “I’ve got to hand it to you. This way, even if they breach the drawbridge, they’ll have to go around the tank to reach the compound. It’ll slow them up considerably, and we’ll be able to pick them off. Great move!”

  “Thanks, pard,” Hickok mumbled.

  “I guess you couldn’t figure out how to use the cannon, so you decided to do the next best thing, right?” Spartacus inquired.

  “It was a mite more complicated than I thought,” Hickok admitted.

  “Weren’t you worried you’d drown?” Spartacus asked.

  “Worry? Me?” Hickok chuckled. “I knew it’d be a piece of cake.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “He’s coming around,” Rikki-Tikki-Tavi declared. “Finally.”

  The Imperial Assassin opened his brown eyes, his head throbbing. He was lying on the grass in the center of a small park, completely surrounded by his enemies. Someone had removed all of his weapons and stripped off his black mask. His aching right knee was in a splint.

  “We didn’t think you’d pull through,” Blade said. He stood next to the Assassin’s left shoulder. “Rikki kicked you a little harder than he thought. You’ve been out over twenty-four hours.” Blade squatted, then reached down and took hold of the Assassin’s curly brown hair. He brutally tugged on the Assassin’s hair, compelling the prisoner to rise to a sitting position.

  “Hey!” the Assassin snapped. “That’s my hair!”

  “Would you like to keep your hair?” Blade demanded harsly.

  “What do you mean?” the Assassin replied.

  “I’m going to ask you some questions,” Blade stated, “and I want an honest answer to every one.”

  “I’m not telling you a damn thing!” the Assassin retorted.

  “I don’t have time to play games with you,” Blade told him.

  “You can’t make me talk!” the Assassin defiantly exclaimed.

  Blade sighed and glanced at a tall man dressed all in blue on his left.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi stood to Blade’s right.

  “Looks like we have a tough one here,” the man in blue remarked as the breeze stirred his silver hair.

  “Yama,” Blade said to the one in blue, “I’d like you to meet an Imperial Assassin.”

  Yama grinned, his eyes locking on the Assassin’s. “We both deal in the same trade,” he commented.

  “The same trade?” the Assassin repeated.

  Yama nodded. “Death.”

  “Are you going to cooperate?” Blade asked the Assassin.

  The Assassin stubbornly shook his head.

  “Suit yourself,” Blade said, shrugging. He looked at Yama. “In his left ear,” he directed.

  Before the Assassin could grasp the implication, Yama stepped closer and rammed the barrel of his Wilkinson Carbine into the Assassin’s left ear.

  The Assassin instinctively tried to draw away.

  Blade wrenched on the Assassin’s curly hair to restrain him
. “Don’t move!” he barked.

  The Assassin froze, gazing at Yama.

  “Now, as I was saying,” Blade stated harshly, “I’m going to ask you some questions. If you don’t answer, or if I suspect you’re lying to me, I will nod my head and Yama will put a bullet in your brain. Do you understand?”

  The Assassin moved his thin lips but nothing came out. He considered himself to be an excellent judge of character, and he was profoundly impressed by the flinty glint of Yama’s steely blue eyes. Here was a Warrior who would kill him without a moment’s hesitation.

  “I can’t hear you,” Blade said.

  “What… what do you want to know?” the Assassin stammered.

  “That’s better,” Blade said, smiling. “What was your assignment?”

  “To assassinate you,” the Assassin revealed.

  “Be specific,” Blade ordered.

  “Samuel the Second sent the three of us to spy on your column,” the Assassin disclosed. “We were to keep an eye out for you and, if the opportunity presented itself, to kill you. But we were to let you know he sent us, so you would know who was responsible. He wanted us to kill you slowly. He wanted you to suffer.”

  “Sounds like you’re one of Sammy’s favorite people,” interjected a furry newcomer.

  Lynx and Teucer had joined the interrogation team.

  “Why assassinate only me?” Blade wanted to know.

  “Samuel said if we took care of you,” the Assassin elaborated, “your army would retreat from the Civilized Zone.”

  Blade thoughtfully stroked his square chin. “Where have all the people gone? All the people in Fort Collins and Loveland and here?”

  The Assassin glanced at Yama, then cleared his throat. “They’ve all been evacuated to Denver.”

  “Why?” Blade inquired.

  “Samuel knows what you did in Cheyenne,” the Assassin replied. “I heard him tell one of his generals he’s afraid you will use a thermo on one of his cities.”

  Blade looked at Lynx, who threw back his feline head and laughed.

  “Did I say something funny?” the Assassin asked in perplexity.

  “Never mind,” Blade said. He studied the Assassin for a minute. “How many Imperial Assassins are there?”

  “Twenty,” the Assassin responded, then hastily added, “but just eighteen now.”