New York Run

by David Robbins

  Dust covered the floor and the walls, a thick layer of dust undisturbed by a solitary footprint.

  Something was wrong here.

  Geisz examined the floor for as far as her light revealed, and it was all the same. Not a single print. But why? she asked herself. The Zombies were all over the place. They infested the ruins. Why didn’t they use this hallway? Why did they apparently avoid the lower level? There was no evidence of anyone, or anything, using this corridor in a long, long time.

  Why?

  Geisz grinned. What was the matter with her? Why was she looking a gift horse in the mouth? If the zombies weren’t down here, so much the better! It made her job that much easier! She walked to the doorway and paused before the closed wooden door.

  What if they were waiting for her on the other side?

  Geisz pressed the right side of her helmet against the door and listened, but the amplifier was silent.

  Lady Luck was with her!

  Geisz tried the knob, and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. She took a step back, then spun, ramming her right leg into the door, her black boot slamming into the wood an inch from the knob. The door trembled, but it held. She kicked at it again, and again, and on her third attempt the aged wood splintered and cracked and the door swung open.

  There was a rustling sound from inside the inky interior.

  Geisz flattened against the wall and tensed.

  Now what?

  Geisz felt goosebumps erupt all over her flesh, and she resisted an urge to run. She wasn’t about to quit when she was this close to their objective!

  Besides, all she needed was one lousy canister and the Minister would hail her as a hero. It might even mean a promotion, and she could use the extra pay.

  She took a deep breath.

  Geisz crouched and whirled into the doorway, the Dakon II pointed into the chamber, her helmet lamp illuminating the room and its contents.

  The canister chamber was perhaps 20 feet square, and crammed with stack after stack of faded yellow canisters. The canisters, six inches in diameter and ten inches in height, were stacked in tidy rows from the cement floor to the ceiling.

  All except in the center.

  Geisz took a step forward. The middle of the chamber was covered with piles of fallen canisters, as if dozens of stacks had collapsed. All things considered, it was a minor miracle all of the stacks hadn’t toppled over when the city was hit.

  So what had made the rustling sound?

  Geisz looked around the chamber, but nothing moved. She decided to grab a canister and scoot. Taking more than one was impossible. She would have her hands full fighting the Zombies en route to the surface.

  One would be burden enough. She hastened to the nearest stack, reached up, and took hold of one of the canisters. As she did, her helmet lamp focused on the ceiling, on the center of the ceiling directly above the collapsed stacks in the middle of the room.

  It was perched in a huge hole in the ceiling, its legs bent, prepared to pounce.

  Geisz gasped at the sight of it, stunned.

  One of its four green eyes blinked.

  Geisz backpedaled, elevating the Dakon II, a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  The size of it!

  She reached the doorway, and that’s when the thing dropped toward her, roaring, its ten legs scrambling over the canisters and upending stack after stack as it surged after her.

  Geisz crouched and squeezed the trigger, the Dakon II cradled in her right arm. The fragmentation bullets tore into the deviate, rocking it, chunks and bits of black flesh and shredded skin flying in every direction.

  The chamber shook as it reared up and bellowed in agony.

  But it kept coming.

  Geisz turned and ran, heading for the stairwell. She glanced over her left shoulder, knowing the thing couldn’t possibly squeeze its gigantic bulk through the narrow doorway, confident she could escape before it breached the door. So she was all the more amazed when it flowed through the doorway without breaking its stride, its body seeming to contract as it passed through and expanding again once it was in the corridor.

  No!

  Geisz raced for her life, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached the stairwell and gripped the railing, risking one quick look down the hallway.

  It was only a foot away, its cavernous maw wide, its fangs glistening in the light from her lamp.

  Geisz swung the Dakon II up, the red dot clearly visible on the mutant’s sloping forehead, and pulled the trigger.

  The deviate roared and closed in.

  Private Marion Geisz fired as the thing reached for her, fired as its claws clamped on her abdomen, and fired as it lifted her into the air and her stomach was crushed to a pulp. Her arms went limp, and blood poured from her mouth. She sagged and dropped the Dakon II, and the last sight she saw was the monster’s teeth snapping at her face.

