Twin Cities Run

by David Robbins

  From somewhere in the depths of the building came a maniacal laugh.

  Damn!

  From the frying pan to the fire!

  Blade held the Bowies ready at his waist. The tile felt cool on the soles of his naked feet as he padded down the hall. He stopped when the corridor branched in three directions, one branch proceeding straight ahead, the second leading to the left, the third to his right.

  Which way to go?

  Blade selected the central corridor, telling himself the fastest way between two points is always the straightest. He hoped.

  A rustling sounded from the black hallway to his right as he passed it.

  Blade treaded cautiously, uneasy. The Wacks hadn’t bothered to light the inside of the hospital. Considering their exceptional night vision, they probably didn’t need any illumination. But he did, and he had another problem to contend with. The enforced lack of food and water and rest, combined with the beatings and the fights, had taken a terrible toll on his body. He was weak and unsteady, and he couldn’t afford prolonged combat in his current condition.

  The sooner he got out of this madhouse, the better!

  Feet were shuffling along the corridor behind him.

  Blade whirled. He could see several moving shadows about ten yards to his rear. They were holding back, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  Blade broke into a run, keeping to the center of the hallway, figuring the middle was least likely to be cluttered with obstacles. He passed countless rooms, even darker than the corridor. From some of the rooms came sounds, low moans and groans and sighs, coughing, and in one instance, a scream.

  The pursuit was picking up.

  His legs were balking at the sustained pace, cramps lancing his calves and thighs, the arrow wound throbbing.

  Damn!

  Where was an exit? There had to be some! How long was this mental hospital, anyway?

  A swath of sunlight ahead gave him hope.

  Thank the Spirit! Maybe it was an exit.

  It was, the door in the same condition as the front entrance.

  Blade bolted through the doorway and onto a parking lot, devoid of vehicles, littered with trash and debris. He stopped and doubled over, his lungs heaving, the strain taking its toll.

  That was when the Wacks hit him.

  They piled out of the doorway, four men, each armed, and tackled him before he could defend himself.

  Blade spun as they struck him, one of them pinning his legs, another grabbing him around the waist, the other two going for his arms, attempting to clasp them and restrain him. The loony on his left managed to grip his wrist, but the one on his right missed, and as they went down in a tumbling heap the Wack clutching his abdomen bit his stomach, tearing the flesh, ripping the skin from his body and gulping the morsel down his throat.

  Furious, Blade lunged with his right Bowie, the point of the blade piercing the throat of the Wack on his right and drawing a flow of blood, continuing to sweep the knife in a smooth arc, burying the Bowie in the neck of the crazy holding his left wrist. The man screeched and released his arms, leaping to his feet and pressing his hands against the hole in his neck.

  Don’t stop! Keep calm!

  Blade reversed both knives, sweeping the Bowies in and imbedding them in the neck of the Wack chewing on his stomach, the blades slicing the neck in half. The man convulsed as his blood poured over Blade’s chest and belly. Blade heaved, dislodging the Wack, concentrating on the one holding his legs.

  The Wack let go and jumped up, an axe in his left hand.

  Blade rolled as the loony brought the axe down, the handle brushing his left shoulder. He lunged to his feet and stood braced, his heart pounding in his chest.

  He couldn’t take much more of this!

  One of the Wacks was dead, the one who’d tried to eat him alive. The other two were seriously injured, and one of them ran into the hospital, screaming.

  Damn! Reinforcements would be coming soon! He had to end this, now!

  The Wack wielding the axe was playing it safe, staying out of Blade’s reach, biding time until help arrived.

  This was getting him nowhere!

  Voices were raised in alarm in the building.

  Time for a desperate move!

  Blade tried a basic knife-fighter’s ploy, feinting with his left Bowie, slashing at the Wack and causing him to bound to one side to avoid the blow. The man was off guard and off balance in the second it took him to move, and in that instant Blade drew his right arm back behind his ear and flung the Bowie with all his might, the knife clearing the four feet between them and sticking into the Wack’s chest above the left breast.

