Cincinnati Run

by David Robbins

  “You estimate?” Hickok repeated.

  “It’s not like I have a map of the Soviet territory,” Geronimo responded.

  “We know the Russians control most of New England, southern New York, southern Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Maryland, Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia. We also know they have sections of North and South Carolina, as well as southern Ohio, southern Indiana, and parts of Illinois under their thumb. But we don’t know the exact boundaries.”

  “How far are we from the Home?” the gunman questioned.

  “I haven’t calculated the miles to Lake Bronson State Park,” Geronimo replied, referring to the former scenic area in northwestern Minnesota near which the Home was located.

  “Why?”

  “I was just thinkin’ of Sherry and my little buckaroo, Ringo,” Hickok mentioned.

  “I miss Cynthia and Cochise,” Geronimo admitted.

  “What about you, pard?” Hickok questioned Blade.

  “Need you ask?” the giant responded.

  “Sorry. I know you miss Jenny and Gabe as much as we miss our kin,” Hickok said.

  “Once, just once, I wish you’d talk like everyone else,” Geronimo declared.

  “What’s wrong with the way I talk?” Hickok demanded.

  “As I’ve told you a million times, you sound like an idiot.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  Geromino leaned forward. “For years you’ve been talking like you think the real Wild Bill Hickok talked. I know Hickok was your childhood hero. I know you admired the man so much that you took his name at your Naming ceremony. But you’re going overboard. Do you hear me talking like the Geronimo of old?”

  “No.”

  “Does Sundance talk like the Sundance Kid?”

  “No.”

  “Does Samson use biblical language?”

  “No.”

  “Does Teucer speak Greek?”

  “No.”

  “And what about Plato?”

  “What about him?” Hickok retorted. “He uses so many blamed highfalutin words, I never know what in Sam Hill he’s talkin’ about.”

  “Okay. Forget Plato. But you get my point. All of us went through the Naming ceremony instituted by the Founder. All of us had the option of researching the history books in the library the Founder stocked and picking the name of any historical figure as our own. We can take our name from other sources, if we wish—”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Hickok quipped.

  Geronimo ignored the dig. “The Founder initiated the Naming ceremony as a way of insuring we never lose sight of our historical roots.

  He didn’t intend for us to completely copy our heroes in every respect.”

  “Are you referrin’ to me?”

  “Who else is a living dictionary of the Wild West?”

  “Is that what I am?” Hickok asked, and smiled. “Gee. I’m flattered.”

  “Boys,” Blade stated with special emphasis, interrupting their banter.

  “We’re expected.”

  Hickok and Geronimo faced front.

  The SEAL was still 500 yards from the tents and shacks. There appeared to be about a dozen of each, lined in uneven rows on both sides of the cracked, pitted, pothole-dotted highway. They passed a faded, rusted sign indicating the road was once known as Highway 24.

  “Look at ’em all,” Hickok said.

  Over three dozen men, women, and children were milling about the encampment. Most wore tattered clothing. Many of the men and women carried weapons, either a rifle, a revolver, or both. Five men were standing in the roadway, strung out across Highway 24, watching the transport approach. All five held rifles.

  “Are they the welcoming committee?” Geronimo queried.

  “Looks that way,” Blade said.

  “Let me talk to them,” Hickok proposed.

  “I’ll do the talking,” Blade replied.

  “Why you?”

  “For two reasons,” Blade answered. “One, you’re likely to gun them down before we find out what they want.”

  “And what’s the second reason?”

  Blade glanced at the gunman. “I said so.”

  Hickok shrugged. “You’re the head honcho.”

  “They look like scavengers,” Geronimo commented, “but scavengers never stay in one place.”

  “Maybe they’re startin’ their own town,” Hickok speculated.

  “In the middle of nowhere?” Geronimo said.

  “Some folks have no common sense, pard.”

  Geronimo gave the gunman a meaningful look. “Don’t I know it.”

