Anaheim Run

by David Robbins

  “A limo. An army escort. Governor Melnick is pulling out all the stops,” Blade noted, his features saddening. “I feel sorry for Melnick. We should have stayed in L.A.”

  “Governor Melnick insisted we leave for Anaheim,” Plato reminded him. “I believe he was afraid of another assassination attempt.”

  “I have to admire the man’s fortitude,” Blade commented. “He wants to conduct the summit as planned. If something happened to Jenny, I don’t know if I could go on with business as usual.”

  “We’ve come too far to turn back now,” Plato mentioned. “Months of meticulous arranging and negotiating have gone into the preparation for this summit. Melnick knows we can’t cancel the meeting.” He paused, pondering for a moment. “Why would someone want to kill Governor Melnick? Except for the Raiders and other misfits General Owens told us about on the flight here, there isn’t any organized opposition to the Free State government.”

  “So far as we know,” Blade said. “And we’ve had to rely on government officials for our information.”

  “Do you suspect they have lied to us?” Plato inquired.

  “No,” Blade replied. “And I don’t think Melnick was the only target.”

  “What?” Plato said. “Why?”

  “Because the first shot was meant for you,” Blade stated. “Don’t you remember? Sharon Melnick was about to shake your hand, and she stepped between the terminal and you, probably just as the sniper fired.”

  “Coincidence,” Plato opined.

  “Why?” Blade queried.

  “Because only Governor Melnick and a few of his trusted aides knew we were arriving today,” Plato detailed. “I seriously doubt they would want me dead. What motive would they have?”

  “I’m not saying Governor Melnick was behind the assassination attempt,” Blade explained. “I saw how his wife’s death affected him. He loved her, and he wouldn’t have brought her near us if he knew a sniper was on the terminal roof.”

  “Then who could be behind it?” Plato questioned. “We don’t have any enemies in California.”

  “None we know about,” Blade corrected him.

  “It’s the summit,” Hickok unexpectedly interrupted.

  “Why do you say that?” Plato asked.

  Hickok glanced at the Family Leader. “The bozo I went after was a real pro. He wore an army uniform so he could blend in at the terminal without arousin’ suspicion. He used a sophisticated weapon of some kind.

  And he had his getaway planned, right down to committin’ suicide if he was captured. The man was a pro,” he reiterated. “It was a professional hit, and Melnick and you were the targets.”

  “I agree,” Blade concurred. “Hickok’s right. I think someone is trying to disrupt the summit, and what better way to wreck the meeting than by killing off the leaders of the Federation factions and California?”

  Plato frowned. “If your deductions are accurate, we can expect more trouble.”

  “We’ll keep on our toes,” Blade vowed. “We’re at a disadvantage, though, because there’s just the two of us to protect you.”

  “All of the leaders will be in the same boat,” Plato observed. “We were each allowed to bring two security personnel or assistants, and no more.”

  “I’m sure Melnick will tighten security at the summit site,” Blade said.

  “But if professionals are after the leaders, there’s no way we can prevent them from making more attempts.”

  Plato gazed out the front window at the four jeeps escorting the limousine. He looked over his right shoulder, finding four more. Each jeep contained four Free State troopers. “I think we can relax until we reach Anaheim,” he declared.

  Plato was wrong.

  The lead jeep was cresting a low hill, well in advance of the rest, when there was a stupendous explosion and the jeep was engulfed in a brilliant fireball.

  The sergeant slammed on the brakes, and the limousine slewed to a stop slantwise across the highway.

  “Out!” barked Blade, yanking on the handle and flinging the door open.

  He looped his right arm around Plato’s waist and leaped, his steely leg muscles carrying both of them to the hard asphalt. They landed with Blade on the bottom, intentionally cushioning the brunt of the contact. He surged erect, bearing Plato with him, racing for a stand of trees at the side of the Freeway.

  A second jeep was blown to smithereens.

  Blade carried Plato the final few feet, reaching the first tree and dodging for cover in the shelter of its wide trunk. None too soon.

