Denver Run

by David Robbins

“What is your function?”

  “We’re the personal bodyguards for Samuel the Second,” the Assassin disclosed. “Samuel picks us from his army commando unit. We’re the very best,” he said proudly.

  “Then you are loyal to Samuel the Second?” Blade demanded.

  “We don’t have any choice,” the Assassin stated.

  “Why not?”

  “Anyone who disobeys Samuel is put to death,” the Assassin said bitterly. “Even our families are killed.”

  “What’s your name?” Blade queried.

  The Assassin hesitated.

  “What’s your name?” Blade repeated.

  “George,” the Assassin mumbled.

  Lynx laughed.

  “Well, George,” Blade said, “how would you like to live in a free society? How would you like Samuel the Second’s tyranny to end?”

  George stared at Blade, bewildered. “A free society?”

  “With elected leaders of your choice running your government,” Blade detailed. “Your people could set up a government similar to the one they had before the war. Only this time select your leaders wisely.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” George said.

  “No.”

  “But Samuel told us you intend to conquer the Civilized Zone and rule it yourselves,” George declared.

  Blade chuckled. “Believe me. We have no interest in ruling the Civilized Zone. The reason we are here—and I speak for the Family, the Clan, the Moles, and the Cavalry on this—is because Samuel the Second intends to subdue us and subjugate us to his will. That we will not allow.”

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi spoke up. “We already know there is a sizeable segment of the Civilized Zone populace unhappy with the status quo.”

  “Many people are tired of the dictatorship,” George agreed, “but we haven’t been able to do anything about it, what with the military backing Samuel. Not to mention the Doktor.”

  “You won’t have to worry about the Doktor anymore,” Blade informed him.

  George’s pale features brightened. “Really?”

  “Really,” Blade assured him. He paused. “What kind of reception does Samuel have planned for us?”

  “He has his troops manning the wall.”

  “The wall?”

  “Sure. Didn’t you know?” George asked. “The Army Corps of Engineers built a big wall around Denver, like the one they have around Cheyenne. It was built long ago, right after the war.”

  “How many soldiers are at his command?” Blade inquired.

  “About a thousand,” George answered.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Blade stated. “He should have more than a thousand.”

  “He does,” George confirmed.

  “How many? Where are they?” Blade pressed him.

  “About two thousand or so,” George said. “I don’t know where they are.” He looked up at Yama. “Really and truly I don’t.”

  Blade stood and stared at the mountains to the west, visible above the buildings bordering the park. So! He’d been right all along. Samuel II did have more troops. But where were they?

  “What will you do with me?” George asked nervously.

  Blade gazed down at the Assassin. “We will hold you as our prisoner until this campaign is concluded.”

  “You’re not going to kill me?”

  “No.”

  George breathed a tremendous sigh of obvious relief.

  “What’s the quickest way to Denver?” Blade inquired.

  George pointed to the east. “Take 56 east to Interstate 25. Follow 25 south into Denver.”

  “Get the convoy ready to move out,” Blade said to Rikki.

  Rikki nodded and left.

  Blade nodded at Yama, who stepped back, withdrawing his Wilkinson from the Assassin’s ear.

  George rose to his feet, anxiously eyeing those around him.

  “Let me pose another question,” Blade said.

  “Sure,” George responded.

  “What would happen if Samuel was killed? If the military rule of the Civilized Zone was overthrown? How would the average person react?”

  Blade queried.

  “They’d be dancing in the streets.”

  “You really think so?” Blade asked.

  “No one likes living under a dictator,” George stated.

  Blade looked at Yama. “Take him away. Place him in one of the trucks. Tie him up.”

  “I won’t run away,” George said. “I promise.”

  “Sorry,” Blade remarked. “I can’t take the chance. We’ll release you after this is all over.”

  Yama motioned for George to start toward the parked troop transports, then followed. George moved slowly, limping, his knee hurting.