  Blade applied the brakes lightly when the SEAL was 40 yards from the five men. He allowed the transport to glide forward slowly, his eyes on the quintet of hardcases. A glint of sunlight off to the right arrested his attention, and he saw several antiquated vehicles parked in a stand of trees to the south of the tents and shacks. The afternoon sun was gleaming off the front bumper of a white car. Although the bumper and grill were visible, the car’s body was obscured by dense brush. For that matter, all of the vehicles were partially screened by undergrowth. Blade’s eyes narrowed.

  Wait a minute.

  Were those vehicles parked in the trees—or hidden there?

  “Everyone is lookin’ at us,” Hickok observed.

  All of the people in the camp had ceased whatever they were doing and were staring at the SEAL.

  “This setup is definitely a trap,” Blade announced. “We’ll let them make the first move.” He rolled down his window.

  Hickok was doing the same. He placed the AR-15 between his legs, drew his Pythons, and held the revolvers next to the passenger-side door, just below the edge of the window.

  The transport was now ten yards from the bedraggled men, none of whom displayed the slightest inclination to move aside.

  Blade brought the SEAL to a stop six feet away and poked his head out the window. “Hello,” he said with a smile.

  “Hi, stranger,” declared the man in the middle, a hefty fellow with a cleft chin and bushy brows. He wore a torn flannel shirt and baggy brown pants, and in his hands was a Winchester 30-30. “Nice van you have here.

  Never saw one like it before.”

  “It’s special,” Blade said.

  “Is that so?” Hefty responded, smiling in a friendly fashion.

  “Would you happen to have fresh venison you’d be willing to trade?”

  Blade inquired politely. “We’ve been eating jerky for the past two days and could use a change.”

  Hefty nodded and came around the front of the SEAL to stand near Blade’s window. “Yep. Just killed an eight-point buck this morning.

  There’s lots of deer in these parts.”

  Blade allowed his left arm to casually dangle out the window while gripping the Commando with his right hand. “You have a lot of mouths to feed,” he remarked.

  “We truly do,” Hefty acknowledged. “And it ain’t easy, let me tell you.”

  Blade pointed at the encampment, which began approximately 15 yards to the rear of the men. “Are you their leader?”

  “You could say that,” Hefty admitted with a smirk.

  “How long have you been camped here?”

  “Oh, a couple of months.”

  “I’m surprised to find your camp near the highway, in the open,” Blade said. “Aren’t you concerned the Russians might discover it?”

  “The Reds don’t come this far north much,” Hefty said. “We’ve seen a helicopter or two of theirs, but they left us alone. Didn’t want to waste the ammo, I guess.”

  Blade stared at the man. “What would you take in trade for some fresh venison?”

  “Do you have any guns in there?” Hefty asked, tilting his head and trying to peer inside.

  “We won’t trade guns,” Blade said.

  “What will you trade, stranger?”

  “We have a spare canteen, several boxes of matches, and a hatchet,” Blade disclosed. “Would you be interest
ed in any of those?”

  “We could use all of it.”

  “I’ll trade you the canteen and a box of matches for three venison steaks,” Blade offered.

  Hefty made a show of scratching his stubbly chin. “Throw in the hatchet.”

  “The hatchet and a box of matches,” Blade amended.

  “No. We’ll take the canteen, the matches, and the hatchet,” Hefty said.

  “We don’t need the entire buck,” Blade said wryly.

  Hefty grinned. “You’re a tough customer, that’s plain to see.” He nodded toward the encampment. “Tell you what. Why don’t you and whoever else is in that contraption come out and join us in a brew. We can talk over the trade cordial-like.”

  “Don’t mind if we do,” Blade said, and he saw the five men visibly relax.

  They were undoubtedly convinced they had pulled the wool over his eyes.

  “Just park your van over there,” Hefty said, indicating a patch of grass between two tents.

  “All right,” Blade said, then paused. “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask you a question.”

  “What’s that, stranger?”

