Anaheim Run

Chapter Five

Hickok and Boone reached the doorway through which the sniper had disappeared and paused, Hickok to the right of the door, Boone to the left, while they peered past the jamb. They found a corridor leading to the rear of the hotel, an empty corridor, and they cautiously jogged toward another door at the end of the passage, alert for any movement. They reached a closed door in the center of the corridor on the left side and halted.

Hickok, careful to keep his body to one side of the doorway, gripped the knob and tried to twist it, but the doorknob refused to budge. “Locked,” he whispered.

“Do you think the son of a bitch is hiding in there?” Boone asked.

“I doubt it,” Hickok responded. “If the varmint had any brains, he’s skedaddlin’ for the hills right about now. Come on.” He raced to the far door, Boone on his left side.

The door was slightly ajar.

Hickok hesitated, his intuition blaring. There was a small window in the upper half of the door, and through the glass could be seen lush green vegetation. The gardens Captain Di Nofrio had mentioned. Hickok doubted the security people would leave an exit unlocked while the summit was in progress. Which meant the assassin must have picked the lock to gain entry, and had probably fled through the same door.

“What is it?” Boone queried.

“Stay back,” Hickok warned. There was one way to tell if his supposition was correct. He backed up several paces, then charged the door, slamming his left shoulder against the wood, flinging the door wide and plunging to the right, landing on a swath of grass and rolling, coming up on his knees with his Pythons leveled even as the window in the door exploded in a tinkling shower of glass shards.

Why hadn’t he heard a shot?

Hickok rose and raced to a large tree ten feet off, crouching with his back to the trunk. There should have been a shot! But what if the sniper had discarded the M-16 and was using one of those mystery weapons, the same kind as the joker at the airport? Those lethal beauties didn’t make a sound. He peeked around the trunk, probing the profuse plant growth for the assassin.

Just then Boone sprang through the doorway, bearing to the left, making for a hedgerow 50 feet away.

The assassin suddenly appeared, preparing to fire, standing near a Bigleaf Maple twenty yards off, exposing only his eyes, nose, chin, and arms as he sighted on Boone.

Hickok’s right Python blasted as he snapped off a shot, aiming for the sniper’s left arm because only a narrow strip of the man’s face was visible.

The Warrior didn’t want to take a chance on missing with Boone’s life hanging in the balance, so he went for the largest observable part of the assassin’s anatomy. Hickok always preferred a head shot, where feasible, but adapted as circumstances dictated. Whenever the Warriors discussed their techniques, Hickok inevitably advocated the head shot as the ideal target in a life-or-death situation. As he’d stressed time and again, a slug in an enemy’s torso did not guarantee instant death; the foe might live long enough to get off a final, and potentially fatal, round. But a bullet to the brain, particularly if from a high-caliber firearm, usually snuffed an opponent on the spot. “No brain, no pain,” was Hickok’s motto. At the airport earlier he’d been forced to go for the chest because the sniper’s face had been partially hidden by his weapon, and predictably the sniper had survived. Now, as he went for this new assassin’s left arm, the Warrior was gratified to see the arm jerk to the right as the sniper grimaced and ducked from sight.

Boone reached the hedgerow in safety.

Hickok charged from cover, sprinting toward the Bigleaf Maple, weaving back and forth.

Boone raced after the Warrior, trying to catch up.

Hickok reached the tree and rushed around the trunk. Blotches of blood speckled the ground. He knew it! He’d hit the varmint! Hickok saw a trail of red spots leading from the Bigleaf Maple to a gravel-covered trail eight feet away. He was off in a flash, using the intermittent drops of blood as a guide, turning to the right on the gravel trail and almost tripping over a body sprawled in his path. The gunfighter glanced down, discovering a dead Free State soldier with his forehead blown out. He hurried on, sticking to the winding, circuitous trail, scarcely noticing the botanic wonders surrounding him. The footpath curved sharply to the left, and on the straight stretch beyond were four more deceased troopers.

The assassin sure was a deadly S.O.B.

The minutes dragged by, the frequency of the dots diminishing. Twice Hickok was compelled to backtrack after taking a fork in the trail and traveling 15 to 20 yards without finding a blot of blood. He chafed at the delays, knowing the sniper was getting away. His impatience overrode any inclination to wait for Boone.

A turn to the right revealed three additional victims, soldiers contorted in the throes of death, all three shot in the head with the mystery weapon.

Hickok was stepping over one of the troopers when he paused, his blue eyes narrowing. The left side of the trooper’s face was gone, and there was a small hole in the back of the man’s helmet. Whatever had killed the soldier had penetrated his metal helmet and burst out the side of his face.

Or had it?

Hickok had seen the effects of dum-dum bullets on countless occasions; he used hollow-point bullets in his Pythons. But the damage caused by the assassin’s weapon was far worse. The exit holes, if such they were, were larger, much larger. And it seemed as if the projectiles had exploded the faces of the assassin’s victims outward from within.

What in the world could do such a thing?

