Cincinnati Run

by David Robbins

  “Hardly ever. Too dangerous.”

  “I’ll lead the way,” Hickok offered.

  “Thanks, sonny, but I will. I know which way to go and what to look out for,” Elmer said. “Besides, the lighter is mine.” He produced his lighter from his left pants pocket and moved to the edge of the manhole, his countenance etched with anxiety.

  “I can handle this myself,” Hickok suggested. “Give me directions and I’ll be okay.”

  Elmer looked at the gunman and grinned. “I promised to help you get into the L.R.F., and I’m a man of my word.” With that, he slid his legs into the hole, twisting and grabbing the top metal rung.

  “Be careful,” Hickok said.

  “You’re the one who needs a nursemaid,” Elmer responded, and lowered his body from view. A flickering glow filled the access hatch when he snapped on his lighter.

  Admiring the oldster’s gumption, Hickok angled his legs into the hole and clambered down the rungs. A narrow concrete walkway afforded footing at the bottom, and Hickok turned, the fetid, rancid odor almost making him gag.

  Six feet high and six feet wide, the sewer tunnel was aligned from east to west. Between the walkway on which they stood, and a similar walkway on the other side, flowed a sluggish stream composed of reeking refuse, putrid garbage, and repulsive globs of indeterminate matter.

  “That gunk is four feet deep,” Elmer mentioned. “Don’t fall in or you’ll regret it.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” Hickok said, revolted by the brownish sludge.

  “This way,” Elmer said, and headed to the east, treading carefully, the lighter held aloft in his right hand.

  Hickok pinched his nose shut with his left hand and trailed after the bum.

  “Keep your peepers on that crap,” Elmer stated, and pointed at the sewage.

  “Why?”

  “The muties swim in the shit.”

  “You’re kiddin’ me.”

  “I wish I was.”

  How could anything exist in that sickening slime? Hickok stared at the festering muck, searching for a trace of life.

  Elmer increased his pace, hastening at a rapid clip.

  “What’s your big hurry?” Hickok inquired, watching their shadows shift and undulate on the tunnel walls, concerned the old-timer might slip on the slick walkway.

  “The sewer gives me the creeps.”

  “Wimp,” Hickok joked, giving the bum a taste of his own medicine.

  Elmer glanced at the sewage and hurried on.

  They covered 30 yards uneventfully and came to a junction where another tunnel forked to the south.

  “We go this way,” Elmer said, and took the fork, his shoes padding on the cement. “This tunnel runs under Delhi Road. Sixty yards from here is one of the manholes on the L.R.F. grounds.”

  “So I’ll come up inside the outer wall?” Hickok said.

  “Wouldn’t do you much good if you came up outside, now would it?”

  “If you despise the sewers so much, how come you know about the tunnels into the L.R.F.?” Hickok asked.

  “A pal of mine, Gorgeous George—”

  “Gorgeous George?”

  “Don’t interrupt me, sonny,” Elmer stated. “Gorgeous George and I were curious about the installation, and we wanted to take a look-see for ourselves. So one night we snuck down here and found this tunnel leading under the base. We scoped out the silver toothpick and other buildings and split before we were caught.”

  “Where’s your pal now?”

  “Gorgeous George bit the farm two months ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Was his own fault. The dummy got blitzed out of his gourd and passed out in a condemned building. He forgot to cover himself or curl into a ball and the rats got him. Chewed all the way through his throat.”

  “A horrible way to go,” Hickok remarked.

  “I can think of worse,” Elmer said. “George should have…” he began, and halted abruptly. “What was that?”

  Hickok stopped and listened, hearing the faint gurgling of the sewage and the dripping of sludge from the walls. “What?”

  “Didn’t you hear that noise?”

  “Nope,” Hickok responded.

  Elmer shrugged and took a stride, then froze, extending the lighter over the sewage. “Damn it! Are you deaf?”

  Hickok was about to tell the bum he was imagining things, until his ears registered the peculiar sound, like an indistinct swishing. Whatever it was, the sound came from their rear. “What is it?”