  “I couldn’t help but notice those vehicles in the trees,” Blade said innocently. “Where did they come from?”

  Hefty frowned. “You’re real observant, mister.”

  “Are they yours?” Blade inquired.

  “Yeah,” Hefty said, glancing at his four companions.

  “Why are they parked in the trees?” Blade pressed him.

  “Uhhhh,” Hefty began, his forehead creasing. “We don’t want the Reds to spot them.”

  “But you just said the Russians rarely travel this far north of their lines,” Blade stated.

  “You never know,” Hefty responded nervously.

  “Would there be another reason those vehicles are in the trees?”

  Hefty licked his thick lips. “Like what?”

  Blade smiled, drawing the Commando to his chest, the tip of the barrel inches from the window but concealed from the quintet. “Oh, like maybe you hid the vehicles because you don’t want anyone to see the bullet holes.”

  “What bullet holes?” Hefty queried, beginning to elevate the 30-30.

  “The bullet holes your buddies and you put there when you killed the people inside those vehicles,” Blade stated harshly. “So you could take all of their possessions.”

  Hefty glared at the giant. “You’re too damn smart for your own good, stranger!” he snapped.

  And all five men raised their rifles.

  Chapter Four

  Blade’s lightning reflexes were more than equal to the occasion. He simply slid the Commando’s barrel over the lower rim of the window and squeezed the trigger. A torrent of slugs slammed into Hefty’s chest and smashed him to the fissure-ridden asphalt, geysers of blood spurting from his torso.

  On the passenger side, Hickok leaned out of the window and fired each Colt. Two of the men dropped, their craniums shattered.

  The remaining pair were back pedaling frantically, shooting as they went, their shots deflected by the SEAL’S impenetrable windshield.

  Blade and Hickok ducked inside.

  “What say we teach these cow-chips a lesson?” the gunman asked.

  “Take this,” Blade said, extending the Commando to Geronimo with his right arm as he rolled up the window with his left.

  “Look at ’em!” Hickok said, following Blade’s example.

  The scavengers were charging the SEAL en masse, except for the children and a few of the women, who were fleeing into the woods. Dozens of guns were firing simultaneously, and round after round ricocheted off the transport with a loud, pinging sound.

  Blade saw the scavengers converging on the highway directly ahead, evidently intending to block the SEAL’S path. He glanced at the vehicles in the trees, thinking of the unfortunate victims previously slain by the mob rushing toward him, and his features hardened grimly. He reached to his right and flicked the silver toggle marked with an M.

  The scavengers nearest the SEAL were astonished to see metal plates underneath the headlights slide upward, exposing the 50-caliber machine guns in their recessed compartments.

  “Look out!” one of the men shouted.

  Too late.

  Thundering death and destruction, the 50-calibers decimated the foremost ranks in seconds. Men and women toppled to the roadway, screeching and wailing. The scavengers behind the front rows tried to flee, but their limbs could not outrun the heavy slugs. They dropped where they stood, their bodies perforated, spilling their life’s blood on the unyielding pavement. Four of the scavengers darted to the right, sprinting toward a shack.

  Blade angled the SEAL to the right and applied the brakes again.

  The fleeing scavengers were each struck in the back and flung to the ground.

  “Got the varmints!” Hickok said.

  Blade switched the toggle off and the machine guns ceased chattering.

  He gazed at the bleeding forms littering the highway, many of whom were moaning or crying. A brunette was convulsing and spitting crimson down her chin. An elderly man was trying to regain his footing, an impossible feat because his left leg was missing below the knee.

  “They had it comin’,” Hickok remarked.

  “Did they?” Geronimo asked.

  The gunman looked over his left shoulder. “What’s with you?”

  “Who appointed us their executioners?”

  Hickok knit his brow, perplexed. “You’re beginning to sound like Joshua. They were tryin’ to kill us, pard, or didn’t you notice?”

  “They couldn’t hurt us in the SEAL,” Geronimo said.