  The man’s eyes bulged and he wildly tugged at the Bowie, withdrawing several inches of the blade before he collapsed on the pavement.

  Blade wrenched his knife loose, and ran, bearing for the far end of the parking lot, avoiding the ruts and cracks in the aged tarmac. His lungs were hurting, and he had to limp, the wound on his left thigh open again and bleeding profusely. He reached the edge of the parking lot and paused, glancing back, his breathing labored.

  Damn!

  A score of Wacks were outside the rear exit, standing around the men he’d cut. One of the crazies, a woman, spotted him.

  “There he go! After him!”

  Yelling and screaming in anticipation of their next meal, they came after him.

  Blade pivoted and hurried along the street bordering the parking lot, searching for a hiding place or a suitable position to make a stand. Not that he entertained any delusions about his ability to withstand another onslaught. If they caught up with him now, he was as good as dead.

  He reached an intersection and bore right, frantically seeking any cover.

  The Wacks were out of sight, coming up the street from the parking lot, still a distance from the intersection.

  Blade slowed as he neared a ruined automobile. The hood and all four doors were gone, and the inside had been set afire, the seats a charred wreck. The tires were gone, but the body was supported on cinder blocks.

  Cinder blocks?

  Had someone placed the car on the blocks for a purpose?

  Blade stopped and knelt. There was a foot of space between the floor of the car and the ground. It would be a tight fit, but it was his best hope! He lay on his back and quickly pulled himself under the automobile, out of sight.

  The Wacks reached the intersection, and there was momentary confusion as they argued over which direction their prey had taken.

  “This way!” a man shouted. “Me saw him go this way!”

  They poured down the street Blade had selected.

  Blade held his breath, his body tense, considering the merits of his move. If they found him now, he wouldn’t have room to move, to fight back.

  A moot point.

  The Wacks came alongside the destroyed vehicle, and kept running.

  Blade twisted his neck and watched the dirty feet pound the pavement, racing away from his hiding place. He craned his head out from under the car.

  The Wacks reached the end of the block and paused at another intersection.

  “This way!” a woman yelled. “This way!”

  As one, they made off to the left, disappearing from view, the sound of their cries fading.

  Blade wearily clambered from under the vehicle and stood on shaky legs. He required rest and nourishment, but where would he find it in the Twin Cities? Everyone he met would be a potential enemy, prepared to kill him on sight.

  A wave of dizziness struck him and he leaned against the car for support, breathing deeply until the sensation passed.

  Blade noticed an alley ten feet away and he shuffled into it. Maybe he could locate a secluded spot where he could lay down and sleep for a spell.

  The alley was packed with old, rusted trash cans, broken furniture, and other articles.

  Blade weaved between the obstructions, forging ahead.

  Loud cries abruptly broke the silence behind him.

/>   Had the Wacks returned?

  Blade worriedly glanced over his right shoulder. He couldn’t see any of the crazies, but they might have returned, backtracking, realizing he had given them the slip.

  He had to hide!

  Blade stumbled forward, bumping into a trash can and knocking it over, creating a racket, but not caring anymore. He was too tired, and depressed. He’d failed. Failed miserably. Failed Plato, and he hit another can, and Jenny, and he was picking up momentum, and Hickok, and he kicked another can out of his path, and Joshua, and…

  He saw the end of the alley coming up, and he ran, drawing his Bowies in case they were waiting for him, catching a glimpse of a leg suddenly poking out and tripping him, and his vision spun as he went down, hard, knowing the Wacks had caught him and determined to give them an accounting they would recall for generations to come.

  Blade scrambled to his feet, surprised to discover the business end of a revolver staring him in the face.

  “Blade?”

  It took Blade a moment to recognize the man standing in front of him.

  He was covered with sewage and filth and grime, his skin almost black from the dirt.