  She thought she heard someone screaming.

  Chapter Two

  The child was 18 months old, a stocky boy with full cheeks, impish blue eyes, and curly blond hair. He stared up at his father with an intensity belying his tender age.

  “Now this is called a Colt Python,” said the man, twirling the pearl-handled revolver in his right hand. “One day, these guns could be yours.” He twirled the Colt in his left hand, then slid both Pythons into their respective holsters with a practiced flourish. To even a casual observer, the boy’s lineage would have been obvious. The father was a tall, lean blond with long hair and a flowing moustache. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle with an inner light, reflecting a keen zest for life. The gunman wore buckskins and moccasins, as did the child. “Are you payin’ attention to all of this, Ringo?” he asked the boy.

  Ringo dutifully nodded, then grinned. “Ringo potty.”

  The gunman’s mouth dropped. “What?”

  “Ringo potty pease,” the boy said.

  “Blast!” The gunman grabbed his son and darted toward a nearby cabin. “Your mother’s gonna kill me if I don’t get you there on time.” He jogged to the cabin, opened a door in the west wall, and dashed inside.

  As the door was closing, another man appeared on the scene. He was huge, his powerful physique bulging with layers of muscles, his arms rippling as he moved. A black leather vest, green fatigue pants, and black boots scarcely covered his awesome frame. Twin Bowie knives were strapped around his stout waist. His dark hair hung down over his gray eyes. Smiling, he strolled up to the cabin door and knocked.

  “Who the blazes is it?” came a muffled response.

  “Blade,” the giant announced.

  “I’m busy!”

  “I’ll bet you are,” Blade said, chuckling. “I can wait.”

  “This might take a while, pard,” yelled the gunman.

  “I can wait,” Blade reiterated. He leaned upon the rough wall and idly crossed his massive arms at chest height. This was the life! he told himself.

  Taking it easy. Enjoying his wife and son and discharging his responsibilities as head Warrior with a minimum of fuss. The fewer hassles, the better. A robin alighted in a maple tree at the west end of the cabin. A squirrel crisscrossed the ground 15 yards away. The scene was tranquil and soothing.

  As life should be.

  The cabin door was jerked open, the gunman framed in the doorway with a diaper clutched in his right hand. “Is this important?” he demanded. “I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”

  Blade grinned. “So I see. Did you reach the toilet in time?”

  “You saw, huh?” the gunman asked sheepishly.

  “I think I’m going to nominate you for daddy of the year,” Blade joked.

  Little Ringo waddled into view between the gunman’s legs, his pants down around his ankles, his privates exposed to the world.

  “Hi, Ringo,” Blade cheerfully greeted him. “Is Hickok behaving himself?”

  Ringo looked up at his father. “Ringo pee-pee,” he said in his high voice.

  “Now?” Hickok inquired.


  Ringo nodded and proceeded to urinate all over the floor and Hickok’s moccasins.

  “Blast!” Hickok said, taking hold of his son and scrambling toward the bathroom.

  Blade laughed. “You sure you know what you’re doing?” he called out.

  “Funny! Funny! Funny!” was the muttered reply from the bathroom.

  “I don’t know if Sherry should leave you alone with Ringo,” Blade taunted his friend. “It could be hazardous to the boy’s health.”

  “What about you, pard?” Hickok rejoined. “How come Jenny let you out of the house without your leash?”

  “She’s over at Geronimo’s,” Blade answered. “Where’s your wife?”

  “She went to see the Tillers about an extra allotment of veggies for Ringo,” Hickok revealed. “He had the runs, and the Healers said he needs more greens in his diet.”

  “Gabriel had the runs last week,” Blade said. “He’s better now,” he added, referring to his own son.

  Hickok emerged from the bathroom a minute later with Ringo in tow.

  There was a distinct bulge on the left side of the boy’s pants.

  “Are you certain you put that diaper on correctly?” Blade asked.

