Seattle Run

by David Robbins

  “You can’t fool me, human,” Manta said.

  “I can’t?”

  “No,” Manta declared. “I know you are looking for the female who arrived with you. She is not here.”

  “Where is she?” Hickok inquired.

  “I assigned her to the painting detail in the housing units,” Manta replied. “Don’t you remember? Humans have such pitiful intellects!”

  “Oh. Now I remember,” Hickok said to promote the charade. Still, it was nice to know Hedy wouldn’t be in the Humarium or the kelp factory when the fighting began.

  “I want to know all about you,” Manta said. “Where you are from. How many came here with you. Everything.”

  Hickok pretended to yawn while swiveling in a half-circle.

  Bingo!

  There it was!

  The corridor leading to the closet in which they’d been held.

  “Did you hear me?” Manta stated harshly.

  “I heard you.” Hickok gazed at the mutant, grinning.

  “But give me one good reason why I should spill the beans to you?”

  Mania’s lips curved back, revealing his pointed teeth. “If you don’t cooperate, I will send for the woman and feed her to the sharks. And I don’t mean those pathetic humans occupying eastern Seattle. I mean real, live sharks. I have conditioned several of them to stay near Pier 59 by feeding them regularly.”

  “Pier 59?”

  “The pier where this Humarium of mine is located,” Mama explained.

  “You say you feed these real sharks regular-like?” Hickok inquired.

  “Yes,” Manta affirmed.

  “What do you feed ’em?” Hickok asked.

  Manta grinned. “What do you think?”

  Hickok scratched his chin, as if mulling the matter. “I don’t see where I’ve got any choice.”

  “You don’t,” Manta asserted.

  “Okay. Tell you what I’ll do,” Hickok said. “I’ll cough up the info you want, provided you answer one measly question of mine.”

  “Don’t dictate terms to me!” Manta snapped.

  “What can one question hurt?” Hickok asked.

  Manta reflected for a moment. “What is your question?”

  “Do you have any?” Hickok queried.

  “Any what?” Manta responded, confused.

  “You know,” Hickok said, grinning.

  “No, I don’t know,” Manta rejoined in annoyance. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was just sort of wonderin’,” Hickok mentioned, scanning the area to insure none of the Brethren were nearby or blocking his route to the corridor.

  “What?” Manta spat, becoming angrier by the moment.

  “About whether humans and the Brethren have similar reproductive organs?” Hickok said.

  “Somewhat similar,” Manta said. “But what kind of question is that?”

  “I was just curious about those briefs of yours,” Hickok commented.

  As the gunman expected, Manta looked down at his briefs.

  And Hickok lashed out with his right leg, kicking Manta right in the…

  briefs. He didn’t wait to see the affect his kick had. The gunman took off lickety-split for the hallway. Only when he was about to disappear around the corner did he risk a hasty look over his right shoulder.

  Manta was on his knees on the floor, clutching his genital region. Three of the Brethren were hurrying toward their leader.

  Time to haul butt!

  Hickok raced along the hallway, hoping he wouldn’t bump into one of the mutants. He tried to recall if there had been any turns between the sanitation closet and the central core of the Humarium. As far as he could remember, there hadn’t been. His moccasins squished on the tiled floor as he sprinted deeper into the corridor.

  He was acting on a hunch.

  Hickok had seen a lot of humans in the Humarium and the kelp factory, and he knew there were many in the housing units because they were forced to work in shifts, according to Captain Dale. But the gunman had not observed one other human in this corridor connected to the Humarium. Not one entering or exiting the hallway. Even the Brethren rarely used it.

  All of which had aroused his curiosity.

  If the corridor wasn’t being used frequently, then there must be an important reason. Or so Hickok speculated. And what better reason than the presence of a room the Brethren did not want the humans to see?

  There was more cause for conjecture.

  The Brethren had dumped the gunfighter and the Shark into a closet at the end of the seldom-used hallway. Odds were, Hickok told himself, the Brethren removed all weapons there and carried them to the storeroom.

