Yellowstone Run

by David Robbins

  “No!” Hickok yelled, striving to break free, Priscilla Wendling straightened, her forehead knit in bewilderment.

  She endeavored to speak, but her head sagged to the right at an unnatural angle and she abruptly pitched forward.

  “No! No!” Hickok shouted, tugging and thrashing.

  Priscilla lay on the grass, her head tilted crazily upward, her lifeless eyes fixed on eternity.

  Hickok went slack, staring at her in shock.

  “Let me through!”

  The creatures parted at the command and Longat walked up to the Mormon woman and halted. The bloody tomahawk was in his right hand.

  He frowned and looked around. “Who did this?”

  “I did,” replied the mutation responsible. “I’m sorry,” he added sheepishly.

  “You idiot, Komsey!” Longat barked. “You know that wasting meat is strictly forbidden.”

  “She took me by surprise,” Komsey responded. “I didn’t mean to hit her so hard.”

  Longat sighed and placed his hands on his hips. “Well, it’s no use crying over spilt blood. And we’re not going to let her go to waste. Get the fire going. We’ll eat both of them.” He smiled. “There’s nothing like a hearty meal and a full stomach after a hard night’s work.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Hickok hardly noticed the passage of time. He walked along morosely, his shoulders slumped, thinking of Priscilla Wendling and Milly Odum. He reviewed the tragedy over and over, replaying the events in his mind’s eye to see if there wasn’t something he could have done to prevent their deaths. But no matter how he considered the episode, he perceived there was no way he could have saved either woman. Still, guilt gnawed at his soul.

  The gunfighter marched westward along winding valleys, over hills and mountains, constantly prodded by his captors to move faster. Geronimo tramped behind him, while Eagle Feather came last.

  The realization that his wife and sons had been killed shattered the Flathead. Eagle Feather walked in a state of perpetual shock, his head bowed, rarely blinking, oblivious to the curses and shoves of the Breed.

  Fatigue began to take its toll on Hickok. His leg muscles were aching terribly by nightfall. He’d anticipated the creatures would stop for the night, but they kept going, their animalistic physiques endowed with exceptional stamina.

  The full moon rose in the east, casting its pale radiance over the land.

  The cool night breeze revitalized the gunman. He breathed deeply and roused himself from his morbid introspection, shutting his mind to the memory of Priscilla and Milly being consumed by the vile mutations. He stared at the line of Bear People in front of him, then glanced back at the ten creatures bringing up the rear section. The sight of their brutish forms sparked a rare emotion.

  Hatred.

  Unadulterated, unmitigated hatred.

  Ordinarily Hickok regarded enemies dispassionately. Fighting foes came with the job, and he seldom indulged in the luxury of exercising his personal feelings toward them. If Russians were the threat, he eliminated them coolly and efficiently, without becoming personally involved.

  Scavengers, drug lords, gangsters, androids, they were all .the same to him. Line them up and he’d shoot them down. The number of adversaries didn’t matter. Their lives were forfeit once they endangered the Family and the Home. And he’d killed countless enemies in the line of duty without feeling any animosity towards them whatsoever.

  But not this time.

  This was different.

  Resentment dominated his being. He gazed at a trio of creatures who were bearing the bodies of the three dead mutations, and a tingle of pleasure ran down his spine at the thought of slaying every last one. If ever there had been opponents who truly deserved to die, the Breed definitely qualified.

  Which brought him to the big question.

  How to do it?

  Hopelessly outnumbered and unarmed, Hickok knew he didn’t stand a prayer unless he could get his hands on some guns. He guessed that his Colts had been left back on the hill where the fight took, place, and he hoped Blade or Achilles had found the Pythons.

  If they were still alive.

  Blade’s absence worried him. By all rights, knowing his giant friend as well as he did, Blade should have overtaken the Breed column already.

  Warriors were a loyal lot. They never deserted a fellow Warrior in a time of crisis.

  Never.

  Ever.

  If Blade hadn’t been killed, Hickok reflected, then the head Warrior would leave no stone unturned in his search for his friends. Granted, the Breed were trekking westward at a rapid rate, but Blade was no slouch in the speed department either, and the big guy could hike rings around most folks.

  So where the blazes was he?

  Hickok thought of Achilles, imagining how the greenhorn would react when he heard about Priscilla, Years ago, before Hickok had married Sherry, he had been in love with a woman named Joan, an excellent Warrior in her own right, and he recalled vividly the sorrow that had overwhelmed him when she was killed by the vicious Trolls in Fox, Minnesota. Achilles would probably feel the same way about the Mormon woman, and Hickok felt sorry for him.

  He grinned.

  Imagine that!

  Feeling sorry for that pompous cow chip!

  “What can you possibly find amusing at a time like this?”

  The gruff question caused Hickok to look up in surprise.

  Longat stood a few yards away. He fell in beside the gunman, studying Hickok’s features. “I asked you a question.”

  “Get stuffed!”

  “Childish hostility is uncalled for.”

  “You’re right,” Hickok stated. “You deserve better than hostile words.

  You deserve to have your brains blown out.”