  “So, big guy,” Lynx said in his high voice, “it looks like the showdown is almost here.”

  “I just wish I knew where those missing two thousand troops are,” Blade commented, worried.

  “What’s the big deal?” Lynx demanded. “If they show their ugly faces, we’ll stomp ’em into the dirt! Who cares where they are?”

  “I care,” Blade replied.

  “Boy, are you a worry wart!” Lynx exclaimed sarcastically.

  Blade glanced down into Lynx’s lively green eyes. “You think so?”

  “I know so,” Lynx affirmed. “Look! You’ve got everything going your way. Sammy is holed up in Denver, pissin’ in his pants. His Army isn’t at full strength. The people will probably make you a national hero if you kick Sammy’s butt. And you sent that guy…” Lynx paused. “What was his name again?”

  “Toland.”

  “Yeah. You sent that Toland guy from Cheyenne to spread the word that you were coming. He was a rebel leader, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he’s out gathering all the rebels so they can meet you at Denver. Sammy doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  “I appreciate your analysis,” Blade said.

  “Anytime,” Lynx commented. “Say, how long do you think it will take us to reach Denver?”

  “I don’t know,” Blade answered. “We’re close. Not more than fifty miles away. But we’ll be moving very slowly. I won’t run the risk of an ambush.”

  He paused. “Why’d you want to know?”

  “I was kind of hoping we’d run across an open post office,” Lynx said, grinning.

  “A post office?”

  “Yeah. You know. Where you send mail and packages and stuff like that.”

  “We don’t have post offices outside the Civilized Zone,” Blade reminded his furry associate.

  “Oh. Yeah. That’s right,” Lynx said.

  “What do you want one of these post offices for?” Blade inquired.

  “I wanted to send a package to Sammy.”

  “A package?” Blade reiterated, puzzled.

  “Yep. A box of diapers.” Lynx chuckled.

  “Diapers?”

  “Of course,” Lynx stated. “I don’t want Sammy to be all smelly when I rip ‘im to shreds!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Where in the world was he?

  The eastern horizon was tinged with a touch of red and pink, indicating the dawn was not far off.

  He had to keep his eyes open!

  He had to!

  But he was so very, very tired. More fatigued than he had ever been. His eyelids drooped lower and lower with each passing minute. And small wonder! When was the last time he had slept? Wasn’t it that nap he took in the troop transport? He sighed. Maybe he should have taken Boone up on the offer to have a Cavalryman accompany him. Then again, none of the Cavalrymen knew how to drive a jeep. And—so he reasoned—the less weight in the jeep, the more mileage he could get out of each gallon of gas.

  His fuel consumption was crucial. He’d barely have enough to reach Denver and warn Blade as it was!

  Boone and his men had arrived at the truck less than an hour before he took off in the stolen jeep. He’d been overjoyed to learn Hickok was alive an
d well.

  He vigorously shook his head, striving to resist his overpowering impulse to sleep. Sweet sleep. Great Spirit, preserve him!

  Was he still heading in the right direction? It was difficult to determine without the aid of a map. So far as he knew, he was in southwestern South Dakota, not far from what had been once known as Rapid City. Amazingly, he hadn’t encountered any opposition on his journey. Once, the day before, he’d seen about a dozen riders on a hill to his west. He speculated they might have been Cavalry riders, but what if they hadn’t been?

  He prayed the jeep would hold up. First, it had sputtered and died in northeastern South Dakota. It’d taken mere minutes to realize the jeep was out of fuel and to refill the tank using one of the spare cans attached to the rear of the vehicle. Then, when he’d attempted to restart it, he must have done something wrong. The engine had coughed and belched, but wouldn’t turn over, and a pungent odor had enveloped the vehicle. He’d tried again and again to restart it, to no avail.

  Hours later, after the odor had dissipated, he was able to get the motor running again.

  But he’d lost so much time!