  Another detonation enveloped the black limousine, and the strike was dead center. The limo split in half as it was catapulted into the air, enshrouded by a sheet of reddish-orange flame.

  Blade felt the ground tremble under his boots, and the stand of trees was buffeted by a gust of hot wind. He heard a deafening crash and risked a peek around the trunk.

  The limousine was destroyed, a contorted jumble of scorched metal and burning rubber.

  The other jeeps had stopped, and the soldiers were scanning the surrounding countryside for the source of the blasts.

  Hickok!

  Blade stood and ran to the edge of the highway, heedless of the danger, searching in both directions for his friend. “Hickok?”

  The limousine was crackling and snapping as it burned.

  A square-jawed officer, a captain, rushed up to the Warrior. “Are you okay?”

  “Where’s Hickok?” Blade queried anxiously.

  “What?”

  “Where the hell is Hickok?” Blade snapped, moving closer to the limo, as close as the intense heat would allow.

  “Didn’t he get out?” the captain asked.

  Blade was worried by the same thought. What if Hickok hadn’t made it out of the limo? What if the gunman’s glum disposition had slowed his reflexes? What if…

  “What the heck is the matter with you, pard? You look like somebody walloped you in the dingus.”

  Blade whirled to the right, and there was the gunfighter, nonchalantly emerging from a swirl of whitish smoke, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. “Where were you? I thought you bought the farm!”

  “Nope,” Hickok responded. “I lit out the passenger-side door and bruised my shins takin’ cover behind this big old rock.”

  Blade breathed a sigh of relief. “Any signs of who did it?”

  “I didn’t see hide nor hair of the rascals,” Hickok said.

  “There’s no sign of them,” the captain confirmed. “But at least they’ve stopped.”

  Blade glanced at the gunman. “Mortar, you think?”

  “Yep,” Hickok laconically replied. “Or somethin’ similar.”

  “Well, that settles it,” Blade stated brusquely.

  “Settles what?” the captain inquired.

  Blade stared into the officer’s eyes. “From now on we do this my way.”

  “We what? I’m under orders—” the captain began.

  Blade’s right hand flicked out and grasped the front of the officer’s shirt. “Until we reach Anaheim, you’ll take your orders from me.”

  “From you?” the captain exclaimed, futilely trying to pry the giant’s fingers from his uniform. “Now just hold on!”

  Blade’s eyes narrowed and his tone lowered. “You’ll do as I say or else!”

  “Blade! Don’t!” Plato came around Blade’s left and placed a restraining hand on the giant’s arm. “Release him.”

  Blade ignored the command. “I’m responsible for your safety, Plato.

  And nothing is going to happen to you on this trip, not while I’m alive.

  We’re going to do this my way from now on!” He glared at the captain.

  “Any objections?”

  The officer, clearly flustered, nodded. “I’m under orders to get you safely to Anaheim. I don’t care how we do it.”

  Blade released the captain’s shirt. “I can rely on your cooperation?”

  “You’ve got it,” the officer pledged. “I d
on’t want any trouble.”

  Blade pointed at the limo. “We’ve already run into some trouble.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” the captain asked.

  “Strip.”

  The captain did a double take. “What?”

  “Are you hard of hearing?” Blade queried impatiently. “I want you to strip. Remove your uniform.”

  “You’re crazy,” the captain commented.

  Blade folded his arms across his chest. “Were you at the airport earlier?”

  “Yes, I was,” the captain answered.

  “Then you know this is the second assassination try so far,” Blade said.

  “Odds are there will be more. They were after the limo this time, and they stopped because they nailed it. They probably believe they’ve killed Plato, but we can’t take that for granted. They might hit us again before we reach Anaheim, and I want to discourage them from trying.”

  “How?”

  “If these bastards don’t see any sign of Plato, they might leave us alone,” Blade speculated. “So I want you, or one of your men, to give Plato a uniform and a helmet. If we dress him up as a soldier and tuck his hair under the helmet, we might get away with it.”

