New York Run

by David Robbins

  “You’d best enjoy this meal,” the trooper was saying. “I’ve heard through the grapevine you don’t have too many meals left.”

  Hickok’s interest was piqued. “Why’s that?” he asked.

  “Ahhh! You are alive!” the guard cracked. “Do you really want to know?” he taunted the Warrior.

  “You’re the one who brought it up,” Hickok said. “You probably didn’t hear a thing.”

  “I did so!” the trooper said indignantly.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Think you know it all, don’t you, smart-ass?” the Technic said.

  “I know more than you.”

  “Is that so? Did you know the Minister plans to rack your ass after your buddies return from New York City?” the guard gloated.

  “Nope,” Hickok admitted. “I didn’t know that.”

  The soldier smirked.

  “But I know something you don’t know,” Hickok mentioned nonchalantly.

  “Like what?” the guard demanded.

  “I don’t think you’d want to know,” Hickok said.

  “You tell me or I’ll cram this food down your throat!” the soldier stated.

  His gaze fell on the white plastic bucket. “Better yet, I’ll dump your shitpail on your head!”

  “Are you sure you want to know?” Hickok asked, tensing.

  “I want to know!” the Technic persisted.

  Hickok shrugged. “If you insist.” He lunged, his left hand grasping the guard’s shirt and yanking him off balance as his right streaked to the fork and grabbed the implement.

  Completely startled, the Technic dropped the tray and the keys, the tray clattering as it struck the floor. He tried to pull away, but the gunman’s left hand was locked on his shirt. The Warrior’s upper torso, without the shackles securing the wrists to suspend it, pressed down on the guard, causing his knees to sag.

  Hickok touched the fork tines to the guard’s right eye. “Make one move and you’re blinded for life!” he threatened harshly.

  The guard gulped.

  “Do exactly as I say or I’ll ram this fork into your eye!” Hickok growled.

  “What… what do you… want?” the trooper stammered.

  “Reach down slowly, and I mean slowly, with your right hand and remove your pistol from your holster. Do it slow! One false move and you know what I’ll do!”

  “Yes,” the guard stated in abject fright. He could feel the metal tines digging into his right eyelid.

  “Use only your thumb and forefinger to draw the gun!” Hickok directed.

  “Lift it—slowly—up to me!”

  The guard trembled as his right hand lowered to the holster flap and undid the snap. He carefully eased his thumb and forefinger under the leather flap and withdrew the pistol, holding it by the grips.

  “Slowly!” Hickok said.

  The Technic licked his dry lips as he moved in slow motion, raising the automatic to chest level, inches from Hickok’s left hand.

  “A little higher,” Hickok instructed him.

  The guard elevated the pistol to within an inch of the gunman’s right hand.

  Hickok glanced at the automatic, a 45 of indeterminate manufacture, probably produced by the Technics. He saw a safety button above the grips.

  Blast!

  The safety was on!

  Hickok hesitated. He would need to drop the fork, draw the pistol, and flick the safety all in one move, leaving himself vulnerable for the fraction of a second his right hand would be empty. Could he do it before he soldier reacted?

  Was there any other option?

  “You’ve been a good boy,” Hickok said sarcastically. “But I still think I should put out your eye!”

  “Please!” the trooper whined. “Don’t!”

  Hickok scraped the fork tines over the guard’s right eyelid, and the soldier flinched, his eyes closing in instinctive defense as his face recoiled.

  Which was just what the gunman wanted.

  Hickok released the fork and snatched the automatic, his thumb flipping the safety off, and before the Technic quite knew what had transpired he found the fork replaced by the pistol. “Now we come to the easy part,” Hickok said.

  “Anything,” the guard declared.

  “Your momma sure raised a polite cuss,” Hickok joked. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot. You Technic types don’t know who your momma or pappa was, do you?”

  “No,” the trooper replied.

  “Too bad. A little parental love might have changed you from a jackass to a thoroughbred.” Hickok wagged the pistol barrel downward. “Now I want you to lower us down, real slow. I’ll let you know when to stop.”

