Liberty Run

by David Robbins

  Lysenko nodded.

  Blade grinned. He enjoyed Bertha’s company immensely. They had shared many an adventure over the years, ever since Alpha Triad had rescued her from the Watchers in Thief River Falls. She had assisted them in the Twin Cities, and later had been of inestimable help in the Family’s fight against the wicked Doktor. Although she had been born and reared in the Twin Cities, and spent most of her life involved in the bitter gang warfare there, Bertha had been accepted as a Warrior based on her prior service to the Family. Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo had appealed to the Elders to approve her nomination. Hickok had made a rare, yet oddly eloquent speech calling for her installation as a Warrior, saying at one point, as Blade recalled: “If Bertha ain’t fit to be a Warrior, then neither am I, or Blade, or Geronimo, or Rikki. Bertha may not have been raised in the Home, but she’s as Family as can be. And, more importantly, she’s a born Warrior in her heart. That feisty female can whip her weight in wildcats. So you’d best approve her application, or she’ll most likely storm in here and punch you out.” Blade could still remember the amused expressions of the assembled Elders.

  Bertha turned toward the fourth member of their little group. He was seated behind Blade, dressed in a fancy gray shirt and trousers, both tailor-made for him by the Family Weavers. The shirt had wide lapels and black buttons; the pants legs were flared at the bottom. He wore a wide black belt with a silver buckle. Nestled in a black shoulder holster under each arm was an L.A.R. Grizzly. The Grizzly was an automatic pistol with a seven-shot magazine, chambered for the devastating .45 Winchester Magnum cartridge. Its grips were black, but the rest of it was shining silver. The man wore his black hair neatly trimmed around the ears, and a full black mustache added to his strikingly handsome appearance. “What’s with you, Sundance?” Bertha asked. “You’ve hardly said a word this whole trip so far.”

  The Warrior called Sundance shrugged. “What did you want me to say?”

  “Anything would’ve been nice,” Bertha remarked. “You sure ain’t the talkative type, are you?”

  “Guess not,” Sundance responded in his low voice.

  Bertha pointed at the Grizzlies. “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you. Are you any good with those pistols of yours?”

  “Fair,” Sundance laconically answered.

  “You as good as Hickok?” Bertha inquired.

  “Maybe,” Sundance said.

  Bertha threw back her head and laughed. She reached over and tapped Blade on the shoulder. “Did you hear this idiot? He thinks he’s as good as White Meat!” White Meat was her pet term for Hickok.

  “I’ve seen Sundance practice,” Blade mentioned. “He’s real fast, Bertha.”

  “Maybe so,” Bertha stated, “but there ain’t no way he could beat White Meat, and you know it.”

  “That depends,” Blade said.

  “On what?” Bertha retorted.

  “On how you mean it,” Blade explained. “If you mean fast on the draw, then I’d have to agree with you. I’ve never seen anyone who can draw as fast as Hickok. But, on the other hand, if you mean fast in firing a gun, then Sundance might have the edge.”

  “What?” Bertha said skeptically.

  Blade nodded toward Sundance. “He uses automatic pistols, Bertha, Hickok prefers his Colt Pythons, and they’re revolvers.”

  “So?” Bertha responded.

  “So have you ever compared a pistol and a revolver?” Blade asked.

  “No,” Bertha admitted.

  “You should sometime,” Blade recommended. “We have a lot of books in the Family library on guns. Dozens and dozens of books, covering everything from bullet-making to replacing busted stocks. We know pistols and revolvers were popular before the Big Blast, and we also know there was considerable controversy over whether a pistol or a revolver could fire faster.”

  “What do you think?” Bertha queried.

  “I’m getting to that,” Blade said. “The experts debated the pros and cons of both types. Automatic pistols, as a rule, hold more rounds than a standard revolver. Sundance’s Grizzlies, for instance, hold seven rounds in the magazine, while Hickok’s Pythons usually hold five.”

  “Five?” Bertha said, surprised. “But the cylinders in the Pythons can hold six bullets.”