  “A mutie!” Elmer exclaimed, casting a terrified glance backwards.

  “We’ve got to get the hell out of the sewer!” He spun and bolted as fast as his spindly legs would carry him.

  Placing his right hand on his right Python, Hickok jogged on Elmer’s heels, looking repeatedly at the tunnel behind them, alarmed that the swishing was becoming louder and louder.

  “Oh, God! I hope we make it!” Elmer cried.

  They traversed ten yards.

  Hickok peered over his right shoulder again, and he felt as if his blood changed to ice as he beheld the sewage rippling and cresting with the passage under its surface of a large, sinuous…thing.

  “Run!” Elmer screamed.

  The mutant was on them in seconds.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Geronimo was 30 feet from the entrance to Lenin’s Needle when he spied an open door to his left and darted through the doorway, hoping to find a stairwell, or weapons, or anything to turn the tide for the Warriors.

  Instead, he found a Russian trooper standing next to a rack containing cleaning supplies. In the trooper’s hands was a broom.

  “What are you doing, comrade?” the Russian inquired, his brown eyes narrowing.

  “I thought this was the bathroom,” Geronimo said, smiling, pivoting toward the door.

  The soldier reached out and seized Geronimo by the right shoulder.

  “Wait a minute. There is something strange here.”

  “Your face,” Geronimo responded, and batted the trooper’s arm away.

  He lunged for the doorway, but the Russian leaped and tackled him about the ankles, bringing him down, sending him crashing into the open door and knocking it shut. Geronimo twisted onto his back, lashing his legs in an effort to dislodge the soldier.

  The trooper clung to the Warrior and started to claw higher.

  Eager to end the fray quickly and aid Blade, Geronimo reversed his strategy, arcing his knees up to his chest and drawing the soldier’s face within range of his hands. He jammed his thumbs into the Russian’s eyes, causing the man to cry out in pain, and slugged the trooper on the jaw.

  Stunned, his eyes closed and watering, the soldier released his hold and tried to rise.

  Geronimo flung his legs outward, ramming the Russian in the chest with the soles of his boots and hurling the trooper into the rack with a tremendous smash.

  The soldier clutched at the rack for support, retaining his footing, and wiped at his eyes with his left sleeve.

  Knowing every second was precious, Geronimo came off the floor in a rush, using his right shoulder as a battering ram and plowing into the man’s midsection. Grunting, the trooper doubled over, and Geronimo drove his head upward, catching the soldier on the tip of the chin and mashing the Russian’s teeth together. Geronimo delivered two blows to the man’s abdomen, anticipating an easy victory, but the trooper was hardier than he thought.

  With a wicked snap of his body, the soldier kneed the Warrior in the groin.

  Lancing agony speared through Geronimo and he backed off, his hands spread protectively over his privates.

  Relentlessly the Russian closed in, boxing his foe on the right cheek, then the left.

  Geronimo reeled and tottered to the right. He brought up his arms to defend himself as the trooper pounced and they both toppled to the floor, grappling and flailing.

  Somewhere in the distance the sound of gunfire arose.

  Blade must be
in trouble!

  Energized by a surge of adrenaline, Geronimo butted his forehead into the Russian’s nose, crushing the cartilage, blood spraying on his face. He held the fingers of his right hand rigid and struck the soldier in the throat.

  Uttering a protracted gasp, the Russian clasped his hands to his neck and scrambled on his back away from the Warrior. He bumped into the rack of supplies and pushed to his knees.

  Geronimo pressed his advantage, rolling onto his left side and aiming a kick at the trooper’s head.

  The Russian managed to block the Warrior’s leg.

  Undaunted, Geronimo attacked, setting upon the soldier with a rain of Hung Gar hand blows taught to him by a Family Elder skilled in the martial arts. The trooper deflected several, and then Geronimo hit home with a tiger claw to the jaw, a leopard paw to the Adam’s apple, and a dragon fist to the mouth.

  Dazed and breathing in deep gulps of air, spittle on his lower lip and blood seeping from the corners of his mouth, the Russian slumped to the floor and began twitching convulsively.