  Struggling to support the gunman’s weight, the soldier eased to his knees.

  “I’m gonna let go of your shirt,” Hickok said. “When I do, slide your butt backwards. Don’t try anything stupid!”

  The trooper nodded his understanding.

  Hickok released his hold on the shirt, shoving the guard from him and dropping his left hand to the tiled floor to support his body. He wound up in the push-up position, his left arm bracing him, his ankles smarting like the dickens from the manacles above his feet.

  The Technic was crouched not a foot away, staring at the pistol barrel.

  “Pick up the keys,” Hickok ordered.

  The trooper immediately complied, stretching his left arm to the keys and cautiously retrieving them.

  “Now unlock my legs,” Hickok said. “I’ll have you covered all the way, and believe me when I say I can perforate your noggin if you so much as look at me crossways. Do it!”

  The guard sidled to the left, still on his knees, toward the wall.

  Hickok shifted his left arm, twisting his body, keeping the pistol in his right hand trained on the trooper.

  The soldier reached the wall and quickly unfastened the first manacle.

  Hickok felt a wave of relief as the agony in his left leg subsided.

  The guard unlocked the last manacle.

  Hickok rolled to his right, coming up on his knees, the automatic pointed at the Technic. “Thanks, pard. Now stand up and lock the manacles on yourself.”

  The soldier obeyed without complaining, securing his legs and left wrist.

  “Now freeze!” Hickok said.

  The Technic became a statue.

  Hickok rose and walked up to the guard, placing the pistol barrel a centimeter from the soldier’s nose. “Blink, and you’ll wind up with a new nasal passage!”

  The trooper’s throat bobbed.

  Hickok locked the right steel manacle on the guard’s right wrist, then smiled. “Do you want to live?”

  The Technic nodded.

  “Then tell me where the blazes they’ve got my guns and clothes,” Hickok directed.

  “Right here,” the guard responded.

  “Here?” Hickok scanned the chamber. All he saw was the brown easy chair. He tapped the barrel on the Technic’s nose. “You wouldn’t be joshin’

  me, would you?”

  “No!” the soldier assured the gunman. He nodded toward the right-hand wall. “There! You’ll find them there!”

  Hickok stared at the blue wall. “Where?”

  “They’re in a closet,” the trooper said.

  “A closet?”

  “A compartment in the wall. Go to the center of the wall,” the guard stated.

  Hickok walked to the middle of the wall, the pistol trained on the trooper. If the wall was booby-trapped, he intended to blow the soldier away before he went.

  “Look for a small button,” the guard said. “A little circle on the wall.”

  Hickok recalled the incident with the syringe, and how Captain Wargo had touched a spot on the left wall, exposing the tray. He peered at the seemingly solid wall. “I don’t see it.”

  “Keep looking!” the Technic said nervously. “It’s there!” he assured the gunman.

  Hickok saw a circular indentation to his right, about waist height. He pressed the indentation
and it sank inward several inches. So that’s how they did it!

  With a whisk of air, a panel slid aside, a section of the wall simply disappearing as it slid into a recessed groove.

  “Bingo!” Hickok said, smiling.

  The compartment was six feet high by five feet wide. A metal bar was aligned across the space, six inches from the top. Dangling from silver metal hangers were the gunman’s buckskin shirt and leggings. His moccasins had been deposited on the floor in a corner. Leaning against the back wall were Hickok’s Henry, Blade’s Commando, and Geronimo’s FNC. Lying in a pile in the middle of the compartment were Blade’s Bowies, Geronimo’s tomahawk and Arminius, and one other item, the sight of which caused the gunman’s eyes to light up and a wave of genuine joy to wash over him: his pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers in their holsters.

  Praise the Spirit!

  Hickok crouched and laid the Technic pistol on the floor. He drew one of the Pythons and checked the cylinder to insure it was loaded. Satisfied, he raised the revolver and stroked his right cheek with the cool barrel.

  The guard was gawking at the gunman in amazement.

  “What’s the matter?” Hickok demanded gruffly.