  “True,” Blade conceded, “but Hickok seldom keeps a round under the hammer. Most professionals don’t. Less chance of an accident that way.”

  He paused. “The revolver is normally thicker and slightly bulkier than a pistol. But in reliability, when it comes to things like jamming and dud rounds, the revolver is considered superior. In the accuracy department, both are even when used by a skilled gunman. Revolvers can handle broader load ranges than most pistols, and that’s a plus.”

  “But what about bein’ fast?” Bertha interrupted impatiently.

  “I’m getting to that,” Blade reiterated. “When it comes to speed, you have to keep in mind the type of revolver we’re talking about. With a single-action revolver, you have to pull back the hammer before squeezing the trigger, and that definitely slows you down. Hickok’s Pythons, on the other hand, are double-action, meaning he can fire either way, by squeezing just the trigger or by pulling back the hammer and then shooting. Double-actions have an edge over single-actions in that respect.”

  “But what about bein’ fast?” Bertha asked, sounding peeved.

  “I’m getting to that,” Blade repeated again.

  “This year or next?” Bertha rejoined.

  Blade grinned. “In our last trade exchange with the Civilized Zone, we received two stopwatches.”

  “Two what?” Bertha inquired.

  “Stopwatches,” Blade said. “You know what a watch is, don’t you?”

  “Of course!” Bertha stated. “Do you think I’m a dummy? I saw a lot of watches on the Watchers…” She stopped, then laughed. “Watches on the Watchers! Get it?”

  Blade sighed. “I get it.”

  “I know the Family didn’t use watches years ago,” Bertha mentioned.

  “But I’ve seen a few around since you started tradin’ with the rest of the Freedom Federation. So what’s a stopwatch?”

  “It can measure how fast someone moves,” Blade detailed.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Blade affirmed. “And Geronimo used one to time Hickok, to see how fast Nathan could draw and fire five shots.”

  “How did White Meat do?” Bertha asked him.

  “Hickok drew and fired all five shots in his right Python in two-fifths of a second,” Blade answered.

  “Is that fast?” Bertha asked.

  “Let me put it to you this way,” Blade said. “If you’d blinked, you would have missed it.”

  “That fast, huh?” Sundance interjected.

  “Yep,” Blade confirmed.

  Bertha smiled triumphantly. “So that means White Meat would beat Sundance’s cute butt no problem, right?”

  “Not necessarily,” Blade said.

  “Cute butt?” Sundance interjected again.

  “Now what the hell does that mean?” Bertha demanded of Blade.

  “Cute butt?” Sundance repeated.

  “It means,” Blade said, “Hickok can draw his Pythons faster than Sundance can draw his Grizzlies.”

  Bertha stuck her tongue out at Sundance.

  “…but I don’t think Hickok can empty his guns faster than Sundance can empty his,” Blade concluded.

  “What?” Bertha stated. “But you just said—”

  “I wish you would listen to me,” Blade said, cutting her short. “Yes, Hickok is faster on the draw, but only by a fraction. And yes, his double-action revolvers are the equal of most pistols. But I’ve seen both men shoot, and I believe Sundance can empty his Grizzlies a teensy bit faster. Does that answer your question?”

  “It doesn’t answer mine!” Lieutenant Lysenko snapped.

  Blade turned in his seat. “You have a question?”

  “Yes!” Lysenko snapped. “When the hell are you going
to turn off the overhead light and let me sleep in peace and quiet? All this babble is extremely annoying!”

  Bertha looked at Blade. “Please let me bop him in the head!”

  “We need him,” Blade told her.

  “Need me?” Lysenko said. “For what? You won’t get any more information out of me, not after the way you tricked me. I don’t see why you brought me along!”

  “Consider yourself our tour guide,” Blade commented.

  “You made the biggest mistake of your life when you screwed me over,” Lysenko warned.

  “Oh!” Bertha exclaimed. “Somebody catch me! I think I’m goin’ to faint from fright!” She tittered.

  “Have your fun while you can,” Lysenko said. “What goes around, comes around.”

