Twin Cities Run

by David Robbins

  Zahner came closer, sitting on the mattress next to her. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you.”

  “It’s okay,” she sniffed. “I understand.”

  “I’ll leave you alone and come back later.” He started to rise.

  Bertha grabbed his arm. “Don’t, Z! Don’t leave! I need to talk with someone.”

  “I’ve always been here whenever you needed me.”

  “I know. That’s what makes it worse.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She raised her head, her eyes rimmed with tears. “I wanted out of here so bad, I was ready and willin’ to turn tail and desert you and the rest.”

  “It’s all right,” he tried to assure her.

  “I was ready to wimp out on my friends,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard. “Now look at me!” she snapped bitterly.

  “I really think you need to be alone.”

  “No. Look at me! I’ve lost my friends…”

  “You haven’t lost us. We might have doubted you, but you’re still our friend.”

  “…and I’ve lost my ticket to freedom…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “…and the man I was comin’ to love.” She choked on the last words, reaching for him with her good arm.

  Zahner, shocked, hugged her gently, stroking her hair. “It’s okay.

  Bertha. Really. There’s no need to get so upset. We forgive you.”

  “I don’t know as I can forgive myself,” she mumbled.

  Zahner drew back, smiling, trying to cheer her. “You really need someone to talk to?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Then I’m all ears.”

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  “At the beginning.”

  So she told him, every step of her journey, every gory detail, about her capture and subsequent sexual abuse and beatings, about the Family and the men she’d encountered, and about one man in particular, one man who had won her heart.

  Zahner listened patiently, analyzing each detail, marveling. The telling took several hours. After hearing about the Family and the Home, the seed of an idea sprouted in Zahner’s mind.

  Bertha finally finished, weary, reclining on the mattress. “And that’s it,” she concluded. “The whole trip. You can still sit there and tell me you like me after what I did? What I was going to do?”

  “Could a soul be blamed for wanting to escape the torment of hell?

  Don’t be so hard on yourself. We’ve got more important matters to consider.” His eyes, for the first time in weeks, lit with a spark of hope.

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Oh, you will.” He laughed. “You’ll follow me all the way to our new home.”

  “New home?” she asked, stumped.

  “Our new home.” Zahner beamed. “The Home!”

  Chaptert Sixteen

  He didn’t know how long he’d been groping in the darkness, feeling his way foot by cautious foot, using his matches sparingly, only when absolutely necessary.

  Great Spirit, was he to wander in this stinking maze until he dropped?

  Geronimo stopped, his weariness nagging at his mind, needing to rest his head, close his eyes, and sleep.

  The sounds returned, an ominous admonition that if he slept, he’d die.

  Geronimo wanted to rub his tired eyes, but if he did, he’d smear the muck all over his face and burn his eyes. How long had it been since the Wack had lured him into the tunnels? He remembered falling, landing hard, twisting his right ankle, spraining the muscles. His flailing arms had touched his Browning, and he had grabbed it and risen to his feet. The girl had laughed at him. She had vanished, and he had heard scraping, and something had been pushed over the opening, sealing him in and plunging him into deepest blackness. He had tried to find a means of climbing out, but couldn’t. Frustrated, he had begun to follow the tunnel he was in.

  The experience was a living nightmare!

  The tunnel’s height varied, allowing him to walk erect for long stretches, and at other times forcing him to crawl through a reeking, clinging slime for interminable periods. The atmosphere was oppressive, dank and dismal. His knees and elbows were scraped raw, his sore ankle throbbed incessantly, and his stomach constantly reminded him of his gnawing hunger.

  Then there were the sounds.

  At first, there hadn’t been any, only unnerving silence. He couldn’t say exactly when he first became aware of the scratching and the squeaking.

  One moment he was crawling along a cramped passage, trying to suppress a growing claustrophobic fear, the only noise his labored breathing, and the next moment something behind him squealed in a high-pitched tone.

