Denver Run

by David Robbins

  “A person could walk on that plastic without breaking it,” Samuel commented behind the Warrior. “It’s incredibly strong.”

  Blade barely heard the words. His eyes were riveted on the creature reclining on the earthen floor of the pit, the creature responsible for ripping his father to shreds.

  The monstrosity was eight feet in length, not counting the two-foot tail.

  In general, its contours resembled a mountain lion. But there the resemblance ended. Its skin wasn’t smooth like a cougar’s; the texture was scabrous, with clumps of its light brown hair missing and replaced by festering sores. The creature’s ears were large and tapered to a point; its eyes were vivid green orbs, slanted at an angle across its forehead; its upper teeth protruded over its red lower lip; and saliva was drooling over his chin.

  “The Doktor gave it to me as a gift after he tired of it,” Samuel was saying. “He named it Beelzebub.”

  The deformed genetic deviate—Beelzebub—rose to its feet. Its paws were immense. A studded leather collar encircled its neck.

  Blade’s body erupted in a cold sweat.

  “You have no idea how much effort was entailed in arranging this touching reunion,” Samuel said. “But it was all worth it! I vowed to seek revenge for all of the trouble you’ve caused me. For what you did in Fox and Thief River Falls, for the disruption of my meticulous timetable in the Twin Cities, for Kalispell, and for the nuking of the Citadel at Cheyenne.

  For all of them!” The dictator’s voice was rising in intensity.

  Blade ignored Samuel. His eyes were locked on Beelzebub’s. The cat was staring up at him and snarling.

  “After I’ve disposed of you,” Samuel was raving, “I will return to my army. We will withdraw to Denver and await the coming of spring. I will consolidate my empire and conscript more civilians into my military.

  Then, when we outnumber your pitiful Freedom Federation force by five to one, I will attack.” He giggled inanely. “So much for the Freedom Federation.”

  Blade’s hands were on his Bowies. He absently gazed at the floor of the pit, 12 feet below.

  “By the time your people on the hill realize something is wrong and hurry down here,” Samuel gloated, “I will be safe with my troops. My Assassins will secret themselves until your army departs.”

  Beelzebub suddenly roared, glaring fixedly at Blade, instinctively sensing the animosity, the sheer fury, welling up within the human.

  “As I was saying before,” Samuel stated gleefully, “that plastic can sustain a man’s weight under normal circumstances. If you’re walking on it or standing on it you’ll be safe.” He snickered. “But I wonder what would happen if someone fell on it?”

  Blade, his attention arrested by the killer of his father, realized his danger too late.

  A pair of hands slammed into the Warrior’s back, hurtling him forward, over the edge of the pit and onto the sheet of plastic. He managed to brace his impact with his hands, but it wasn’t enough to reduce the shuddering shock to the plastic. The abrupt collision rocked the sheet, vibrating the plastic, causing it to bounce, to sway violently, to tremble and crack, and finally split in two.

  Samuel screeched in delight.

  Blade felt the plastic sheet give way. He slid through the gap, trying to retain a tenuous grip on part of the plastic. His left side bore the brunt of the impact. One half of the sheet thudded into the earth an inch from his head, almost decapitating him.

  “Pull!” the dictator was bellowing. “Pull! Pull!”

  Blade found himself on the ground in the middle of the pit. The two halves of the plastic sheet had caved inward, their inner rims digging into the floor of the pit, their outer rims pressed against the pit top.

  Beelzebub was unscathed, but pinned behind one of the plastic sections.

  The Imperial Assassins were grouped around the pit, bent over. They had hold of one section of plastic and were laboriously heaving the slab to the surface.

  The section imprisoning Beelzebub was still in place. Evidently they were saving the best for last.

  “Pull! Pull!” Samuel was dancing and prancing in ecstasy.

  With a united effort, the Imperial Assassins were able to lift the first section over the rim of the pit and slide it aside.

  “The other one!” Samuel goaded them. “The other one!”

  Blade rose to his feet, drawing his Bowies. He began backing away from the plastic section restraining the incensed feline.

