Denver Run

by David Robbins

  Ordinarily, the ditch was dammed at its junction with the stream. But whenever the stream threatened to flood, whether from heavy rainfall or another reason, the narrow dam and mud and stones could be quickly torn down, allowing the excess water to flow east past the Home. When the flooding was over, the dam could be rebuilt until the ditch was needed again. It was another of Kurt Carpenter’s safety precautions. “That ditch makes our job easier,” Seiko stated.

  Shane gazed at the ditch, uncomprehending, his mind still dazed from the ferocity of the onslaught, from all the brutal savagery he had witnessed. This was his first major conflict, and the experience had ravaged his soul. Never, not in his wildest imaginings, had he envisioned actual war as being so utterly gruesome, so supremely… vile.

  Seiko sensed his colleague’s inner turmoil. “The ditch slows them down,” he went on, hoping to dispel Shane’s shock by engaging him in conversation. “The soldiers can’t get up a full head of steam with the ditch there. They have to slow to cross the ditch, and that gives us all the time we need to pick them off.” He paused. “We have an advantage over the other walls.”

  Shane glanced to the west. “How do you think Hickok and the others are doing?”

  Seiko shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough.” He was armed with a Valmet M76 with 30-round magazine and 12-inch bayonet mounted on the tip of the barrel. Tucked under his waistband in the small of his back, covered by his baggy shirt, were his favorite nunchaku. Also tucked under his waistband, but on either hip, were a pair of sai.

  Shane absently gazed at the morning sun. “It seems like we’ve been fighting forever.”

  Seiko chuckled. “You will see much more fighting before your career as a Warrior is over.”

  “I don’t know if I can take this on a regular basis,” Shane confided.

  “No one forced you to become a Warrior,” Seiko reminded him.

  “True,” Shane conceded. “I became a Warrior because I wanted to do my bit to help the Family. And because of Hickok.”

  “You look up to him, do you not?”

  Shane nodded, frowning.

  “What is the matter?” Seiko probed, keeping his alert brown eyes focused on the treeline.

  “I don’t see how Hickok does it,” Shane commented.

  “Does what?”

  “You know his reputation,” Shane said. “And I’ve seen him in action.

  He’s been in all kinds of battles. He’s killed—who knows how many? I used to think he was the greatest. Now, I don’t know. I’ve shot about two dozen soldiers today. Instead of feeling happy about it, I feel… ashamed,” he confessed.

  Seiko could read the torment in Shane’s features. “Do you think Hickok feels happy about all the foes he has killed?”

  Shane’s busy brows narrowed. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “I doubt he does,” Seiko stated.

  “But he takes it all in stride,” Shane observed. “I’ve seen him, remember? Hickok can crack jokes in the middle of a fight.”

  “You think he is too flippant then?”

  “Don’t you?” Shane countered.

  Seiko sighed. “I am not here to judge my fellow man.”

  “That’s a cop-out,” Shane said.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Seiko ventured. “Do you believe in the Family and the Home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe they should be preserved at all cost?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe in freedom? In the higher concepts of truth, beauty, and goodness?” Seiko asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you believe in your right to commune with the Spirit?”

  “Of course!” Shane responded impatiently. “What’s all of this got to do with anything?”

  Seiko smiled. “Everything.” He considered for a moment. “I don’t know Hickok as well as, say, Geronimo does. But I do know that Hickok, and every other Warrior for that matter, believes in all of the values we’ve discussed. I also know, as do you, that there are many people in this crazy world who don’t believe in the values we do. Many of them would deny us our values. Many of them want us to live the way they live. Samuel the Second is a good example. He wants the Family to conform to his ideas about living. He wants to dictate the lives of those around him. We can’t permit that.” Seiko indicated the fallen troopers in the field. “Do you hate them?”

  Shane stared at the corpses, puzzled. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “I don’t hate them,” Seiko said. “I see them as pawns in a cosmic struggle between good and evil. Mindless pawns, because they fight for Samuel’s values instead of their own.”