  He doubted the mutants would lug the weapons any great distance. The Brethren weren’t fond of firearms and despised anything manufactured by human hands. So logic dictated the storeroom must be in close proximity to the closet.

  And there was one more factor.

  Hickok knew of four passages leading from the Humarium proper. One linked the Humarium to the land to the east; another was the passage between the Humarium and the housing units to the south; the third was the one connecting the Humarium to the kelp factory to the north; and then there was this one, which seemed to angle to the west but served no functional purpose.

  Or did it?

  Maybe it served to house the Brethren’s collection of confiscated weapons at a prudent distance from the areas where the humans normally worked and lived.

  Maybe Manta had grown complacent over the decades and had failed to guard the corridor properly.

  Maybe.

  Maybe.

  Maybe.

  Hickok caught sight of a series of doors ahead and increased his speed.

  There were three on the left, four on the right.

  The first door was the wide open door to the sanitation closet.

  Hickok grabbed for the second door on the right and twisted the knob.

  Another closet.

  He lunged for the third door on the right.

  Yet another lousy closet.

  Hickok didn’t bother with the last door on the right. He crossed to the doors on the left and took hold of the first doorknob. The door was vibrating and there was a throbbing noise from the opposite side. He pulled the door open and discovered a green generator.

  Which explained the lights.

  Hickok darted to the next door and tried the knob.

  Locked.

  The gunman returned to the generator room and scrutinized the four walls. To his left was a shelf containing a toolbox. He moved to the blue metal box, opened the lid, and found a hammer on the top shelf.

  The Spirit was smiling on him!

  Hickok grabbed the hammer and hastened to the hallway. He stood in front of the locked door and raised the hammer.

  “Down this way!” a raspy voice shouted from up the corridor.

  Hickok pounded the hammer onto the doorknob once. Twice. Three times. The doorknob broke off and clattered to the floor. He wrenched the door open and entered.

  Eureka!

  The room was filled with weapons of every variety: revolvers, pistols, shotguns, rifles, machine guns, bows, swords, knives, explosives, and more. On a corner of the nearest table were the newest additions to the collection: a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers.

  Hickok snatched up the Pythons, relief washing over him. He quickly checked, verifying they were loaded.

  Footsteps pounded in the hallway.

  Hickok emerged from the storeroom with the Colts held at waist height, the barrels tilted upwards.

  Three of the Brethren were rushing toward him.

  “Lookin’ for me?” Hickok asked, and shot each of them between the eyes, the Pythons thundering in the confines of the corridor.

  The mutants died without uttering a sound.

  Hickok bolstered his Colts and reentered the storeroom, seeking an equalizer. He was vastly outnumbered, and even his precious Pythons couldn’t fend off a horde of mutants. W
ell, 264 might not, technically speaking, qualify as a horde, but it was close enough for him. He gazed at a rack of machine guns and automatic rifles.

  Just what the doctor ordered!

  Hickok selected six of the automatic rifles, insured their magazines were full, then swung two over each arm. He was about to take the last two and leave, when his eyes fell on a green metal box in the far corner of the storeroom, its lid partially open. He walked to the box, knelt, and raised the lid.

  Someone must have remembered his birthday.

  Hickok stuffed his pockets, then retrieved the pair of rifles he’d chosen.

  One in each arm, a stock pressed against each side, he exited the storeroom and headed for the Humarium.

  Party time.

  A mutant ran into view, took one look, and headed for the hills.

  “Was it my breath?” Hickok quipped.

  The Warrior calmly proceeded along the hallway until the junction appeared. He slowed, the rifles pointing straight ahead.

  Where the blazes were the Brethren?

  An answer was promptly forthcoming. They came at him in droves, charging around the corner en masse, most armed with only whips, the rest relying on their nails, their claws. They were no match for the gunman.