  “Geronimo?” Blade asked incredulously.

  “Blade! It’s you!” Geronimo impetuously embraced his friend, hugging him close.

  Blade returned the affection. “I can’t believe it,” he mumbled.

  “Believe it!” Geronimo elatedly exclaimed.

  Blade held Geronimo at arm’s length, and stared into his eyes. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my whole life.”

  “The feeling is mutual.” Geronimo’s brown eyes twinkled. “Where have you been? I thought the Wacks had you.”

  The Wacks!

  “It’s a long story.” Blade glanced at the alley. “Right now we’ve got to get the hell out of here or we’ll wind up being the prime rib on someone’s plate!”

  “Are they after you?”

  “Yeah. And I don’t mind telling you, I’m running out of steam.”

  “Don’t worry,” Geronimo assured him, smiling, the white of his teeth a stark contrast to the smudged dirt all over his face. “We’ll get out of this mess in one piece.”

  “I hope,” Blade stated as they jogged away from the alley, “the same can be said for Hickok, Joshua, and Bertha.”

  “You and me both!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hickok raised the C.O.P. and blasted the shocked Porn in the face, the man tumbling backward from the door he’d just opened and collapsing on the floor.

  The men at the table froze, some with their spoons or forks in midair.

  Hickok knew he couldn’t afford to miss a beat. He rushed into the dining room, the Winchester already at his shoulder. By all rights, and his Warrior training, he should have gone for the men nearest him, the ones posing the immediate threat, but he picked another target, the big gun booming and the slug ripping into Maggot’s right shoulder and propelling the fat man from his chair. Hickok went after Maggot for two reasons, two personal justifications, violating every precept of his long and arduous instruction and discipline. First, he wanted Maggot away from the Pythons and the Henry. Secondly, and an overwhelming sentiment, he hated the son of a bitch!

  The Porns began to recover from their initial astonishment, some reaching for revolvers, others trying to get to their rifles stacked against the wall.

  Hickok swiveled, firing twice, downing the two men to the right of Maggot’s chair.

  A grizzled Porn on the left side of the table had cleared leather and was pointing a pistol in Hickok’s general direction.

  The Winchester blew the top of his head off.

  A bullet whined by Hickok’s right ear.

  Hickok spun, snapping a shot at a man who had reached his rifle, catching the man in the head as he gripped his gun.

  Another bullet buzzed by Hickok.

  Where? He spotted Rat at the far end of the table, crouched behind it for cover, firing.

  A burly Porn, one of those closest to the door, decided the best defense was a good offense. His rifle was out of reach, so he lowered his head and charged.

  Hickok sidestepped, another slug missing him as he did. He emptied the Winchester, the sixth shot smacking into a Porn’s chest and flipping him over.

  The burly Porn returned, grappling for Hickok, attempting to confine his arms.

  Hickok dropped the Winchester and brought the C.O.P. up.

  Rat popped out from under the table and quickly fired, the bullet catching the burly Porn in the left cheek as the Porn pivoted for a better position. The man clutched the side of his face, his eyes rolled, and he fell.

  A tall Porn brought an automatic into play, the gun booming, the slug tearing a furrow along Hickok’s left side.

  Hickok flinched, steadied his hand, and let the Porn have a bullet in the brain from the C.O.P.

  Only two Porns remained. Rat cowered at the far end of the table, under cover. The final Porn, a young kid still in his teens, had turned to ice when the shooting erupted, fear immobilizing him, his right hand inches from the revolver he wore on his right hip.

  Now, in the momentary lull, the kid came to life, his hand going for the revolver.

  “Don’t do it!” Hickok tried to warn him.

  No good.

  The kid drew, the gun barely out of the holster when Hickok shot him in the right eye.

  Hickok crouched, searching for Rat. Where was he? Still under the table? Cautiously, holding the C.O.P. in front of him, he bent and peered under the table, finding a maze of chair legs and table legs.

  But no Rat.