  “But what does all of this have to do with Hickok?” Shane interjected.

  “Hickok doesn’t slay others because he enjoys it, because it makes him happy. He’s a Warrior because he believes certain values are worth defending to the death. If he seems flippant at times, it’s only because Warriors can’t allow the killing to get to them. If you dwell on the slaughter, you won’t be able to function as a Warrior. And then who will defend the values in which you believe?”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Shane acknowledged.

  “Think about it,” Seiko suggested, hefting his Valmet M76, “but not right now.”

  “Why not?”

  Seiko nodded at the forest. “Because company is coming.”

  With a mighty clamor, the soldiers poured from the trees once again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The west wall.

  “Here they come!” yelled a male defender, a Family Tiller.

  Hickok, standing in the middle of the skirmish line on the inner bank of the moat next to Spartacus, ten yards from the stream, raised the Daewoo Max II he was using, and sighted on the opening in the west wall where the drawbridge had once been.

  So far, his strategy had worked to perfection.

  Three times the troopers had assaulted the west wall, cramming into the opening and climbing over the wall. Each time, the soldiers were stopped by the moat or exposed on the rampart. Each time, the defenders showered a hail of lead on the attackers, downing dozens upon dozens and checking the enemy charge.

  Hickok had to hand it to the Founder, Kurt Carpenter. By situating the moat inside the walls, he had presented a formidable obstacle for an opposing force to overcome. If the moat had been located outside the walls, it would have been easier for their foes to cross while keeping the defenders on the rampart pinned down with blistering fire. As it was, there was no way the soldiers could swim a moat and shoot their M-16’s at the same time.

  The carnage wrought by the defenders was incredible. Dead troopers were stacked in the opening and piled on the rampart. Over four dozen had fallen into the moat and were clogging the stream.

  The soldiers appeared again, working in unison, with a row of them packing into the drawbridge opening while a dozen clambered over the parapet onto the rampart.

  “Fire!” Hickok ordered.

  Without adequate protection, the troopers were punctured again and again by defender fire. Some of them screamed as they were hit, their bodies thrashing and jerking as if they were performing an outlandish dance.

  After a few minutes the soldiers stopped coming.

  “Cease fire!” Hickok commanded.

  A cloud of white smoke drifted above the stream. The moans and whimpers of the wounded formed an eerie symphony of torment.

  “Make sure you are reloaded!” Hickok directed the skirmish line.

  “Do you think they’ll come again?” Spartacus asked.

  “Beats me,” Hickok responded.

  “How many have we killed so far? A hundred? Two hundred? I can’t believe they keep coming back for more,” Spartacus commented, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his left hand, his HR93 in his right.

  “Some folks just have bricks for brains,” Hickok quipped.

  Spartacus gazed to the north and the south. “Sounds like the r
est of the Home is still under attack. Should I go see how we’re faring?”

  “Wait a spell,” Hickok said. “Until we’re sure these yo-yos have called it quits.”

  “What would you do right now if you were Brutus?” Spartacus asked his friend.

  Hickok thoughtfully stroked his chin. “I reckon I’d pull back my troops and wait until tomorrow to try again. Only I’d do it differently come morning.”

  “In what way?”

  Hickok indicated the west wall. “I’d use what ammo I had left for my artillery and blast away at one wall until it was a heap of rubble.”

  “Why only one wall?” Spartacus asked.

  “Because they could rush all their troops at us at once. During the night they could build portable bridges or some such to get ’em across the moat.

  If they could get a foothold in the compound, with their superior numbers it’d be all over in an hour or so,” Hickok detailed.

  “Maybe Brutus won’t consider your idea,” Spartacus declared. “Maybe he’ll assault all four walls again.”

  “He might,” Hickok concurred, “but I doubt even he’s that blamed dumb.”

  They waited for the next onslaught, the strain taking a toll on their already frazzled nerves.

  “They’re not coming,” Spartacus stated optimistically after a while.