  “Ain’t you ever seen anyone in love with a gun before?”

  “You’re crazy,” the Technic mustered the courage to comment.

  “You think so, huh?”

  “What else would you call it?” the soldier countered. “I’ve never seen anybody act the way you do over a rotten gun.”

  “These Pythons have gotten me out of more tight scrapes than I care to remember,” Hickok said. “I know they’re just tools of my trade, but after all these years I’ve sort of developed a personal relationship with ’em. In a fix, they’re the best friends I’ve got.”

  “Like I said,” the guard reiterated, “you’re crazy.”

  “And you talk too much,” Hickok rejoined.

  The guard clammed up.

  Hickok hurriedly dressed, relieved to be clothed again. He strapped his gunbelt around his waist, then paused, considering the other weapons in the closet. What was he supposed to do about them? He couldn’t leave them for the Technics. Besides, Blade was as fond of the Bowies and Geronimo as attached to his tomahawk as he was to the Pythons. Nope.

  He owed it to his pards to take the weapons with him, even if the extra weight slowed him down a mite. He picked up the tomahawk and slid it under his gunbelt in the small of his back. The Bowies, sheaths and all, he angled under the gunbelt, one on either side of the tomahawk. Bending over would pose a problem, but his hands had a clear path to the Pythons.

  Next, he slung his Henry over his right shoulder. The FNC went over his left. He was about to grab the Commando when he saw the Arminius still on the floor.

  Blast!

  The gunman unslung the FNC, then draped the Arminius’s shoulder holster under his left arm. Finally, he slung the FNC over his left shoulder and took hold of the Commando.

  He was ready.

  Hickok walked over to the guard.

  The Technic blanched. “I did everything you wanted!” he said, his voice rising.

  “And I appreciate it,” Hickok remarked. “I surely do. But I’m afraid our friendship has reached the end of the line.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” the trooper timidly inquired. “I have a wife and son.”

  Hickok paused, thinking of Sherry and Ringo. “If you care so much for your missus and young’un, what are you doing in the Army?”

  “I didn’t have any choice,” the guard replied.

  “Everybody has a choice,” Hickok said.

  “We don’t,” the Tecnnic revealed. “We’re given tests when we’re teenagers, about sixteen. The jobs we’re assigned are based on the test results.”

  “They tell you what kind of work you’ll do?” Hickok asked.

  The Technic nodded. “We don’t have any say in it. They say our system is best because the service we perform for the community, for the common good of all, is based on our demonstrated ability, not on what we might like to do.”

  “But a person can have talent in more than one field,” Hickok noted.

  “How do they know what’d make you happiest?”

  “Make us happy?” The Technic snorted derisively. “Do you know what we’re taught? Individual happiness is an illusion,” he quoted from memory. “The good of all is the goal of the many. What is best for all brings real happiness.”

  “So they tested you and told you the Army was going to be your career, whether you liked it or not?” Hickok concluded.

  “You got it.”

  “Pitiful. Just pitiful. Sort of makes me feel sorry for you. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m not gonna whack you upside the head like I planned,” Hickok said.

  “Thanks,” the Technic said, manifestly relieved.

  “But on the other hand…” Hickok crouched and began unlacing the guard’s right boot.

  “What are you doing?” the Technic asked.

  “Hold onto your hat,” Hickok said. He removed the boot, then the black sock underneath.

  The guard perceived the gunman’s intent. “But that sock is dirty!” he protested.

  Hickok rose. “Say Ahhhhhh.”

  “But—”

  Hickok raised the Commando in his left hand. “Say Ahhhh.”

  The Technic opened his mouth wide. “Ahhhh—”

  Hickok jammed the sock into the guard’s mouth, all the way in. He hastily removed the lace from the black boot, lopped the lace around the guard’s face, and tied it tight, the knot situated in the middle of his open mouth to prevent the sock from being spit out. “I reckon that ought to hold you for a spell. Adios.”

  The gunman crossed to the door. If all went well, he’d find a flight of stairs lickety-split and vacate the Central Core before they realized he was missing. If he could find an unattended jeep or truck in the parking lot, he’d swipe it and make for the western gate.