  “Blade,” Sundance said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can anyone see inside when the overhead light is on?” Sundance inquired, staring out his side of the SEAL.

  “No. No one can see inside, no matter what. Why?” Blade replied.

  Sundance motioned with his head. “Because we have company.”

  Blade stared into the night. “Where?”

  “At the edge of trees. Keep your eyes peeled,” Sundance said. “You’ll see them moving from trunk to trunk.”

  Although he knew they were invisible inside the transport, Blade reached up and switched off the overhead light anyway. If they had to open the doors, the light would reveal them to any foes outside. He scanned the row of trees on his side of the transport. The SEAL was parked on the shoulder of U.S. Highway 65 two miles south of Mason City.

  Like the majority of highways and roads, U.S. Highway 65 was in deplorable, but passable, shape. Potholes dotted the highway, intermixed with ruts, buckled sections, and even stretches where the road had been totally destroyed by the twin ravages of time and nature. The SEAL, with its colossal tires, impervious body, and amphibious mode, could circumvent virtually any obstacle. And knowing the SEAL was bulletproof and fire-resistant, Blade hadn’t hesitated to park the transport in the open, on the side of the highway. They hadn’t seen a single soul, not one other vehicle, the whole day. The likelihood of being ambushed was extremely remote. Or so Blade had thought.

  “I see them!” Bertha exclaimed. “Lordy! There’s a lot of them!”

  Blade could see them too. Dark shadows flitting from cover to cover, slowly advancing toward the transport, illuminated by the half-moon in the eastern sky.

  “What do we do?” Bertha asked.

  Blade deliberated. They could stay put and trust to the SEAL to protect them from harm. But what if one of those shadows was armed with a hand grenade? What if the grenade was tossed under the SEAL, where the transport was most vulnerable? Or what if they had a bazooka? Blade considered simply driving off, but the act of starting the engine might precipitate an assault. The SEAL’s firepower was nullified by the angle the shadows were using to approach; the machine guns, the rocket launcher, and the flamethrower were all aimed to the front of the vehicle, while the shadows were coming up on the driver’s side. He had to make a decision, and he had to do it quickly. “We need a diversion, something to draw their attention while I start the SEAL.”

  “Leave it to me,” Sundance said, and he was in motion even as he spoke, flinging the door open and diving to the ground.

  The shadows detected the movement of the door, and a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the trees, handgun and rifle fire, the slugs striking the SEAL, many of them whining as they ricocheted.

  Sundance rolled on his shoulders as he struck the earth, and he came up with a Grizzly in each hand as the shadows charged from the forest.

  The Grizzlies thundered, one shot after another, eight shots in swift succession, and with every shot a shadow dropped, some screeching in agony as they fell.

  Blade clutched at the ignition and twisted the key, and as the engine turned over there was a peculiar smacking sound from behind him and something wet sprayed onto his right arm and the back of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder.

  Lieutenant Frol Lysenko was dead. Two of the wild shots fired by the onrushing shadows had narrowly missed Sundance and entered the open door. Lysenko had been struck in the forehead and the chin. The top slug had blown out the back of his head, splattering hair, brains, and blood over the seats. The chin shot had shattered his mouth; part of his tongue and four teeth hung by a thread of flesh from the ruined hole of his mouth.

  “Sundance!” Blade bellowed. “Now!”

  Sundance fired once more, downing a screaming shadow, and then he spun and vaulted into the SEAL, through the flapping door, as Blade accelerated, flooring the pedal, and the SEAL lurched ahead. Sundance landed on the floor, crouched over, his right elbow on the seat in a pool of Lysenko’s blood. He twisted and slammed the door shut.

  The shadows peppered the transport with gunfire as it sped off.

  Bertha stared over the pile of supplies, out the rear of the SEAL. “We’re leavin’ them turkeys in the dust!” she exclaimed.

  “We’ll go another twenty miles, then stop for the night,” Blade said, abruptly noticing he’d failed to turn on the headlights, an oversight he immediately remedied. He looked over his right shoulder at the Russian.

  “Damn!”

