Anaheim Run

Chapter Fourteen

This was another fine mess he’d gotten himself into!

Hickok was trussed up like a wild animal ready for slaughter. His shoulders ached from the strain of bearing all of his weight. The wind was increasing in intensity, the gusts causing him to spin. He faced north, then east, then south, then back to the north again, and he frowned as he surveyed the preparations for the feast at which he was going to be the main course.

Lousy cannibals!

The gunman had encountered cannibals before, during his two runs to the Twin Cities. And there were stories about other human maneaters, bands of them roving the countryside and pouncing on hapless wayfarers, and isolated colonies where unwary travelers were lured in, slain, and consumed. Despite the prevalance of such tales, Hickok had never gave them much credence.

Until now.

One of the Family Elders had once discoursed on the subject. The Elder had chronicled the history of cannibalism and emphasized several salient points. Cannibalism had been part of the religious and social mores in primitive society, and at one time had been almost universal among the early races. And in periods of supreme stress, during war or drought or any other calamity, to avert starvation some people reverted to the primeval practice of eating their fellows. The aftermath of World War Three had been a case in point. Millions suddenly found themselves without food as the distribution network collapsed. Where formerly they could waltz into the nearest supermarket or restaurant and glut themselves on their favorite foods, they abruptly discovered the realities of life without a fast-food outlet. Relatively few prewar citizens had bothered to stockpile provisions in case of an emergency. Consequently, they were compelled to roam the land seeking whatever sustenance they could find.

Even those skilled at hunting and fishing were hard pressed to keep food on the table when the environment was so drastically polluted by the radiation and the chemicals, thereby contributing to a massive kill-off of game.

Hickok stared at his captors. Their ancestors must have sought refuge in the amusement park during the war and stayed, isolating themselves from the world outside, eating anything and everything they could scrounge up. Perhaps there hadn’t been many animals in the park right after the war. Perhaps, unable to grow their own food in sufficient quantities to assuage their constant hunger, they had turned to another food source: picking off anyone who ventured into the park. Once started, the practice must have passed from generation to generation and been accepted as normal behavior. Ironically, when one of them had finally opted to break with tradition and make peaceful overtures to others in the park, the dummy had picked the Gild. And not wanting witnesses to their operation, the assassins had killed poor Chester and three others and driven the rest into hiding on the island. So much for brotherhood.

Hickok felt the rope chafing his wrists. His captors had led him north across the island until they had reached an astonishing structure. Hickok had gaped at it in stark wonder. He’d seen the like before, in photographs and paintings in books in the vast Family library. Among the hundreds of thousands of volumes personally selected by the Founder, Kurt Carpenter, were dozens dealing with life in the Old West. A number of them dealt with Western history, detailing the spread of the white man as he drove the Indians from the Plains. And during the course of his reading, Hickok had seen photos and reproductions of the typical forts utilized by the U.S.

Army. But never in his wildest dreams had he ever expected to find himself in one!

His captors had taken refuge from the Gild in a decaying fort on the north side of the island. The fort was complete with four guard towers, one at each corner, and a spacious cental compound with headquarters, a barracks, and a corral. The fort was in terrible shape, with most of the wood used in its construction blistered or warped. The front gate, located on the south side of the compound, lacked the large left door, which was laying in the dust inside the fort. The cannibals had produced a 20-foot length of stout rope and proceeded to loop the rope over a beam on the ramshackle rampart above the gate. Next they had bound their victim’s wrists and raised him into the air, dangling him three feet above the ground in the middle of the gate opening, where they could keep an eye on him while readying their meal.

How the blazes did he get himself into these fixes? Hickok saw the one called Pax walking toward him. There were 14 cannibals in the fort, including 4 women and 4 children. Tab was strutting around the compound with the Pythons stuck in his frayed leather belt.

“What do you want, you polecat?” Hickok demanded as Pax drew near.

Pax had his rifle slung over his right shoulder. He stopped and looked up at the prisoner. “Are you hungry?”

“What?” Hickok thought his ears were deceiving him.

“Do you want something to eat? We have some root soup,” Pax offered.

“You eat it,” Hickok told him. “You’re going to need your strength when I come gunnin’ for you.”

“You must eat something,” Pax declared.

“Why all this fuss over givin’ me a meal? What difference does it make?” Hickok asked.

“The women don’t like you,” Pax stated.

“Well don’t take this personal,” Hickok retorted, “but your womenfolk aren’t exactly the pick of the crop.”

“The women say you’re too skinny,” Pax elaborated.

“So?”

“You’re all muscle,” Pax said. “And we don’t care for stringy meat.”

“Then find somebody with a pot belly,” Hickok snapped. “And cut me loose.”

“The women think we should hold onto you for a while,” Pax disclosed.

“Fatten you up in the meantime.”

“Your women sure are a bunch of sweethearts,” Hickok cracked.

“It’s up to me to decide,” Pax said.

“Don’t rush on my account,” Hickok recommended.

“I just don’t know,” Pax stated uncertainly. “We could all use a good feed.”

“How can you do it?” Hickok inquired.

“Do what?” Pax responded.

“What do you think, you cow chip! How can you go around eatin’ folks?” Hickok asked irritably.

“When you’re hungry, you’re hungry,” Pax answered.

“Yeah, but eatin’ other people!” Hickok scrunched up his nose. “Yuck!”

“Don’t you eat people?” Pax queried in surprise.

“Are you crazy? Of course not!” Hickok retorted.

“You should try it sometime,” Pax suggested.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Hickok said.

“You’d like it,” Pax asserted. “Human flesh is quite tasty. It’s better than deer meat.”

“There’s no way I’d eat a fellow human,” Hickok declared distastefully.

“Ain’t you the noble one?” Pax said sarcastically. “I’ve got news for you.

If you had a choice between starvation or eating someone, you’d eat.”

“Bet me.”

Pax inspected the Warrior’s frame. “Trying to fatten you up would take too much time. I think we’ll have you for supper.”

“Tonight?” Hickok asked.

“Tonight,” Pax confirmed, starting to turn away.

“I hope I give the whole bunch of you diarrhea!” Hickok stated.

Pax gave a little wave of his left hand and smirked. “Be eating you!” he said cheerily, then walked off.

Mangy coyote! Hickok felt a blustering blast of wind strike his back. His body swayed, then turned as the rope twisted. He was facing to the west this time, and he beheld a dark, roiling cloud bank filling the western horizon.

A storm was coming.

Perfect!

Just what he needed!

As if it wasn’t bad enough he was going to be eaten by a group of looney-tunes, now he was about to be rained on in the bargain! Some days it just didn’t pay to roll out of the sack!