  “They didn’t know that,” Hickok stated testily.

  “Those people were murderers and thieves,” Blade interjected. “Who knows how many people they’ve killed? Sure, we could have bypassed them without a fight, leaving them free to continue their depredations. And the life of every person they killed from now on would be on our shoulders.”

  “So there,” Hickok said.

  “I guess you’re right,” Geronimo responded.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Hickok inquired. “You never got upset about blowin’ away cow-chips before.”

  “Some of those scavengers had children,” Geronimo said.

  “So? Rattlesnakes have young’uns too.”

  “So I have a son now,” Geronimo mentioned. “I see things differently.”

  Blade twisted in his seat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Geronimo shrugged. “I didn’t want to mention anything until I made my decision.”

  “What decision?” Hickok asked.

  “Whether to resign from the Warriors,” Geronimo answered.

  Blade and Hickok exchanged flabbergasted expressions.

  “You’re kiddin’!” the gunman blurted.

  “I’m quite serious,” Geronimo said. “I’ve been considering the matter for some time.”

  “You can’t quit!” Hickok exclaimed. “The three of us are best buddies.

  We’re a team. Alpha Triad wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  “The Elders would select a new Warrior to replace me,” Geronimo said.

  “You know the procedure as well as I.”

  “I know you were born to be a Warrior, just like me,” Hickok asserted.

  “It’s in your blood.”

  “My family must come first.”

  “You’re out of practice,” Hickok said. “You haven’t been on a run in a spell. Give yourself a few more days. Once you’ve plugged a few lowlifes, you’ll feel a lot better.”

  “I don’t think so,” Geronimo replied.

  “All right. You sit back and take it easy this trip. I’ll do your share of the killin’. Heck, I don’t mind. I never sweat the small stuff.”

  “Small stuff?”

  Blade faced front and drove forward, steering the SEAL to the left, skirting the figures cluttering the road. The transport’s massive tires pulverized two te
nts and reduced a crude wooden shack to kindling, and then they were past the scavengers. He slewed onto Highway 24 and resumed their journey.

  “I didn’t mean to spring this on you,” Geronimo said after a minute. “I knew you’d be upset.”

  “Upset? Who’s upset?” Hickok snapped, then lowered his voice. “I think I’ll toss Josh in the moat when we get back.”

  “Joshua had nothing to do with the way I feel,” Geronimo said.

  “What’s your real reason?” Blade inquired. “You’ve never displayed any reservations about killing in the past. You know as well as we do that killing is part of our duty as Warriors. Sometimes it’s a distasteful part, but it must be done. We’re a lot like the prewar law-enforcement officers.

  They had to keep the lid on a society falling apart at the seams, and they had to protect the decent, law-abiding citizens from the predators and vultures. On occasion they had to kill. They might not want to squeeze the trigger, they might try to avoid doing so at all costs, but in the final analysis, those officers, just like the Warriors, had to confront the prospect of killing every day.” He paused. “You’ve been an outstanding Warrior for years. It’s not the killing that bothers you. What is it?”

  Geronimo sighed and gazed to the right at the forested landscape.

  “Cynthia and Cochise.”

  “What about them?” Hickok questioned. “Do they want you to quit?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?” Hickok asked impatiently.

  “What happens to them if I’m slain?”

  Blade stared into the rearview mirror at Geronimo’s reflection, regarding his friend’s troubled expression. “The possibility of being killed in the line of duty is an occupational hazard of our profession.”

  “I know.”

  “But?” Blade prompted.

  “But do I have the right to expose my family to the same hazard?”

  Geronimo queried. His shoulders slumped. “I never told you this, but Cynthia was a nervous wreck when I returned from our run to Nevada.

  She hardly slept a wink the whole time we were gone. Cochise was even worse. He started having nightmares, and he would wake up in the middle of the night screaming my name. He’s still having nightmares occasionally, and he’s scared of his own shadow.”

  “Have you discussed the situation with them?” Blade inquired.