  Geronimo rose, his knees a bit unsteady, pain still flaring in his groin.

  He stepped toward the door, gathering his strength, listening for the chattering of automatic weapons.

  All was quiet outside the utility closet.

  Rendered careless by his anxiety over Blade and the torment, Geronimo yanked on the doorknob and took a stride into the corridor—and immediately regretted his rashness.

  “We meet again, Warrior,” General Ari Stoljarov declared sarcastically.

  Geronimo frowned, seething with frustration. The Butcher stood four feet to his left, and flanking the general were two guards with their AK-47’s at the ready.

  “I heard a commotion in the closet and stopped to investigate,” General Stoljarov said. He walked to the doorway and gazed in at the trooper, who was now lying still with his tongue protruding. “Ahhhhh. I see. You two were arguing over who would sweep the floor.”

  “Up yours,” Geronimo snapped.

  General Stoljarov looked at the Warrior, his eyebrows arching. “Where is your vaunted humor now, Indian?”

  Geronimo glared but said nothing.

  “My men are in pursuit of Blade, and I expect he will be apprehended at any moment,” Stoljarov said.

  “Dream on. You won’t catch Blade twice. He’ll take your men apart,” Geronimo predicted.

  General Stoljarov scratched his chin, contemplating. “Perhaps you are right,” he agreed with a smirk and strolled to a point ten feet farther along the opposite wall. Adorning the wall at shoulder height was a square black box, each side four inches in length, and situated in the center of the box was a red button. “Perhaps my men will require assistance,” he declared, and depressed the button.

  Lenin’s Needle abruptly resounded to the harsh blaring of a multitude of klaxons.

  The Butcher returned to Geronimo and grinned, raising his voice to be heard above the din. “Now how far do you think your friend will get? The alarm I’ve sounded will place everyone in the Needle on alert, and our security personnel will conduct a sweep of every floor.”

  “You won’t stop Blade.”

  General Stoljarov snorted. “I’d expect such misguided loyalty from you. Despite his formidable reputation, Blade is human, after all. Even he can not hope to withstand my troops.” He motioned with his right arm. “After you.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Geronimo asked, moving forward.

  The guards diligently kept their AK-47’s pointed at the Warrior and fell in behind him.

  “I thought you might enjoy meeting Leonid Grineva,” General Stoljarov said, heading down the hall on Geronimo’s right.

  “The scientist who developed your superweapon?” Geronimo responded suspiciously.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Alpha Triad has traveled so far to learn the secret of our new weapon,” General Stoljarov replied. “The least I can do is alleviate your curiosity.”

  “Why?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re paranoid?” Stoljarov queried, and laughed.

  What was the Butcher up to? Geronimo wondered as they came to a junction and took the left-hand passage. Leonid Grineva should be the last person Stoljarov would want either of the Warriors to meet. If Grineva’s brilliant intellect truly was responsible for the creation of the L.R.F., then under no circumstances should the general be willing to expose the scientist to potential danger. And Stoljarov must know that the Warriors would terminate Grineva if given the opportunity.

  In 40 yards they came to an elevator, and General Stoljarov pushed the UP button. He eyed Geronimo smugly. When the door hissed open, he gestured for the Warrior to step inside, then entered with the guards. The soldiers held the AK-47 barrels within an inch of the Warrior’s head, and the general punched a numbered button on the control panel. The door closed.

  “I hope you’re not afraid of heights,” Stoljarov said.

  “Are we going all the way up to the crystal globe?” Geronimo inquired.

  He could feel a slight vibration in the floor as the elevator ascended.

  “No. The crystal globe is actually part of the laser’s firing apparatus, as I understand it. The inner surface of the crystal is coated with silver to reflect almost all of the light generated inside the crystal,” Stoljarov revealed. “We are on our way to the control room, which is directly under the crystal.”

  The elevator climbed swiftly, the number of each respective level lighting on the control panel to mark their progress.

  “Are you willing to cooperate with me and spare yourself extreme discomfort?” General Stoljarov asked.