  He stopped and tried to peer over his shoulder, fruitlessly searching for the source. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness sufficiently to enable him to distinguish his immediate surroundings.

  Later, he dozed off for a few minutes, and was startled awake by the sensation of tiny teeth nibbling at his left hand. He’d jerked his hand back and grabbed the matches, a box taken from the supplies confiscated from the Watchers in Thief River Falls. He hastily lit a match, and in the light of the flame he first saw the fiery, feral eyes glaring at him from the blackness ahead, red pinpoints of malevolent intelligence.

  The rats.

  Now, hours and, hours or even days later, he was finding it difficult to muster the effort to resist his fatigue. He speculated on why the rats hadn’t attacked. Their number had grown since the first solitary rat had found him and announced his presence with that piercing squeak.

  Geronimo paused, glancing up. He’d been crawling for some time, but above him the top of the tunnel sloped upward, a patch of gray between him and the roof. He stood, his muscles tired, hurting, especially his sprained ankle. A subdued rustling filled the tunnel.

  Time to light another match.

  When he’d first lit a match after the nibbling incident, one pair of red eyes were staring at him. The next time he lit up, there were twenty eyes.

  The last time, sixty.

  How many now?

  Geronimo struck a match against- the edge of the box and raised the match over his head.

  Great Spirit!

  There were too many eyes to count, a veritable wall of red dots confronting him. Why hadn’t they attacked? What were they waiting for?

  He could feel goose pimples break out all over his skin. Maybe they were biding their time, knowing he couldn’t escape, keeping tabs on their mobile lunch. Or supper. Or whatever. He was just thankful they moved aside when he approached, closing in behind him after he passed.

  Geronimo shuffled forward, dreading he would inadvertently step on one of the rodents and precipitate a mass attack. The thought of hundreds of razor-sharp teeth tearing at his flesh appalled him.

  There had to be a way out of this maze!

  What were the others doing now? Had Blade been eaten by the Wacks?

  Had Hickok and Bertha survived and reached the SEAL? Was Joshua dead because of his negligence? It would serve him right if the rats got him!

  Geronimo squinted, perplexed. Was it his exhausted imagination playing tricks on him, or did it appear to lighten ahead?

  Something bumped against his right foot.

  An accident?

  Another small body brushed against his left foot.

  He walked faster, ignoring his ankle.

  The rats abruptly began squeaking and chattering.

  What was happening?

  He was certain now, his pace quickening, as he realized there was a glimmer of light in the distance. Could it be a way to freedom?

  A rat hit his left leg at the knee, pointed teeth slashing through his pants and tearing his skin.

  Geronimo swung the Browning, connecting, sending the rodent sailing against the tunnel wall to his left.

  Another rat leaped onto his right leg, its claws grabbing the fabric and holding fast, biting deep.

  Geronimo smashed it aside w
ith his right fist.

  Two more rats launched themselves, attaching their filthy, furry forms to his thighs, cutting and tearing.

  Geronimo ran, making for the light, pounding at the rodents affixed to his thighs, sensing the rats were preparing for an all-out assault, apparently to prevent him from reaching the lit area ahead.

  All the more reason to reach it!

  Squealing, its muscles like coiled springs, a rat struck him in the middle of his back, catching hold.

  The rat on his right thigh fell, its head smashed to a pulp by his repeated blows.

  Another rat pounced on his left arm, scrambling, missing its grip, and dropping.

  Geronimo’s moccasined feet were stomping on rat after rat, kicking bodies in all directions.

  Something brushed his right cheek.

  The light was getting closer. Maybe forty yards to go.

  More rats were connecting, coming at him from all sides.

  He had to discourage them long enough to reach the light!

  The rat on his back was chewing his flesh.

  Geronimo fired the Browning as he ran, three blasts in front, scattering the rodents. He crouched and spun, shooting twice to his rear.

  He was momentarily clear.

  It was now or never!