  Hickok glanced at his son. “Yeah. Why?”

  “It doesn’t look right,” Blade said.

  “You’re just jealous ’cause you can’t do it as good as me,” Hickok retorted.

  A slim, blonde woman, wearing a brown leather shirt and faded, patched jeans, walked around the east end of the cabin. A Smith and Wesson .357 Combat Magnum was belted around her narrow waist. “Hi, Blade,” she greeted the towering Warrior.

  “Hi, Sherry,” Blade said to Hickok’s wife.

  Sherry’s green eyes narrowed as they fell on Ringo. She shot an annoyed glare in the guman’s direction. “What’s wrong with his diaper?”

  “He just went potty,” Hickok stated proudly. “And I got him there in time. Well, almost in time.”

  “What did you do to his diaper?” Sherry reiterated.

  “Nothin’. Why?”

  Sherry knelt and tapped the bulge in Ringo’s pants.

  “What’d you put in there? A rock?”

  “I just put on a new diaper,” Hickok stated.

  “What kind of knot did you use?” Sherry inquired.

  “What does it matter?” Hickok said defensively.

  “What kind of knot?” Sherry asked insistently.

  “A timber hitch,” Hickok mumbled.

  “A what?”

  “A timber hitch,” Hickok declared. “I’m good at timber hitches.”

  Sherry glanced at Blade, rolled her eyes, and sighed. She picked up Ringo and stalked into the cabin. “How many times do I have to tell you,” she said over her right shoulder, “you don’t use timber hitches on a cloth diaper.”

  “So what’s the big deal over a teensy-weensy knot?” Hickok wanted to know. “The diaper stays on, doesn’t it?”

  “Men!” Sherry exclaimed as she walked into the bathroom.

  “Women!” Hickok muttered as he stepped outside and closed the cabin door. He looked at Blade. “So what’s up?”

  “Plato wants to see us,” Blade said.

  “How come?” Hickok asked as they strolled to the west.

  “The Freedom Federation is going to have another conference,” Blade disclosed. “The leaders are going to meet here in a couple of months, and Plato wants to go over our security arrangements.”

  Hickok snickered. “Just like the old-timer to get all frazzled about somethin’ two months away!”

  “Don’t refer to Plato as an old-timer,” Blade said testily.

  “Why not?”

  “You should treat Plato with more respect,” Blade stated.

  “I respect Plato,” Hickok said sincerely. “But when a man is pushin’ fifty, and he’s got long, gray hair down to his shoulders, and more wrinkles on his face than there are cracks in the mud of a dry creek bed, then I reckon he qualifies for old-timer status.”

  “Plato is the Family Leader,” Blade said archly. “He deserves our courtesy and consideration.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I’ve gotta kiss his tootsies,” the gunman remarked.

  Blade sighed. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

  “Yep.” Hickok nodded. “My missus tells me that at least once a day.”

  “She’s right,” Blade said.

  The two Warriors were approaching the concrete block nearest the row of cabins, and Blade gazed at the compound ahead, marveling once again at how well the Founder had built the Home.

  Kurt Carpenter had spent millions on the survivalist retreat. Square in shape, enclosed by brick walls 20 feet in height and topped with barbed wire, the Home was a model of efficiency and organization. The eastern half of the compound was preserved in its natural state and devoted to agricultural pursuits. In the middle of the Home, aligned from north to south in a straight line, were the cabins reserved for married Family members. The western section was the socializing area and the site of the large concrete bunkers—or blocks, as the Family called them. Arranged in a triangular formation, there were six in all. The first, A Block, was the Family armory and the southern tip of the triangle. B Block came 100 yards to the northwest of A Block, and it was the sleeping quarters for single Family members and the gathering place for community functions.