  The bear-man sighed. “Humans are so predictable. I foolishly believed we might have an intelligent discussion, but I should have known better.”

  “What do you want to palaver about?”

  “Pala-what?”

  “Why do you want to shoot the breeze with me?” Hickok asked suspiciously.

  “There are a few questions I need to ask.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “You did?”

  “Yep. I was expectin’ you to torture the information out of us.”

  Longat smiled. “How perceptive. Such treatment can still be arranged should you fail to cooperate.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The gunfighter smirked. “Get stuffed.”

  “You refuse to tell me what I want to know?”

  “Bingo. You must have all the smarts in your family. You sure don’t have the looks.”

  The mutation glowered for a moment, then unexpectedly chuckled.

  “Very well. We’ll play this by your infantile rules. Since you won’t meet me halfway, I’ll call a halt and have the two Indians tied down and chopped into bits and pieces.”

  Hickok glanced down at the tomahawk in the creature’s hairy right hand, thinking of the grisly death of Milly Odum. “You would too.”

  “Damn straight,” Longat said. “As we have conclusively demonstrated, we of the Breed don’t possess the inconsistent emotional weaknesses so prevalent in you humans.”

  “Yeah. I noticed. You’re all rotten to the core.”

  “Be nice. What you refer to as rottenness is merely evidence of our superior will to survive. You regard us as callous brutes, when in reality we are simply treating you as you treat the lower animals. We categorically recognize human inferiority and relate to your kind accordingly.”

  “One of these days a human will cram those words right down your throat.”

  “Who? You?” Longat responded, and laughed. “You’re totally in our power. Your life is in our hands.” He paused. “And if you’re thinking that your giant friend and the one in the red cloak will save you, think again.

  They’ve been taken care of.”

  Hickok’s pulse quickened. “They have?”

&nb
sp; “Yes. I arranged a special reception for your friends in that rocky pass we went through last night. They’re undoubtedly dead by now.”

  “Has your reception committee returned yet?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  The gunfighter smiled. “Don’t count your chickens until they’re hatched, turkey.”

  Longat’s eyes narrowed. “You have a lot of confidence in those two, I take it.”

  “In the big guy I do. He’ll make mincemeat out of your precious Breed.”

  “The giant is formidable,” Longat conceded. “He’s already killed two of my people.”

  “I didn’t blow away those three?” Hickok asked in surprise.

  “You flatter yourself. No, you were responsible for slaying just one, which in itself is a remarkable feat. Our superior bodies can withstand more punishment than your frail human physiques.”

  “Are you sure you’re not related to Achilles?”

  “Who?”

  “This guy I know. You and he have a lot in common. You’re both so high on yourselves that your tootsies never touch the ground.”

  “I have nothing in common with a lowly human.”

  “Don’t bet on it, bucko.”

  The mutation gazed at the row of figures moving through the night. “By all rights I should have eliminated every one of you last night. We lost three good fighters and had four others injured. One of them is quite serious.”

  “Poor baby,” Hickok said.

  “Mock us while you can.”

  “I will.”

  Longat looked at the Warrior. “I intended to have the Flathead consumed next, but I might change my mind and take you.”

  “Don’t do me any favors.”

  “Enough idle conversation. Where are you from, Hickok?

  From other humans we’ve captured, I know about the general organization of the Federation. Your presence in this region indicates you hail from one of the factions, probably the Civilized Zone. Am I correct?”

  The gunman didn’t respond.

  Longat hefted the tomahawk. “Don’t push me or the Indians will suffer.”

  Hickok knew there was no other choice. He had to give in to the mutation’s demands. But—and at the thought he almost snickered—there was no reason he had to tell the truth. “Yeah. You’re right. My pards and me are from the Civilized Zone.”

  “Were you sent after us?”

  “Yep.”

  “I thought so,” Longat declared with an air of conceit. “Humans are blatantly transparent.”

  “What else were you able to figure out?”

  “I suspect that your friends and you are simply a scouting party sent ahead of the main force. I’d guess that a large contingent of troops is even now en route to Yellowstone. Am I right?”

  “You’re plumb amazing,” Hickok admitted.

  Longat smiled. “Trying to thwart my heightened intellect is impossible.

  I deduced you were sent by the Civilized Zone after your little group disposed of those scavengers, and I realized a larger force would probably be arriving soon. That’s one of the reasons I decided to return to our valley earlier than I’d originally planned. We’re not ready to take on a Federation army yet. And when we do finally engage the Federation, I want it to be on our terms.”

  “Where’s this valley of yours?”

  “Mars.”

  “Geez. Don’t you even know what planet you’re on?”

  “I admire a human who can retain his sense of humor when he’s close to dying.”

  Hickok idly gazed to the south, and in the distance he spied an immense body of water, its calm, mirrorlike surface reflecting the moonlight.

  Longat looked in the same direction. “Yellowstone Lake.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I consulted an old map of this territory before leaving our valley.”

  “You can read?”

  “Keep it up.”

  “I do my best.”

  “What size is the force sent to find us?”

  “Oh, a couple of regiments. About four thousand troops.”