  Yes, sir.

  Things were finally going his way.

  It was beginning to look like busting out of Technic City would be a piece of cake!

  Hickok opened the door and peeked around the jamb. The corridor, white tiles on the floor and walls, yellow panels on the ceiling, was deserted.

  Like he said.

  A piece of cake.

  Hickok stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him, just as a squad of four Technic soldiers, each armed with an automatic rifle, rounded a corner to his right!

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Zombies were walking nightmares.

  Each Zombie was naked, its gray flesh pitted and filthy, with peculiar patches of greenish blisters randomly distributed over the body. Their eyes were reddish and unfocused, their mouths gaping maws of yellow, tapered teeth. Although they stood well over six feet in height, they were emaciated, their arms and legs resembling broomsticks.

  Geronimo nearly gagged as a putrid stench filled the air. He backpedaled as more Zombies poured from the abandoned vehicles.

  Something collided with his back.

  Geronimo whirled, and found Blade alongside him. “What do we do?” he asked.

  The Technics opened up with their Dakon IIs, their fragmentation bullets tearing into the hissing Zombies and ripping them apart, blowing their chests and skulls to shreds or tearing limbs from their bodies.

  Greenish fluid sprayed everywhere.

  The Zombies never broke stride. Their grisly arms extended, their yellow fingernails glinting in the sunlight, their thin lips quivering in anticipation of their next meal, saliva pouring from their mouths, they advanced on the Technics, row after ravenous row, undeterred even when an arm or leg was shattered by a dumdum bullet. Nothing short of their chest or head exploding into smithereens stopped them.

  The thup-thup-thup of the Dakon IIs mixed with the sibilant hissing of the Zombies.

  Blade and Geronimo found themselves pressed against the SEAL’s grill, the Technics in a ring in
front of them, the horde of Zombies beyond.

  “What do we do?” Geronimo said in Blade’s left ear.

  Blade was about to reply when iron-like fingers clasped his legs and he was brutally wrenched to the ground.

  One of the Zombies had crawled under the SEAL and grabbed him!

  Blade, prone on his back, saw the hunched-over creature about to bite into his left calf. He drew his right foot up and drove it down, catching the Zombie on the chin.

  The Zombie blinked once, shook its head, and hissed as it clutched at the Warrior’s groin.

  Blade reached up, gripped the fender, and tried to haul his body from under the transport.

  The Zombie snatched his belt buckle and started pulling the Warrior down, its mouth inches from his thighs.

  Private Kimper suddenly appeared, stooped over to the left of Blade, his Dakon II pointed at the Zombie. He pulled the trigger, the Dakon II recoiling as the heavy slugs tore into the Zombie’s face.

  Blade was spattered by shredded flesh and green mush as the Zombie’s head burst apart. A pulpy substance landed on his right cheek. He swiped at the gore and wriggled his shoulders past the fender. Stout hands clasped his armpits and helped draw him to his feet.

  “Are you all right?” Geronimo inquired apprehensively.

  Blade nodded.

  The Technics had dispatched the Zombies hidden in the trucks and jeeps, and were concentrating their fire on the monstrosities flowing from the hole.

  “See?” Captain Wargo cried gleefully. “What did I tell you? We can handle these freaks!”

  So it appeared. The Zombies disgorging from the hole were becoming fewer and fewer; stacks of their dead covered the ground between the Technics and the underground entrance.

  Four more Zombies charged from the dark hole, and were promptly decimated by fragmentation bullets.

  Captain Wargo turned to Blade, smirking triumphantly. “These Zombie’s aren’t so tough! I can’t understand why the other squads had so much trouble.”

  Blade was concerned by Wargo’s overconfidence. Overconfidence bred carelessness. “We’re just getting started,” he reminded the officer. He pointed at the hole. “Who knows what it will be like down there?”

  “Let’s find out,” Captain Wargo said. “Kimper, watch that scanner! Stay near me! Gatti, take the point!”