  “Cooperate?” Geronimo repeated.

  “I’ve been giving the matter some consideration, and I’ve decided to question you before contacting General Malenkov,” the Butcher disclosed.

  “You were right. I do want to impress Comrade Malenkov, and the way to do so is by obtaining information he dearly desires. He has long wanted to know the precise layout of your Home, and as much information as can be gleaned about every member of your Family, particularly the Elders and those Warriors about whom we know very little.” He paused and pursed his lips. “Your capture will impress General Malenkov, but I could impress him even more if I obtain the information he needs. Imagine the boost to my career if I break you down and elicit the intelligence data Malenkov has been unable to obtain.”

  “Don’t count your stars before they’re pinned on.”

  “The irony of this is that the information is no longer essential. General Malenkov has wanted to learn the weaknesses of the Home in order to destroy your accursed Family. Some of our officers have proposed using a helicopter squadron, but the Home is too far from our lines for our helicopters to fly there and back without the necessity of refueling. A missile strike was suggested, but our long-range missiles are not as reliable as we would wish, and without a nuclear warhead, which we don’t have, our missiles are incapable of delivering a payload that would obliterate your thirty-acre compound. General Malenkov does not want any survivors, any martyrs who would rouse the Freedom Federation to avenge our deed.”

  The elevator passed the fifteenth floor.

  “Once Comrade Grineva has demonstrated the laser can be used against land targets,” General Stoljarov continued, “we won’t need any information other than the Home’s location, which we already know.

  Grineva will feed the coordinates into the computer firing system, and the laser will vaporize the Home like it did the 757.”

  Vaporize the Home! The idea that the Family could be incinerated without warning from a thousand miles away horrified Geronimo. His loved ones and friends would never know what hit them. The scenario of long-distance annihilation was new to him. He’d read about the prewar civilization, how the ordinary citizen never knew when he or she might be subjected to an extraordinary death by nuclear incineration, how the prospect of imminent doom hung over their heads like an ominous clou
d.

  Was this the same experience? Knowing that someone, somewhere, possessed the means of wiping out everyone you loved at the touch of a button? The reality rocked him to his core.

  “General Malenkov himself will undoubtedly want to be the one who fires the laser at your Home. The eradication of the Family is a pet project of his, you know,” General Stoljarov said.

  Geronimo scarcely paid attention, his mind racing with the implications of the Butcher’s revelations. This meant that the Home would never be safe. Even if the Warriors succeeded in demolishing Lenin’s Needle, there was no guarantee someone else at sometime in the future wouldn’t develop another scheme, wouldn’t construct another deadly device. His wife and son, his beloved Cynthia and Cochise, would never truly be safe.

  “Do you know what a satellite is?” General Stoljarov inquired.

  “What?” Geronimo responded absently.

  “A satellite. A man-made device launched into orbit around the earth.

  The U.S. and the U.S.S.R. were sending satellites into orbit constantly before the war, and many of those satellites were used exclusively by the military establishments in both countries. Two years ago we discovered one of the Soviet war satellites was still in orbit, and we now use that satellite in our laser-guidance system. Lenin’s Needle is actually an enormous laser, and the laser light is generated and amplified here. We direct the beam at our satellite, and the satellite, which was once incorporated into the Soviet anti-satellite laser network, deflects the beam to any spot we select. In conjunction with our computer and our E.R.T.E., our Extended Radar Tracking Equipment, we can hit any target within fifteen hundred miles of Cincinnati.”

  “I had no idea the Russians were such cowards,” Geronimo stated.

  “You dare call us cowards?”

  “You would rather destroy us from afar than take us on face-to-face,” Geronimo noted.

  “Spare me your juvenile morality. We have developed a flawless system of laser warfare, and we would be fools not to employ our laser against our enemies. Our method is not based on cowardice, but expediency. Rather than suffer through a sustained conflict with the Federation and our other enemies, we will defeat them in a tenth of the time conventional forces would require. Eventually, once we’ve extended the laser’s range, we’ll subjugate the world.”