  Geronimo pounded along the tunnel, managing ten yards without another rat jumping him, then twenty, and thirty, and he could distinguish the tunnel widening at the end, joining a large room or chamber. The light was coming from that chamber.

  A huge rat bounced off his chest.

  Another gouged his left buttock.

  Almost there!

  Geronimo’s feet contacted a scurrying rodent, and he tripped and sprawled the final five feet, falling forward, trying to catch hold of anything, failing, plunging headfirst into a pool of murky, pungent water, losing the Browning, and accidentally swallowing several mouthfuls of warm, acrid liquid. The taste was nauseating.

  Sputtering and coughing, he broke the surface, shaking his head to clear his vision, expecting the rats to swarm all over him.

  They were gone.

  Geronimo’s legs brushed bottom, and he discovered he could stand, the water level at his waist.

  The rats were gone!

  He stared at the tunnel he’d emerged from, amazed. Where had they gone? Why had they stopped when they almost had him?

  A sharp, searing pain in his lower back reminded him that one rat, at least, was still with him. He reached behind his back with his left hand, his fingers closing on a slippery, hairy form. The rodent screeched as he squeezed and tore it from his back, bringing it around in front of him.

  The rat twisted and squirmed, struggling to get loose, glaring at Geronimo, the long front teeth rising and falling as the mouth opened and closed.

  Contemptuously, he tossed the rat into the water.

  The rodent rose to the surface and began swimming away from him, its legs jerking as it swam.

  Geronimo surveyed his deliverance. It was a spacious chamber, seventy-five yards across, filled with water. Several access tunnels emptied into it. The roof was thirty feet above his head. Litter and rubble clogged the surface of the pond, the trash so thick in many spots he couldn’t see the water. The light streamed in from an opening in the roof at the far end of the chamber. Metal rungs imbedded in the wall rose from the pond to the opening.

  Sunlight! Precious sunlight! It had never looked so good!

  Geronimo smiled, relieved. The ordeal was over! He’d find some food and return to where he’d left Joshua.

  The rat was halfway across the pond, bearing for the far side and another access tunnel.

  Good riddance!

  Geronimo scoured the brackish water for the Browning. He bent over and groped below the surface, averse to diving in the polluted water, recognizing he wouldn’t be able to see more than an inch or two anyway.

  He tried running his feet along the spongy bottom to no avail.

  The Browning was gone.

  He sighed, disappointed. True, the Family owned a literal armory, but the loss of any firearm was tragic because it could never be replaced. The munitions factories had long since been idled. Or had they? After all, the Watchers owned new guns.

  A commotion erupted behind him, loud splashing and a squeak.

  Geronimo turned, noting concentric ripples covering the surface thirty yards away. There was no sign of the rat. The lure of the beckoning sunlight goaded him to head for the opening. The sooner he was out of here, the better!

  Garbage blocked his path at several points. He swept it away with his forearm, moving slowly, his feet tentatively taking one measured step after another. He was leery of dropping into a sinkhole, unwilling to submerge again.

  Geronimo frowned, realizing their trip to the Twin Cities had turned into one giant fiasco. Plato might have had the right idea, but the execution left considerable to be desired. What chance was there that any of the equipment Plato required was in the Twins, let alone functional?

  The probability was very slim. The Twin Cities were a monumental ruin and an actual madhouse. It was no wonder Bertha had wanted to stay away, to not come back. Who could blame her? She’d been right, after all.

  Why was it, he reflected, a person could only learn things the hard way?

  Was it simply human nature?

  A motion to his right caught his attention.

  Geronimo stopped and watched, bewildered, as a clump of debris moved rapidly across the pond for ten yards before coming to a stop.

  What in the world? Was there something else in this water?

  The thought spurred him on. He walked faster, the water level rising a bit, reaching his chest.

  A frog croaked to his left.

  A frog! Geronimo relaxed, feeling ridiculous. Why wouldn’t there be amphibians and even fish in this pond? It was polluted, but not too severely.