  C Block was 100 yards northwest of B Block, and it served as the infirmary for the Family Healers, members rigorously trained in herbal and holistic medicine. D Block, 100 yards east of C Block, was the Family workshop for everything from carpentry to metalworking. Next in line, 100 yards east of D Block, was E Block, the enormous Family library personally stocked with hundreds of thousands of books by Kurt Carpenter. Carpenter had foreseen the value knowledge would acquire in a world stripped of its educational institutions. Consequently, Carpenter had stocked books on every conceivable subject in the library. These precious volumes, frayed and faded after a century of use, were the Family’s most cherished possessions. Finally, 100 yards southwest of the library was F Block, utilized for gardening, farming, and food-processing purposes.

  The entire compound was surrounded by the brick walls and one additional line of defense: an interior moat, a rechanneled stream, entering the retreat under the northwestern corner and diverted in both directions along the base of the four walls, finally exiting the compound underneath the southeastern corner. Access to the Home was over a drawbridge positioned in the center of the west wall, a drawbridge designed to lower outward. Traversal of the moat was accomplished via a massive bridge between the drawbridge and the compound proper.

  The cleared space between the six blocks was filled with Family members: families on picnics, children playing, lovers arm in arm, others chatting or singing or engaged in athletic activities.

  “Who’s on wall duty?” Hickok inquired.

  “Beta Triad,” Blade replied. The 15 Family Warriors were divided into 5 fighting units, or Triads, of 3 Warriors apiece. Designated as Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Omega, and Zulu, they rotated guard assignments and their other responsibilities during times of peace, but functioned collectively during any conflict and fought as a precision force during times of war.

  Hickok, scanning the rampart on the west wall, nodded. “I can seek Rikki,” he mentioned. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was the head of Beta Triad. His Beta mates, Yama and Teucer, would be patrolling the other walls.

  “I see Plato,” Blade commented.

  The wizened Family Leader was standing near the wooden bridge, his hands clasped behind his wiry frame, his gray hair whipping in the breeze of the August day.

  “So what’s the big deal about security arrangements for a conference two months from now?” Hickok absently asked.

  “We’ll find out in a minute,” Blade said, and the pair made their way toward Plato.

  A stocky Indian, dressed in green pants and a green shirt, with a genuine tomahawk tucked under his deer-hide belt and slanted
across his right thigh, jogged in their direction.

  Hickok beamed. “Looks like Geronimo’s wife decided to let him get some fresh air.”

  Geronimo reached them and nodded. “I’ve been looking for you two.”

  “Why? Did you miss me?” Hickok asked playfully.

  Geronimo, his brown eyes twinkling, feigned shock. “Miss you? Why would anyone in their right mind miss a monumental pain in the butt like you?” He ran his left hand through his short, black hair and, disguised by the motion of his left arm, winked at Blade.

  Hickok touched his chest. “You’ve hurt me to the quick,” he said in mock pain.

  “To the quick?” Geronimo reiterated playfully. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’ve been reading some Shakespeare.”

  Hickok’s nose crinkled distastefully. “Shakespeare? Are you joshing me or what? Give me Louis L’Amour any day of the week.”

  “Aha!” Geronimo exclaimed. “So you admit you can read!”

  “I can read as good as you!” Hickok retorted. “I attended the same Family school you did, dummy!” He paused. “Why?”

  “Because,” Geronimo said, his full features radiating his impending triumph in their continual war of words, “anyone who talks like you do and acts like you do had to pick up their stupidity somewhere! And I know you don’t come by it naturally, because I knew your parents and they were both normal.”

  Blade laughed. As his fellow Alpha Triad members and lifelong friends, Hickok and Geronimo were constantly at each other’s throats. The lean gunman and his shorter partner were known to enjoy an abiding affection, the kind of friendship you only find once or twice in a lifetime. They were spiritual brothers, usually inseparable, and decidedly deadly when working in concert. Blade was grateful they were in his Triad.

  The trio neared Plato.

  “How’s Ringo doing?” Geronimo asked Hickok.

  “Fine,” Hickok said, grinning. “He’s a chip off the old block.”

  “Poor kid,” Geronimo mumbled.

  Plato turned as they reached him. His aged frame was clothed in an old, yellow shirt with a leather patch on both elbows and worn, brown pants. “Hello,” he greeted them. “Thank you for coming.”