  “I need someone to climb the stairs to the rampart,” Hickok said. “Have ’em take a peek at what Brutus is up to.”

  “I’ll go,” Spartacus volunteered.

  “Keep your head low,” Hickok advised.

  “You’ve got it,” Spartacus mentioned. He hurried to the stairs and ascended to the western rampart. As he crossed above the stream he stared down at the pale faces in the water below, some of them with their eyes wide open, some with their discolored tongues protruding, some with vacant black cavities where their eyeballs had once been. The butchery nearly sickened him.

  Spartacus reached the rampart and stopped, crouched at the top of the stairs.

  Bodies of troopers were strewn all along the rampart. Some were still alive; they were groaning and twitching in agony.

  Spartacus moved toward the parapet, carefully scanning the soldiers to insure none of them was capable of shooting him in the back. He reached the parapet and glanced over the top.

  Scores of corpses littered the west field, but there wasn’t a living trooper in sight. Evidently, they were all massed in the forest. There was no indication they were intending to stage another attack.

  The distant firing from the north, south, and east walls was dying down.

  Had Brutus given up then?

  Spartacus returned to the wooden stairs and descended to the compound.

  “Well?” Hickok inquired.

  “Nothing,” Spartacus said.

  The gunman smiled. “Good. We’ve got a breathing spell. Take four of our people with you and check on the other walls. I want to know exactly how many casualties we’ve had. Tell the other Warriors to report to me after tending to their own people.”

  Spartacus nodded and ran off.

  Hickok turned to his right. He spotted Zahner, the leader of the Clan, 30 feet away. “Zahner!” he called out.

  Zahner jogged up to the gunfighter. “Yes?”

  “I want you to take a detail and clear the bodies from the rampart,” Hickok directed.

  “What about the ones still alive?” Zahner wanted to know.

  “Shoot ’em in the head.”

  Zahner’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Shoot them in the head?”

  “We only have four Healers,” Hickok elaborated. “They’re gonna be hard pressed to take care of our own wounded.”

  “Just shoot them in the head?” Zahner reiterated, stupefied.

  “Would you rather I gave the job to somebody else?” Hickok asked softly.

  “No. I can do it,” Zahner stated. “I’ll get Bear and Brother Timothy to lend a hand.”

  “Watch out,” Hickok warned. “Some of ’em might have some fight left.”

  “Will do.” Zahner departed on the run.

  “You!” Hickok barked, pointing at a nearby Family Tiller.

  “Me?” The man stepped forward apprehensively.

  “Form a squad,” Hickok instructed him. “Fish those bodies from the moat.”

  “What do you want done with them?” the Tiller inquired.

  “Stack ’em on the inner back, right there.” Hickok pointed at the edge of the moat.

  “You don’t want us to bury them?” the Tiller responded in amazement.

  “Is everybody hard of hearing today?” Hickok snapped. “No, I don’t want ’em buried. Not right now, anyway. After this is over we’ll form a burial detail. But right now I want you to stack them along the bank.

  Make a wall of their bodies.”

  The Tiller gulped and hurried away.

  Hickok slung his Daewoo Max II over his right shoulder. He missed his Henry, and he wondered if he would ever see the rifle again. The very first chance he got, he silently promised himself, he would head for the site of the enemy’s former camp and search for the Henry. He never should have left it at the base of that tree!

  A raven-haired woman with a machine gun walked up to the Warrior.

  “Can we take our wounded to the infirmary?”

  Hickok mentally berated his stupidity. “You haven’t done it yet?” he countered.

  “No one told me to,” the woman explained.

  “Hop to it!” Hickok urged her. Blast! Why hadn’t he thought of them?

  The woman moved off.

  Hickok limped to the edge of the stream. He gazed at the bodies in the sluggish water. Was Sherry’s body in the moat too? Had she survived her first battle? He involuntarily shuddered, unable to tolerate the image of her floating in the red water, her lips cold and damp, her eyes devoid of their lively sparkle.

  Please, Spirit, he prayed. Please let her be all right!