  Another cluster of litter blocked his path, surrounding a long, pitted piece of wood. He reached for the wood and shoved, amazed when it continued to move of its own volition.

  The creature erupted in a frenzy, whipping a long tail in an arc and slamming Geronimo in the head, churning the water as it twisted and lunged at him.

  Geronimo fell sideways, stunned, glimpsing a protruding tapered snout, two yellowish-green, bulging eyes, and a gaping maw filled with a seemingly endless number of teeth.

  Teeth!

  Chapter Seventeen

  “So tell me, smart ass,” Maggot mocked him. “Have you got anything to say now?”

  Hickok’s body slowly turned, first one direction, then another, as the rope securing him to the beam twisted. Rat was lying on the beam, spinning the rope, deriving satisfaction from trying to make Hickok dizzy.

  “The accommodations leave a little to be desired, fatso,” Hickok taunted his captor.

  Maggot, standing on the rim of the pit with his four bodyguards and Bear, frowned. “We’ll see if you’re so flippant after the rats come for their meal. You’ll be a long time dying.”

  “Not as long as you would take, blubber breath.” Hickok grinned. “The rats could feast on your carcass for a year or more!”

  Maggot started to raise the Henry, then thought better of it. “No,” he said. “I want you to go slow. I want you to feel them eating your flesh from the feet up. I want to come back here later and see the fear in your eyes!”

  Hickok deliberately yawned.

  “Very funny,” Maggot snapped.

  “I have a question,” Hickok stated.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” Hickok said, his wrists beginning to ache from the strain of supporting his entire weight. “If you kill me, how the blazes do you think you’ll get the answers you want?”

  “Do I look stupid?” Maggot angrily demanded.

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  “Keep it up,” Maggot said. “When I get back, you’ll beg me to cut you loose. You’ll tell me everything I want to know, and I won’t need to lift a fin
ger.”

  “Just so it’s not your arm.”

  Maggot, about to leave, was taken off stride by the remark. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Ever heard of something called personal hygiene?”

  Hickok noticed that Bear looked away from Maggot and grinned.

  Maggot didn’t find the joke funny. “So long, you lousy son of a bitch!”

  He strode off.

  “Your mother!” was all Hickok could think of. Brilliant repartee, he told himself.

  The bodyguards and Bear followed Maggot.

  “Come on!” Maggot ordered Rat.

  “Just a minute.” Rat carefully stood on the beam. The wood was six inches across and he maintained his balance easily. He reached for some buttons at his crotch.

  What in the world? Hickok asked himself.

  He got his answer.

  Perched on the beam, laughing inanely, Rat emptied his urinary bladder on Hickok.

  As the first drops struck his hair and shoulders, Hickok lowered his face and held his breath. The bastard! The crummy bastard! He’d get him, if it was the last thing he ever did!

  The downpour ceased.

  “Hey, Hickok?” Rat called down to him. “Ever hear of personal hygiene?”

  Hickok could hear the others laughing as Rat joined them. This was followed by the loud slamming of a door.

  Well, he mentally congratulated himself, this was yet another superb mess he’d fallen into! So what was next?

  Hickok studied his predicament.

  Maggot had suspended him in a circular, earthen pit twelve feet in diameter and ten feet deep. At the bottom of the pit, illuminated by two torches imbedded in the ground at the top of the pit, were three black holes. Tunnels. To where? It really didn’t matter. The important point was that rats would be coming out of those tunnels to devour him, a particularly unsavory prospect if ever there was one! The pit was located in a barren room in the basement of the building the Porns used as their headquarters. He hadn’t seen much of it when they hauled him down flights of stairs to his room, still reeling from Maggot’s blow to his gut.

  They’d passed other Porns, who scurried out of the way and fearfully minded their own business. Maggot’s rule was predicated on intimidation, a fact Hickok intended to use to his advantage when he escaped from the pit.