  The second section slowly climbed upward as the Assassins strained to clear the pit.

  Beelzebub snarled and clawed at the plastic sheet.

  Blade clutched his Bowies and waited.

  The second section was a foot above the dirt floor.

  Beelzebub pawed at the receding edge of the sheet, growling.

  Blade’s mouth felt dry. He struggled to compose his whirling thoughts.

  Be calm! he told himself. You’ll lose it if you can’t concentrate! He had to forget this thing was responsible for slaying his father. His acute hatred would impair his skill, would make him fatally careless. Concentrate! his mind screamed. Concentrate!

  The second section was four feet above the floor.

  Beelzebub watched the plastic sheet, fascinated by its ascent.

  “Kill him!” Samuel shouted down. “Kill him!”

  The Assassins raised the second section above the lip of the pit and deposited it near the first.

  “Kill him!” Samuel cried.

  Beelzebub finally focused on the human in the pit. It rose on all fours and roared.

  “Kill him!”

  Blade inched backwards. His body made contact with the pit wall.

  “Kill him!”

  He was trapped! There was nowhere else to turn.

  “Kill him!”

  Beelzebub hissed and charged.

  Blade met the rush head-on. He drew his right Bowie back and plunged its keen blade in Beelzebub’s chest as the creature pounced. The force of the cat’s attack drove Blade into the pit wall. His breath was expelled from his lungs in an audible whoosh. He grunted and recovered, slicing his left Bowie into Beelzebub’s thick neck as the deviate slashed and raked with its six-inch claws.

  Beelzebub shrieked and snarled, trying to bury its teeth in the human’s throat.

  Blade knew his arms and legs were being torn to ribbons. He had to break free or the loss of blood alone would be his undoing. He jammed his right elbow into the cat’s neck, pressing those razor teeth from him, and swept his left Bowie up and in, hoping his hasty aim would hit the mark.

  It did.

  The Bowie stabbed into Beelzebub’s right eye.

  Roaring in shock and agony, Beelzebub bounded to the left. Its right eye was split open, streaming a greenish-red fluid down its furry cheek and over its chin.

  Samuel II was gaping at the fight in amazement, unable to believe his champion was hurt.

  The 17 Imperial Assassins ringed the pit, watching expectantly.

  Blade staggered aside, putting distance between the cat and himself.

  Blood was pouring from his arms and legs; fortunately, the deviate had missed his abdomen.

  Beelzebub crouched along the far wall, licking its face.

  Blade gripped his Bowies tightly and stopped. What would be the best killing stroke? To the neck? To the heart? To the head? The cat wasn’t—

  Something sharp lanced into Blade’s right shoulder. He twisted to the right as a lancing spasm tore through his arm.

  What?

  Samuel was laughing.

  Blade grit his teeth and glanced at his right arm. A throwing knife was sunk to the hilt in his shoulder. He looked up at the pit rim.

  Samuel II was patting an Assassin on the back.

  Now what? Was Samuel expecting him to fight Beelzebub and the Assassins simultaneously? Blade slid his left Bowie into its sheath, reached across his broad chest, and wrenched the throwing knife from his shoulder. His right arm became a river of blood.

/>   Samuel leaned over the edge of the pit. “What’s wrong, Warrior?” he baited Blade. “Where’s your vaunted proficiency now? I was misled. My men told me you were deadly, someone to be feared. Yet all I see is a pathetic muscle-bound clod!” He giggled, rubbing his boney hands together. “Did you really think you could defeat me? Me?”

  Blade saw Beelzebub crouching for another spring. Taking on the deviate and the Assassins at the same time was impossible. He needed a distraction, something completely unexpected, something to divert the Assassins while he dealt with the cat.

  But what?

  Samuel’s smirking visage provided the answer. He was still leaning over the pit, reveling in his impending victory.

  “You’re forgetting one thing!” Blade shouted, keeping his eyes on Beelzebub.

  “What’s that?” Samuel replied, scoffing.