  “What’s the big deal?” Bertha asked. “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer asshole!”

  “We needed him,” Blade stated.

  “We can get by without that dork,” Bertha said.

  Sundance rose to a sitting position in the seat.

  They drove in silence for several minutes.

  Blade flicked on the overhead light and glanced in the rearview mirror at the dead officer. “Damn!” he fumed again. He slammed on the brakes and the transport slewed to a top. “Get him out of here!”

  Sundance reached across Lysenko’s body and unlatched the far door.

  He eased the door open, placed his right brown leather boot on Lysenko’s chest, and kicked.

  The mortal remains of Lieutenant Frol Lysenko pitched head-first into the night.

  Chapter Six

  Four days later.

  “What’s the name of the town ahead?” Blade asked.

  Bertha consulted the map in her lap. “It’s some dinky place called Huntsburg.” She checked the population index on the reverse side of the map. “The map doesn’t say how many people lived there before the Big Blast.”

  They were in Ohio. The SEAL was idling on top of a low rise. A cluster of buildings was visible about a quarter of a mile ahead on U.S. Highway 322.

  “How am I doing?” Bertha queried Blade. “Am I readin’ this sucker okay?”

  “You’re doing just fine,” Blade complimented her.

  Bertha grinned. “Lordy! It sure is fine knowin’ how to read!”

  “You’ve come a long way,” Blade said. “I know how hard you’ve applied yourself over the past year or so, taking all of those classes. It must have been very difficult.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Bertha acknowledged. “But the Elders are good teachers.”

  The Elders were responsible for the Family’s educational regimen. They taught classes on the basics, on history, geography, math, reading, writing, and more, to the family children. The Elders also offered advanced courses based on their individual expertise. The Home was unique in this respect. For most of America, public education, like all other cultural institutions, was nonexistent.

  Bertha ran her left hand over the map, delighted at her progress. When she’d first arrived at the Home, she’d been illiterate. Now, thanks to the Family, she could read and write quite well. She took particular delight in signing her name, and had developed a flamboyant flourish as a token of her pride.

  “Huntsburg doesn’t appear to be big enough to pose any problems,” Blade mentioned. “But stay sharp! We can’t take any chances! We learned that the other night.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at Sundance. “I know this is your first run away from the Home. You did real well against
those goons, but you still don’t have any idea how rough it gets out here.

  You never know when something will pop out at you. So keep your eyes open.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” Sundance said.

  Blade slowly drove toward Huntsburg. The four days since the last incident had been relatively uneventful. As on all his previous trips, Blade had deliberately avoided cities and large towns. Even smaller settlements, when there was any indication of habitation, were skirted. From prior harsh experience, Blade had learned the futility of foolishly relying on receiving a friendly reception anywhere. There were too many savage bands, too many scavengers, raiders, and worse roaming the landscape to permit the needless taking of any risks. Blade prevented trouble by avoiding it. The SEAL was capable of navigating any terrain, so bypassing cities and towns by swinging a loop through the contryside was an easy task. If the town or hamlet was a small one, lacking any evidence of being inhabited, Blade would gamble and drive straight through to save time.

  Usually, his instincts in this regard were reliable.

  But not this time.

  A small business section appeared ahead. A dilapidated restaurant was on the right, a crumbling bar on the left. Ancient signs, too faint to read, adorned some of the other ramshackle structures.

  “Looks like nobody’s home,” Bertha remarked.

  Blade scanned the cracked sidewalks and the shattered windows.

  Huntsburg seemed to be a ghost town.

  “Think we can stop and stretch our legs?” Bertha asked. “It’s almost noon, and we’ve been drivin’ since dawn.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Blade replied. He angled the SEAL up to the curb in front of the restaurant. “It looks like the looters tore this town apart during the war,” he noted.

  “Sure is a dump now,” Bertha agreed, leaning out her open window.

  Blade braked, then shut off the engine.

  Bertha opened her door and dropped to the sidewalk, her M-16 in her hands. “I’m gonna take a look around.”

  “Just be careful,” Blade advised her.