  The captain grinned. “That’s an excellent suggestion. I’ve been assigned to the summit detail, so I brought my dress uniform along. It’s with my gear. I’ll get it.” He started off, then paused and looked at Blade. “See? All you had to do was explain what you wanted. I’m here to help you.” He walked off.

  “You shouldn’t have manhandled him,” Plato said to Blade. “We mustn’t antagonize these people. We want them for our friends.”

  Blade shrugged. “Couldn’t be helped.”

  Plato gazed at the smoldering limousine. “This attack confirms your theory. The persons responsible are trying to terminate the summit.”

  “Or terminate the summit leaders,” Blade amended.

  Hickok was surveying the landscape. “You know, it’s right pretty hereabouts.” He glanced up at the sky. “But a mite too warm for my tastes.”

  “We should have worn lighter clothing,” Plato remarked. “California has always been famous for its salubrious climate.”

  “I wish you’d stop usin’ them highfalutin’ words,” Hickok said. “Half the time I don’t know what the blazes you’re talkin’ about.”

  Plato grinned. “Nathan, you’re not as dumb as you pretend to be.”

  “What makes you say that?” Hickok rejoined.

  “You never request definitions for the words I employ,” Plato noted.

  Blade stretched, his huge muscles bulging. “I like this weather. Minnesota gets too cold in the winter for my taste. I wouldn’t mind living here all year long.”

  “California’s weather is not always this mild in January,” Plato mentioned. “In fact, General Owens told me they were in a cold snap until yesterday.”

  “A cold snap is better than four months of lousy weather,” Blade observed.

  “Who are you tryin’ to kid, pard?” Hickok quipped. “You like this weather because you can prance around half naked without gettin’ goose bumps.”

  The captain returned carrying his dress uniform. “Here you go. I hope it fits.” He handed the uniform to Plato.

  “Just so whoever’s after us can’t identify him from a distance,” Blade said.

  “The ploy might succeed,” Plato stated. “A helmet will hide my hair, but what about my beard?”

  “Tuck it under your shirt,” Blade directed. “If you keep your chin down, you’ll pass as a soldier.”

  Plato walked to the stand of trees.

  The captain nervously scanned the vegetation on both sides of the highway. “I’ll be glad when we get going. I don’t like being out in the open.”

  “You and me both,” Blade agreed.

  “I radioed in a report,” the captain said. “They’re sending a helicopter from L.A. to provide aerial cover.”

  “Has Governor Melnick ever been attacked before?” Blade asked.

  “No,” the captain replied. “Except for the damn Raiders and the mutants and such, we never have any trouble. California holds elections every four years, just like the state did before the war. If the people don’t like a politician, all they have to do is vote him or her out of office.”

  “When was your last election?” Blade queried.

  “November,” the captain said.

  “What’s with Plato?” Hickok interjected.

  Blade glanced toward the side of the road.

  Plato was emerging from the trees, but he was only partially clothed, wearing his brown corduroy pants and holding the uniform shirt in his right hand, and he was walking backwards.

  Blade stared at Plato’s naked back, puzzled, and then he detected a slight movement beyond the Family Leader. He whipped his Bowies from their scabbards and charged forward, bearing a bit to the right for a clearer view, his intuition shrieking a warning, knowing what he would see, his stomach tightening in anticipation. He came around Plato’s right side, and there it was, a repulsive monstrosity straight from a madman’s nightmare.

  A slavering mutant.

  Chapter Three

  Once, the deviate might have been a feral cat, but now it was a deformed, grotesque horror. Three feet tall at the shoulder, its streamlined body was covered with splotches of brownish-gray hair alternated with patches of wrinkled, dry skin. The oval ears were utterly devoid of hair, but the feline face was unnaturally bushy. Slanted green eyes were locked on its prey.

  Fangs protruded from its upper and lower lips, and spittle seeped from its mouth and over its chin. The legs were short and sturdy, and its tail was a mere stump.

  Blade didn’t hesitate. He leaped, interposing himself between Plato and the mutant.