  “An old saying we have in the Family,” Blade stated, dropping his left arm to his side.

  “Well, what the hell is it?” Samuel demanded.

  Blade slowly smiled. “Never count your chickens until they’re hatched.”

  “I don’t get the point,” Samuel said, puzzled.

  “You will.” Blade’s left arm flashed upward. The throwing knife streaked straight and true, the result of innumerable hours spent in practice.

  Samuel’s eyes widened in startled wonder as the throwing knife penetrated his throat and stuck fast. He gagged, dribbling blood from his mouth, and reached for the knife in an attempt to draw it out. His body quivered, then pitched headlong into the pit.

  Just as Beelzebub charged again.

  Blade ducked to his right, avoiding those raking claws, and the cat reached the wall and whirled to confront its foe.

  Samuel’s body thumped to the dirt floor a foot to the left of the deviate.

  Beelzebub spun, automatically facing in the direction of the sound, thinking the noise was produced by another opponent.

  Blade made his move. He leaped, diving for the cat, his arms outstretched, the Bowies angled outwards. Before Beelzebub could react, Blade was on him, plunging the Bowies home. The left Bowie drove into the cat’s right ear, even as the right speared into its left eye.

  Beelzebub went into a frenzy, its body contorting and writhing, jerking spasmodically, wildly jerking and twisting in every direction.

  Blade was tossed from the uncontrollable deviate, unable to withstand the animal’s death throes. He felt his head smack against a hard surface, and the world reeled before his eyes. Vertigo engulfed him and he fell to his knees.

  Get up!

  On your feet!

  His mind was screaming at him to stand! The Assassins would use him for a pincushion if he didn’t get to his feet! Blade struggled to stand. He heard a loud cry arise overhead, followed by the clanging of metal upon metal. A machine gun burped. He shook his head, his vision clearing.

  Beelzebub was lying on the floor, flat on its stomach, the Bowies protruding from its head, dead.

  There was a confused blur of activity on the rim of the pit. Swords swinging. Guns blasting. Yelling.

  Blade thought he saw Rikki-Tikki-Tavi cut an Assassin from chin to navel with his katana. And wasn’t that Yama, scimitar in hand, taking the arm off another man in black? His mind was rambling. What had he hit his head on?

  One of the Assassins jumped to the pit floor. He raised his sword and closed on the Warrior.

  The last sight Blade saw before losing conscious was that of a brown, furry form leaping onto the Assassin and bearing him to the ground.

  Who the…

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Day four of the siege.

  Dawn.

  Hickok stood on the bank of the moat directly across from the opening in the west wall. He surveyed the pile of bodies lining the bank, then glanced to his right and left. Formed in a skirmish line were 25 defenders in each direction—50 fighters in all. It would have to be enough.

  The rest was up to Spartacus.

  “How much longer do you think it will be?” Sherry asked. She was standing to the gunman’s left. Her left shoulder was bandaged.

  “Soon,” Seiko answered. He was five feet to Hickok’s right. “Very soon.”

  Spartacus and Ares, as well as 138 other defenders, were absent from the line. So was Shane.

  “I pray your plan works,” Seiko said to Hickok.

  “You and me both, pard,” the gunman responded. He licked his lips and listened for the inevitable sound signaling the onslaught.

  During the preceding evening Brutus had regrouped his forces, moving almost all of his troops into the forest on the west side of the Home. Only a handful remained to the north, east, and south, enough to serve as lookouts in case the defenders attempted to escape. The night had been moonless and tranquil, and shortly before dawn the sentries had joined their comrades in the trees.

  “Don’t fire until I give the word!” Hickok reminded them.

  Brutus wasn’t wasting any time. The section of the rampart above the ruined drawbridge suddenly exploded in a shower of brick and dust.

  “Get ready!” Hickok shouted.

  Two more rounds hit the west wall near the ruined drawbridge, widening the rift even further.

  Hickok wondered what type of artillery they were using. He couldn’t hear the shattering blast of a cannon and their tank was now a home for the fish in the moat. So what was it? What could easily fire a projectile 150 yards, and with such relative silence.