  “That many?” Longat said. “What’s the total size of the Federation Army?”

  “Five hundred thousand soldiers.”

  “That’s impossible!” Longat stated, “You’re lying.”

  “I never lie to anyone, or anything, if it means my pards will buy the farm.”

  “But there can’t be that many men in the entire Civilized Zone, let alone their Army. You’d have me believe millions of humans live in the Civilized Zone alone?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “But the Flatheads we captured told us there are only ten thousand soldiers in the Civilized Zone Army.”

  “What do they know? The Flatheads are part of the Federation, but they’re not experts on the Civilized Zone. How could they be? The ones you captured, gave you their best guess, but I’m giving it to you straight. Why do you think I kept telling you the Federation will stomp your butts? Who cares if you double or triple your population? Even one hundred thousand of your kind won’t be enough to lick the Federation,” Hickok asserted, pleased at his performance, at the sincerity he managed to convey.

  Actually, he didn’t have the slightest idea how big the Civilized Zone Army truly was, but he wanted to make the mutation sweat.

  Longat pondered the information. “If the Federation is that powerful, I’ll need to adjust my timetable accordingly. The Breed must become much stronger than I originally anticipated before launching our assault on the Federation.”

  “That’d be the smart move,” Hickok agreed wholeheartedly.

  “I need to verify your claim.”

  The gunfighter decided to change the subject. “My feet are killin’ me.

  When are we going to stop for a break?”

  “If we can maintain this pace, we’ll halt tomorrow morning.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have expected you to be in such a hurry. Tomorrow morning we’ll feast again. Perhaps I’ll draw straws to determine if we should eat the Flathead or you.”

  Hickok made a show of scrutinizing the bear-man from head to toe. “If you ask me, you should give serious consideration to going on a diet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “What is this place?” Achilles inquired.

  “According to the map, this was once a tourist attraction known as Old Faithful,” Blade replied.

  “The geyser?”

  “Yep.”

  They sat astride their horses on the cracked and pitted roadway that wound between several dilapidated wooden structures to their right and a flat expanse of barren earth on the left.

  “Isn’t this where Yeddt told us the Breed were heading?”

  Blade nodded and turned his horse to the right, surveying the buildings for signs of habitation. From the condition of the partly collapsed roofs, the cracked walls, and the shattered windows, he surmised no one had occupied the facilities for decades. Dust covered everything. One of the buildings had once been a service station; the long-abandoned pumps were rusted out, their casings split. Another structure bore a barely legible sign on which the words FOOD and GIFTS could be distinguished.

  “Do you think we beat them here?” Achilles asked.

  “We should have. Even though we had to swing to the north to insure they wouldn’t spot us, we pushed our animals hard enough to compensate for the added distance,” Blade said. “All we can do now is take cover and hope they show up.”

  “I can’t wait to see Priscilla again.”

  Blade rode around to the rear of the food and gift store and reined up.

  The asphalt parking lot behind the store was in slightly better shape than the road. Twenty yards from the rear door a crumbling, oxidized jeep rested on its hubs.

  “I remember reading about Old Faithful during my schooling years,” Achilles mentioned. “It’s hard to believe millions of Americans traveled hundreds or thousands of miles to reach
this very spot.”

  “What’s so hard to understand?” Blade replied, dismounting. “Most Americans in the prewar era lived in towns or cities. They knew very little about nature and couldn’t survive for two days in the wilderness on their own. There was no incentive for them to live off the land because all of their food was easily obtained in restaurants and markets. Their clothing could be bought at retail outlets. They had severed their ties to the ways of the natural world. Quite naturally, whenever they had the time, on vacations or whatever, they’d flock to the country to get a taste of the primal life.” He scanned their surroundings. “They came here to escape the artificial world in which they lived.”

  Achilles slid to the asphalt. “I’m glad I didn’t live back then.”

  Unslinging both the Commando and the Henry, Blade moved to the closed back door. He drew up his right leg, shifted, and delivered a side stomp kick to the peeling panel, fracturing the wood down the center. Half of the door fell inward. “Cover my back,” he directed, and eased into the gloomy interior.

  A narrow hallway, the floor caked with trash and dirt and the ceiling a haven for a variety of cobwebs, led past a closet, an office, and a storeroom to the front of the establishment. Debris littered the grimy tile underfoot.

  All of the, shelves were empty. The place had clearly been ransacked years and years ago. Faded wrappers and rusty tin cans lined the aisles. The big window being the road and Old Faithful had been broken into tiny shards.

  Blade moved down an aisle to the front door, which hung at a slant, attached to the frame by just its top hinge. He kept clear of the doorway.

  Footprints in the dust would give them away, and he wanted the Breed to draw welt within the range of his Commando. The closer, the better.

  “Do you have a plan?” Achilles inquired.

  “We’ll hide out in here until they arrive, then play it by ear. Our first priority is to rescue Hickok, Geronimo, and the others. Once they’re safe, we can concentrate on wiping out the mutations.”

  “If the…” Achilles began, and abruptly stopped, astounded by the sight across the road.