  The cat was in motion, having shifted its attention to the approaching giant. It attacked, launching itself toward the giant’s throat.

  Blade had a split second to react. If he dodged aside, the thing would be on Plato with its slashing claws and teeth. His only recourse was to stand his ground, and stand it he did, twisting his torso to narrowly evade the mutant’s raking claws. He plunged his left Bowie up and in, the razor point easily slicing into the feline’s throat, burying the knife to the hilt.

  The enraged mutant, impaled in midair, thrashed and swiped at the giant human.

  Blade felt an intense stinging sensation in his left wrist and knew the cat had drawn blood. He let go of his left Bowie, allowing the mutant to drop to the ground.

  Spurting blood, the mutant landed on all fours, but its stance was wobbly and its green orbs were glazing.

  Blade swept his right Bowie up, then down, ramming the knife into the feline’s neck, into the spine at the junction with the head. There was a distinct snap as the right Bowie was imbedded in the mutant, Blade’s exceptional strength driving the knife all the way in, slamming the feline to the tarmacadam. He held onto the hilt as the mutant convulsed wildly, then expired.

  “Thank you,” Plato said.

  Blade slowly straightened, wiping perspiration from his forehead with the back of his right hand.

  “Why do you always do things the hard way, pard?” Hickok asked, standing to Blade’s left with his Pythons in his hands. “You should have given me a clear shot.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone take on a mutant with a knife before,” commented the captain, joining them. He was gawking at the dead feline.

  Hickok noted blood on Blade’s left wrist. “Are you okay, pard?”

  Blade raised his left forearm and studied the trio of gashes extending from his hand to the middle of his forearm. Crimson coated his skin. “It’s just a scratch,” he remarked.

  “You are lucky it wasn’t one of the pus-covered ones,” the captain said.

  “If a drop of that pus gets in your system, you’re a goner.”

  “We call the pus-covered genetic deviates mutates,” Plato mentioned, “to differentiate them from the typical mutants.”
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  “Either one, you were lucky,” the captain reiterated to Blade. “I have a first-aid kit in my jeep. I’ll get some disinfectant.”

  “I don’t need it,” Blade said.

  “We don’t want you showing up at the summit with your arm all bloody,” the captain stated. He hurried toward his jeep.

  Blade knelt and yanked his Bowies from the mutant’s body. He carried the knives to the edge of the highway and wiped the blades clean on a clump of tall grass.

  Hickok, his Colts still in his hands, was alertly watching the vegetation.

  Plato donned the uniform shirt. “Thank the Spirit the creature didn’t attack before you intervened,” he said to Blade.

  The towering Warrior grinned at his mentor. “Weren’t you the one who said this trip would be a—what were your words?—wonderful, scenic vacation?”

  “I appear to have miscalculated,” Plato remarked.

  “If you want to finish gettin’ dressed,” Hickok offered. “I’ll tag along to make sure nothin’ bites you on the butt.”

  “Thank you.” Plato and the gunman walked into the trees.

  The captain hastened over with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a blue box of cotton swabs. “There’s a roll of gauze in the first-aid kit I can use to bandage your arm after I get through applying the peroxide.”

  “I won’t need a bandage,” Blade said.

  “Suit yourself,” the captain acquiesced. “Let’s go over here.” He headed toward a jeep parked ten yards to the rear of the ravaged limousine.

  “What’s your name?” Blade asked as they passed the limo.

  “Captain Di Nofrio, at your service.”

  “What’s your first name?”

  “Vincent,” Di Nofrio said. “But you can call me Vinnie.” They reached the jeep and he deposited the hydrogen peroxide and the cotton swabs on the hood. “Now let me tend your wound.”

  Blade held up his left forearm.

  “So tell me,” Di Nofrio said as he began to work on the gashes, “What’s it like where you come from?”

  “Cold.”

  “I mean your Home and all,” Di Nofrio said, clarifying his query. “I’ve heard a lot about it, about your Family.”