  Another shell smacked into the west wall.

  The gunman mentally reviewed the military books in the Family library. He ticked off a list: siege artillery, howitzers, mortars, rocket laun—! Hold it! A mortar would fit the bill. The 81-millimeter mortar could fire a 12-pound shell close to 2500 yards.

  More and more rounds were striking the west wall, sending large chunks crashing to the ground or into the moat.

  Hickok nodded. Brutus was using all four mortars on the west wall.

  Good. The bastard’s predictability would be his downfall.

  The barrage lasted for half an hour. The 53 defenders on the inner bank were untouched by the zinging debris. The gap in the center of the wall widened and widened.

  It took a moment for Hickok to realize the bombardment was over. His ears were ringing, and his nostrils were stinging from the dense cloud of smoke hovering above the wall, the moat, and the bank. He was thankful Brutus had limited the barrage to the walls instead of lobbing shells into the compound at the blocks. But then, what good would it have done Brutus to destroy a block or two if he couldn’t get past the outer walls?

  There was a method to Brutus’s madness.

  “I hear them,” Seiko announced, raising his Valmet M76 to his shoulder.

  Hickok heard them too. The pounding of hundreds of feet on the hard earth beyond the west wall.

  This was it.

  Brutus was throwing everything he had at the breach in the west wall.

  “Here they come!” Hickok barked.

  “Take care, lover,” Sherry said tenderly.

  The gunman glanced at her. She was staring at him lovingly, her affection reflected in her green eyes. “You take care,” he told her. He opened his mouth to say more, to let her know he loved her.

  He was out of time.

  The Civilized Zone soldiers surged through the breach in the west wall, a horde of green intent on the total destruction of the Home, the sunlight glinting off their M-16’s and their bayonets. A tremendous shout arose from the troops as they saw the defenders standing on the other side of the five-foot wall of bodies on the inner bank.

  “Fire!” Hickok commanded.

  Mayhem ensued.

  Although the swirling smoke limited visibility, both sides could distinguish each other. The defenders opened up, pouring shots into the green mass in the breach, downing dozens.

  For their part, the soldiers returned the fire as best they could. Some of them carried crude wooden platforms, actually small rafts. They tossed the raft
s into the moat, one after the other, while others scrambled onto the platforms and frantically began lashing them together into a makeshift bridge. Their task was faciliated by the stacked wall of bodies on the inner bank; the defenders couldn’t see into the moat unless then ran up to the bodies and peered over the top, exposing their heads and shoulders.

  Even as one group of soliders constructed their bridge, five platoons were scaling the west wall, using ladders to reach the parapet and scramble under the barbed wire to the rampart. The first dozen were immediately slain by the defenders, but as more and more of them reached the rampart, they spilled from the rampart onto the wooden stairs over the moat. Eight of them reached the top of the stairs and were promptly perforated with bullets. But the rest kept coming, and within minutes a steady stream of troopers was racing down the stairs to the inner bank. The wall of dead soldiers ran behind the stairs, posing another obstacle. Horrified at the sight of their deceased companions callously piled on the rough ground, the troopers hesitated, balking at the idea of touching the bodies. But the only avenue of approach to the defenders was over the wall of corpses, and after their initial hesitation the soldiers rallied and started over the bodies.

  The defenders blasted them as the troopers clambered over the corpses.

  For every soldier shot, two more took his place.

  In the moat, the troopers had hastily finished their crude bridge. It wobbled and swayed in the stream, but by angling the platforms past the tank and securing several of them to the armored vehicle, they erected a functional bridge four feet wide.

  Brutus was in the Home.

  Hickok had emptied his Daewoo Max II into the attackers. He clutched the gun by the barrel and ran up to the wall of bodies.

  A soldier was climbing over the stack of corpses.

  Hickok swung the Daewoo, catching the trooper on the right cheek, splitting it open and knocking the soldier to the far side. He glanced in both directions.