  Hickok poured round after round into them, their bodies twitching and convulsing as their organs were ruptured by the heavy slugs. They toppled to the floor in rows, and those to the rear were shot as they attempted to clamber over their fellows. An acrid stench filled the corridor.

  As suddenly as it began, the attack ceased.

  Hickok squinted as he cautiously moved up to the pile of dead mutants.

  He stayed next to the right-hand wall and squeezed through between the wall and the corpses.

  Manta and three dozen Brethren were waiting for the Warrior ten yards into the Humarium. The Brethren were lined up behind their leader in disciplined ranks.

  “Howdy, Fish Lips,” Hickok greeted the mutant.

  “Drop your weapons!” Manta commanded.

  Hickok snorted. “You must be jokin’!”

  “You cannot hope to slay all of us before we reach you,” Mania stated.

  “Drop your weapons and I will be lenient with you.”

  “Now I know you’re jokin’,” Hickok said. “And as usual, you’ve got everything all backwards. I want you and your cronies to lay down on the floor with your hands behind your backs. Pronto.”

  Manta took a menacing step forward. “Don’t be absurd! We’ll do no such thing!”

  Hickok knelt on his right knee, placed the rifle in his right hand on the floor, and rose.

  “You are surrendering!” Manta declared happily.

  “Not quite,” Hickok said. He reached into his right pocket and extracted one of his surprises, holding it aloft. “Recognize this, Fish Lips?”

  “A grenade!” Manta exclaimed. “We took those from the Cutterhawk.”

  “You were real lucky the sailors didn’t have a chance to use ’em,” Hickok commented. “I trust you know what these can do?”

  “If you use one in here, human, you run the risk of fracturing one of the outer walls,” Manta noted. “And if you cause a rift in the exterior walls, the Humarium will be flooded. Every human inside will be killed.”

  “That’s a risk I’ll have to take,” Hickok said.

  “You’re bluffing,” Manta snapped. “You won’t use a grenade. Even if you do, we can breathe underwater. Most of the Brethren will survive.”

  Hickok detected a hubbub of shouts and cries coming from the north, from the direction of the kelp factory. “Say, Fish Breath, I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Not another one!” Manta remarked bitterly.

  “Yep. Did you happen to pull some of your overseers from the kelp factory to deal with me?” Hickok inquired.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?” Manta responded.

  Hickok grinned. “Just a lucky guess.”

  Manta suddenly turned, listening to the uproar coming closer and closer. “No!” he cried.

  “Afraid so,” Hickok said. “Your little empire is about to come tumblin’ around your gills.”

  Manta glared at the Warrior. “If it’s the last thing I ever do,” he hissed, “I will revenge myself on you!”

  “Now there’s an original line,” Hickok cracked.

  Manta shook his right fist at the gunman. “I swear you will pay!”

  “Just so you don’t jump me in the bathtub,” Hickok said. “You might scare my son’s rubber ducky.”

  Further conversation was precluded by the arrival of nearly a hundred rampaging men and women from the north, from the kelp factory, where they had risen up and pounced on their overseers, killing every mutant and sustaining marginal losses in their frenzied bid for freedom.

  Manta and the Brethren with him turned to meet the rushing tide of enraged, bloodthirsty humanity. The mutants fought with fang and claw, but they were grossly outnumbered. The humans overwhelmed the mutants, venting months, years, and even decades of simmering hatred and hostility. The center of the Humarium became a writhing mass of humans and mutants. Screams, cries, and curses rent the air.

  Hickok leaned against the wall. He propped his other rifle alongside his left leg, folded his arms, and waited.

  Fewer and fewer mutants were still in the fray. Bodies dotted the floor, contorted in their death throes.

  Hickok began whistling the tune to “Home on the Range.” He saw five men stradding a mutant, beating at him with their fists and kicking him again and again and again. The mutant wasn’t moving, but their fury had not subsided. They would beat him until his corpse was a pulpy mass.

  The battle was slowing, winding down.

  A lone mutant broke from the melee and staggered toward the gunman.