  Hickok stood and walked to his left, stepping over the bodies, puzzled.

  The table and chairs were the only furniture in the room. Where could Rat be?

  He reached the far end of the dining table, speedily placing the C.O.P.

  on the wood and retrieving his Pythons. The instant the Colts were in his hands, the pearl handles snug in his palms, he felt renewed confidence surge through him.

  Hickok glanced down at the floor, at the spot where Maggot’s body should be.

  Only it wasn’t.

  What the hell?

  A faint scraping came from his left, and he whirled, the Colts cocked and ready.

  In the corner of the room, hidden in shadow, twenty feet from the nearest torch, was a door.

  So!

  Hickok warily crossed to the door, noting it was open a crack.

  Distinctly, from the other side of the door, sounded the click of a hammer being drawn back.

  Hickok grinned.

  Someone is in for a big surprise, he mentally noted. He blasted at the center of the door, four times in rapid succession.

  The wood splintered as the slugs penetrated, and someone screamed and dropped to the floor.

  Hickok stepped to the door and kicked it open with his right foot.

  Maggot was lying on the floor, clutching his stomach, wheezing. A sawed-off shotgun was on the floor too, at his feet.

  Hickok pushed the shotgun aside with his left foot.

  The room was lit by a solitary torch, and at the opposite side was another door. Open.

  No sign of Rat.

  “So, ugly.” Hickok glared at Maggot. “We meet again.”

  Maggot coughed, doubling over.

  “I wouldn’t have thought a few more ounces would hurt that big tummy of yours,” Hickok spitefully remarked.

  Maggot gazed up at Hickok, his eyes pools of malevolence.

  “Yes, well,” Hickok said gruffly. “We’ve got some business to attend to.”

  “You’ve killed me, you bastard!” Maggot croaked.

  “Not yet, I haven’t,” Hickok replied. “Who knows? You could even live. I read about a man named Thomas Coleman Younger once. He was called Cole Younger, to those who knew him, and he was shot eleven times during the course of an aborted bank robbery. Eleven times! Imagine that!

  And, the remarkable thing is, he lived
to tell about it. So don’t play possum with me, you miserable cur. On your feet! Now!”

  Maggot refused to budge.

  Hickok leaned over and pressed the barrel of his left Colt against Maggot’s chin. “Make up your mind, blubber ass. I haven’t got all day.

  Some of your pards might show up at any moment, and I can’t wait until you’re in the mood.” His voice lowered, harsh and grating. “It makes no nevermind to me which way you go out. I ain’t in a charitable mood, but if you want me to splatter your brains right here and now, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  Maggot’s lips trembled as he forced his massive bulk to rise. He stood on his thick legs, weaving, blood oozing from his wounds.

  “Good,” Hickok said. “Now we’re taking a stroll. You go first. Keep your hands on your gut. If you move them, I’ll add another asshole to your anatomy!”

  Maggot complied, shuffling out to the corridor.

  Hickok glanced in both directions before stepping into the hall.

  Bear was at one end, nervously pacing. At the sight of Hickok, he smiled and ran up the hall.

  “You did it!” Bear exclaimed, overjoyed, scarcely believing his eyes.

  “You did it!”

  “All except for Rat,” Hickok stated.

  “Aww, don’t worry about him! He’s probably hiding in a closet right this minute. Without his boss, Rat ain’t any danger whatsoever.”

  “What about the rest of his bodyguards?” Hickok jerked his right Colt toward Maggot.

  “There’s only two or three others,” Bear cheerfully responded. “They ain’t likely to give you any trouble once word of this gets out.”

  “And the Porns?”

  “Here comes your answer.” Bear pointed.

  Doors at both ends of the hall had opened and Porns were pouring into the corridor. Some carried clubs and knives and other weapons, but none possessed a firearm. They slowed as they approached, then stopped, their babble of voices silenced by the sight of their leader, their despised and feared head, barely able to stand on his own two feet.