  And then there’d been the mutate! One of those hairless, pus-covered, perpetually ravenous mutations proliferating over the landscape since the Big Blast. He’d spotted it lying in the center of the road, apparently sunning itself, blocking his path. He debated whether to simply shoot it, but he was leery of attracting unwanted attention with the gunblast. The mutate had been huge; driving around it was out of the question. The highway was hemmed in on both sides by dense forest. So he’d have to wait until the mutate rose and shuffled into the trees. He was surprised the vile thing hadn’t seen his jeep, parked 500 yards away to the top of a low rise. The moment the creature was out of sight, he’d gunned the engine and continued his trip. He could have tried to run the mutate down with his jeep, but the vehicle might have been damaged.

  So here he was, on his last legs, valiantly resisting an urge to cease defying the inevitable and accept the necessity of slumber. He found his mind drifting, and he inadvertently closed his eyes.

  Seconds passed.

  With a start, he opened his eyes.

  The jeep was heading toward a large boulder at the side of the highway!

  He wrenched on the steering wheel, aligning the vehicle on the road once more.

  It was no use! He had to get some sleep! What good would it do anyone if he crashed?

  He applied the brakes and pulled to the shoulder of the cracked and pothole-covered road. Disgusted at his lack of fortitude, he twisted the key to the Off position and leaned his weary forehead on the steering wheel.

  Just a little sleep.

  That was all he needed.

  The sun rose above the eastern horizon, and the scenic countryside was suddenly aglow in soft yellow light.

  He slowly raised his head, glancing around to insure he was alone. He didn’t want anyone to sneak up—

  What was that?

  For a moment, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Where was he, anyway?

  Had he taken a wrong turn in the darkness of the night?

  There were four gigantic faces carved into a towering granite cliff. Each face must have been 50 to 60 feet high. Each had been carved in remarkable detail. The one on the left had an imposing countenance, highlighted by a sloping nose and the firm set of his chin. The second from the left seemed to have his hair parted in the middle, and he had an honest, open expression. The next one in line sported a thick mustache, and the last one a beard.

  Was he dreaming?

  The rising sun bathed the granite cliff in its fiery light, imparting an illusion of life to the four figures.

  There was something about them.

  His fatigued mind sluggishly reacted to the impressive sight, struggling to remember some elusive fact.

  What was it?

  Why did he—

  It hit him!

  He knew what it was.

  Some of the books in the Family library contained photographs and references to this cliff.

  Mount Rushmore.

  Before the Big Blast, Mount Rushmore had been a national monument.

  Those four faces were the visages of four Presidents of the United States of America. What had their names been? He squinted up at the cliff, racking his memory. Lincoln was one, wasn’t he? But he couldn’t recall the identity of the others.

  Did it matter?

  They were symbols of a past glory, a glory obliterated by a nuclear war, a promise of greatness eradicated before it could attain fruition. Those four men were representative of a magnificent history, of a time when the people chose their leaders based on wisdom and loyalty to higher ideals.

  But in the years before the war, the populace had neglected its heritage.

  He remembered now. How the citizens had become apathetic and ignored the tremendous trust placed in their hands. How only a small percentage of the voters had bothered to exercise their constitutional right on election day. And how the people had selected leaders according to their image instead of their intelligence.

  How sad.

  How very sad.

  He yawned and rubbed his sleepy eyes.

  Why did people do it? he wondered.

  Why did they always become so complacent about the most important matters in life? Why were they so willing to trade their hard-won freedoms for baubles, for a full stomach and a life of leisure?

  Why was he babbling like an idiot?

  He laughed and eased back in his seat, clutching his FNC Auto Rifle in his lap.

  If he kept this nonsense up, he’d begin to sound like Hickok!

  He glanced at the monument again, and noticed a wide crack running down the figure with the mustache. What had happened? Age? An earthquake? Tremors caused by a nearby nuclear blast? Whatever the case, Mount Rushmore wouldn’t stand forever. Like all of mankind’s accomplishments, it was destined to crumble and collapse without the constant, conscientious care it duly deserved. Whether it was a noble idea, a lofty ideal, or merely a scientific or engineering marvel, it would expire if not properly nurtured.