  The gunman frowned. Now was not the time for personal considerations. He must plan his course of action for the next assault. If he was right, if Brutus had tossed in his chips for the day, then the Warriors would have all night to prepare their defenses, to improve and improvise where necessary. How many of the enemy had they killed today?

  He estimated the number of dead along the west wall at two to three hundred. If he was correct, and if the other walls had done as well, then Brutus had lost about eight hundred men. Which meant the Civilized Zone strike force had twelve hundred or so left. More than enough to polish off the Family and the Clan.

  Hickok surveyed the compound.

  Dozens of injured were heading for C Block, the infirmary. Some were walking unassisted, but others were being carried by their friends or borne on makeshift litters. A party of ten approached the infirmary from the direction of the east wall.

  Hickok squinted, but he couldn’t see Sherry among them. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  The gunman’s mind strayed. He thought of Bertha and Joshua, lying on the barren bed of a flatbed truck, awaiting his return so they could travel to the Home and be tended by the Healers. Were they still alive? Or had they died there, all but neglected, deprived of the company of their friends except for Geronimo? They didn’t know Boone or Morton that well. Who would comfort them as they departed for the higher mansions? He would never forgive himself if they died. True, he hadn’t had any option but to leave them there, but it didn’t make the decision any easier.

  Hickok knew he needed to do something, anything, to dispel his rare bout of moodiness. He turned and walked toward C Block.

  The four Family Healers, assisted by half a dozen other Family members, were hard at work, ministering to the dozens of Family and Clan defenders injured during the battle. All of the cots in the spacious structure were already occupied, and a line had formed in front of the building, over 30 people suffering from various wounds, some of them with bloody clothing, some evidently in a state of severe shock, gaping blankly at the world aro
und them.

  Hickok stopped near the doorway.

  A middle-aged woman with a shoulder injury stepped aside so he could pass.

  “Thanks.” Hickok said to her. He entered the Block and scanned the rows of cots. Cries of anguish, wailing and moaning, filled the chamber.

  One of the Healers, an attractive blonde woman, saw the gunman and hurried up to him. “Do you need something?” she inquired.

  Hickok shook his head. Her name was Jenny, and she was Blade’s wife.

  Like Sherry, Hickok’s beloved, she had blonde hair and green eyes. But Jenny had longer hair and a fuller form. Her rounded chin and cheeks gave her a decidedly youthful appearance. She wore faded, patched blue pants and a discolored yellow shirt. “No,” he told her. “I just came to see how you’re doin’.”

  Jenny glanced at the people waiting in line at the front door. “We’re holding our own,” she stated. “But we could use some more assistants if you find you can spare a few from wall duty.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Hickok promised, and turned to leave.

  “Oh!” Jenny blurted, as if suddenly recalling an important matter she wanted to discuss.

  Hickok hesitated. “What is it?”

  “We had to move the prisoners,” Jenny explained, referring to two troopers and one of the Doktor’s genetically produced deviates captured by the Warriors some time back while Geronimo was off in the Dakotas.

  All three had been hurt before their capture and had been housed in the infirmary under guard.

  “Where did you move them?” Hickok asked.

  “We needed their cots,” Jenny detailed, “so we had them moved to D Block. They’re almost fully recovered anyway.”

  “Who’s watching them?” Hickok asked her.

  “Two men from the south wall who came in with superficial gunshot wounds,” Jenny answered.

  “Fine.” Hickok began to take a step, then paused, remembering a question he needed to ask. “How’s Gremlin?”

  Gremlin was another of the Doktor’s test-tube creations. Initially encountered by Blade in Kalispell, Montana, Gremlin had rebelled against the nefarious Doktor and joined the Family. Enraged, the Doktor had sent a pair of assassins to murder Gremlin for his defection. Gremlin had survived the assassination attempt, but his right leg had been busted in four spots, severe breaks extremely difficult to set and treat. He had developed an infection and spent the past month confined to a cot in the northeast corner of the room.