  Hickok straightened, his hands dropping to his Colts.

  Manta was coated with blood and sporting half a dozen wounds. His left leg was bent unnaturally. He shuffled to within six feet of the Warrior, breathing heavily, his tongue flicking over his lips. “You! You did this to me!” he bellowed.

  “I reckon so,” Hickok agreed.

  “Human scum!” Manta growled.

  “I’ve been givin’ some thought to what you said,” Hickok commented as Manta limped toward him.

  Five feet separated them.

  “And I don’t much like the notion of your traumatizing my son’s rubber ducky,” Hickok remarked.

  Four feet.

  Manta lunged, his claws stabbing for the human’s face.

  Hickok hardly seemed to move; one moment his hands were lightly resting on his Pythons, and the next the Colts were bucking and belching lead.

  Manta took a slug in each eye. The impact catapulted him backwards to crash to the floor in a disjointed heap. He gasped once, then was still.

  Hickok twirled the Pythons into his holsters. He walked over and looked down at Manta. “Piece of cake, Fish Lips.”

  Epilogue

  They were at the designated rendezvous spot, Lake Forest Park, waiting for the Hurricane to return. Their relief and happiness at being reunited was tempered by their sadness at the loss of the Family’s flamboyant gunman. Gar, Fab, and forty Sharks were waiting with the Warriors. Gar had assumed leadership of the Sharks, none of whom had opposed his taking command. A majority of the Sharks considered Gar to be an excellent candidate, and a majority also wanted to avoid antagonizing Gar’s newfound friends, the Warriors, at all costs. Especially Yama.

  Blade had scoured Shark territory for Hickok after returning to the site of the ambush and discovering the gunman’s body was missing. He entertained the forlorn hope the gunfighter was alive, although his better judgment told him the rats had disposed of the corpse.

  “I am sorry about your friend,” Gar said to Blade as they stood near the field where the Hurricane would land.

  “Thanks,” Blade responded, his expression downcast. “I don’t know how I’ll tell his wife and son.”

  “You won’
t need to tell them a thing,” Rikki commented from Blade’s left.

  Blade glanced at the martial artist, who was staring to the south.

  “How does he do it?” Yama asked no one in particular.

  Blade looked in the direction Rikki was gazing, and his features brightened, a broad smile creasing his face. He slung the Commando over his right shoulder and jogged toward the man who had just emerged from the undergrowth 40 yards to the south. “Hickok!”

  Hickok was wiping at a smudge of dirt on his left leg. He saw his friend approaching and ran to meet him. “Blade! Where the dickens have you been?”

  The two Warriors met each other halfway. They halted and studied one another for a moment.

  “I thought you were dead,” Blade said.

  “Me? I’m too ornery to die,” Hickok joked.

  To the gunman’s utter astonishment, Blade unexpectedly stepped forward and embraced him in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground.

  “Damn! I missed you!” Blade declared ecstatically.

  Hickok struggled to break loose. “Put me down, you dang-blasted idiot! What do you think you’re doin’, anyway? I swear! You’re gettin’ worse than Geronimo!”

  Blade grinned and released the gunfighter.

  Hickok shook his head in annoyance. “You ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll tell your missus on you!”

  “Where have you been?” Blade inquired. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Rikki and Yama reached them.

  “There you two are!” Hickok said. “I was beginnin’ to think I was the only one tryin’ to get our mission accomplished.”

  Blade stared over the gunman’s right shoulder at a column of armed men and women coming from the underbrush. “Who are they?”

  Hickok glanced back. “They are some of the ones we came here to rescue. Remember them? That’s Captain Dale in the lead, and there are seventy more behind him. The rest are camped two miles from here.”

  “You found Manta?” Blade asked in amazement.

  “Yep.”

  “What happened?” Blade queried.

  Hickok ran his right index finger across his throat.

  Blade stared at the column. “Do you mean to tell me you took care of Manta and rescued the people he was holding all by yourself?”