  Enough, already!

  He smiled at his rambling, closed his eyes and was asleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Day three of the siege.

  One hour after dawn.

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” Spartacus commented.

  “You and me both, pard,” Hickok agreed, peering at the enemy line through a pair of binoculars.

  “What are they doing now?” Spartacus asked.

  “Nothin’,” the gunman replied. “They’re waitin’ for the word to attack.”

  Spartacus pointed at a mound of dirt near the tree line 150 yards from the west wall. “What do you suppose that is? They completed it during the night.”

  “I reckon they’re hidin’ somethin’,” Hickok said.

  “What?”

  “How should I know?” Hickok rejoined. “I can’t see through a pile of dirt.”

  The mysterious dirt mound was situated directly across the field from the drawbridge. On either side of the mound, their M-16’s in their hands, were hundreds of soldiers. The scene was the same from each of the walls; whether it was the west, north, south, or east, hundreds of troops were lined up adjacent to a dirt mound.

  “Did you get that gas like I told you?” Hickok inquired.

  Spartacus nodded. “Blade took most of it with him. All I could locate were three cans.”

  “It’ll have to do. Where did you put it?”

  “I placed the cans about twenty yards north of the drawbridge,” Spartacus responded. “They’re hidden behind a tree near the moat.”

  “Perfect.”

  Spartacus scanned the line of soldiers. “Do you think we can hold them?”

  Hickok lowered the binoculars. “We’ll do our best, pard.”

  “At least they didn’t attack last night,” Spartacus commented.

  “Did you get
any sleep?” Hickok asked.

  “I tried,” Spartacus replied. “But I didn’t get much.”

  “Me neither, pard,” Hickok said. He surveyed the defenders nervously manning the western wall. “Two nights in a row without much shut-eye. I’ll bet ol’ Brutus planned it this way. Pretty crafty of the vermin.”

  “You think he’s still alive?” Spartacus inquired.

  Hickok nodded. “Yep. I got the impression Brutus is one tough hombre.”

  Spartacus looked at the gunman. “Say…” he began.

  “What?”

  “I noticed you placed Blade’s wife, Jenny, and Geronimo’s wife, Cynthia, in C Block with the Healers.”

  “Yeah? So?” Hickok responded defensively. “Jenny is a Healer, you know. And Cynthia can lend her a hand.”

  Spartacus grinned.

  “What’s so blamed humorous?” Hickok demanded.

  “I—” Spartacus started to speak, then abruptly stopped.

  The clear, penetrating blast of a bugle punctuated the crisp morning air.

  “Uh-oh,” Hickok said.

  Again the bugle sounded. And a third time.

  “Have you passed the word to fire on my command?” Hickok queried.

  “The order was given,” Spartacus replied.

  “They’ll begin the attack any second now,” Hickok mentioned.

  The ground in front of the drawbridge suddenly erupted skyward as a powerful explosion rocked the west wall. Dirt and grass showered onto the western rampart, hitting the defenders.

  “What was that?” Spartacus shouted in alarm as the noise and flying debris subsided.

  “Beats me!” Hickok was striving to see through the swirling smoke and dust. What the blazes were they using? Now he knew why they’d built the dirt mound!

  Another blast shook the west wall, this one closer to the drawbridge.

  “They’re getting the range!” Spartacus yelled.

  Hickok leaned nearer to Spartacus so his voice could be heard. They were standing on the rampart above the drawbridge with other defenders on both sides. “We’ve got to clear the wall above the drawbridge!” Hickok directed, motioning for Spartacus to begin moving the defenders stationed to their left.

  Spartacus promptly complied.

  Hickok turned to his right. “Move!” he bellowed. “Get clear of the drawbridge!”