Hickok continued his pursuit, the path bearing in a northeasternly direction. The gardens abruptly ended at a brick wall. Yet another dead trooper was lying at the base of the wall. The gunfighter looked in both directions, spying a red streak on the wall six feet to his right. The assassin had escaped!

What now?

Hickok’s hesitation was fleeting. He could either return to the hotel and permit the scum to make a clean getaway, or he could stay after the skunk and hopefully nail him. Since Blade and Plato were all right, he wasn’t needed at the summit. The way he saw it, some sightseeing was in order.

He twirled the Colts in their holsters, crouched, and leaped, extending his arms and grasping the lip of the eight-foot wall. His shoulders straining, he pulled himself up until he was on his stomach on top of the wall, studying the terrain ahead.

A jumble of weeds, brush, and forest covered the countryside. A few tall, decayed structures were in sight to the northeast.

Hickok recalled seeing the same structures when their jeep had exited the Santa Ana Freeway to travel to the hotel. What had Captain Di Nofrio mentioned about the place? It was an old amusement park, and hadn’t been in service since the war.

Maybe someone was using it now.

As he dropped to the ground, Hickok remembered Governor Melnick’s letter to Plato. Blade had let him see the correspondence, and the invitation to the summit had briefly referred to the amusement park. Each of the leaders in the Freedom Federation had received a similar letter.

Whoa there! What were those!

Hickok knelt and examined a set of bootprints in the soft earth near the wall. Crimson spots circled the prints. He stood and jogged to the northeast. The assassin’s bootprints were spaced close together, indicating he was walking, not running. The cow chip must think he’s safe, and no one is after him. Hickok grinned. He couldn’t wait to show the varmint how wrong the skunk was!

The tracks led in the direction of the abandoned park. They traversed a field, then entered a dense forest. Fortunately, once in the woods, the assassin stuck to a well-used animal run.

Hickok wanted to capture the assassin alive, if possible. There were too many unanswered questions for his liking. Why were the hit men trying to disrupt the summit? Where did they come from? And the biggie: Who had hired them?

He knew the Russians had planted a spy in the Civilized Zone, in President Toland’s administration. Had the spy discovered the location of the summit? Were the Russians responsible for sending the hit squad?

After his experiences with the Soviets in Washington, D.C., he wasn’t about to put anything past the rascals. So immersed did he become in his speculation, that Hickok failed to perceive the weed-and vine-choked fence until he made an abrupt turn in the trail and nearly collided with it.

The fence was a chain-link affair, betraying evidence of rust where the links were exposed to the elements. A coat of vegetation cloaked the fence from the top to bottom.

What was that?

Hickok crouched, examining an opening in the vegetation at ground level. Someone had cut a large hole in the fence, then aligned the vines and weeds over the hole to hide it. But they’d neglected to cover the middle of the hole, and a shaft of sunlight was shining through the gap. Hickok dropped onto his stomach and slowly crawled to the other side. He carefully surveyed the dense undergrowth, on guard for an ambush, and only after he was satisfied the assassin was not lying in wait for him did he rise and resume his trek.

The vegetation on the inner side of the fence was of a different variety than the plant life outside. Ferns and moss covered the dank earth. There were fewer big trees, but a profuse mushrooming of slim trees packed closely together. One type was quite unusual.

Hickok paused to inspect a stand of the strange trees growing alongside the faint trail he was following. None of the trunks were any wider than his arms; the bark was exceptionally smooth and glossy; and the tree was segmentalized into distinct sections of equal length separated by thin ridges. He ran his fingers over the velvety bark, genuinely amazed. Never in all his travels had he seen such a peculiar tree. Reminding himself to ask Plato about it, he cautiously continued to the northeast.

There was no rush now.

Hickok was certain the assassin believed his escape had gone flawlessly.

And if the hit man didn’t think anyone was on his trail, he’d grow careless, less watchful. Which was exactly what Hickok wanted. If he could catch the assassin unawares, he stood a better chance of taking the bastard alive.

A patch of blue became visible ahead.

Hickok realized the trail was approaching a body of water and he became alarmed. What if the assassin had stashed a boat on the bank? He broke into a run, covering 50 more yards before he emerged from the forest on the shore of a small lake.

There was no sign of the assassin.

Hickok began circling, searching the shore for bootprints or drops of blood. He found a few tiny crimson drops and guessed his quarry was moving to the north around the lake. The Warrior followed suit, staying close to the water where he could make better time, loping along at a dogtrot.

An object appeared in the lake, a few hundred feet ahead and about 20 feet from shore.

The gunman slowed in case the object was a boat. After traversing a hundred feet or so, he discerned the thing in the water was indeed a boat, but a gutted, rusted wreck, an ancient craft that apparently sank decades before, perhaps even during the Big Blast. He jogged 30 more feet.

Somewhere a bird was chirping.

Hickok caught a glimpse of something tremendously huge skulking in the vegetation to his left. He drew and whirled, hoping he could get off a shot before whatever it was pounced. A grayish form was standing in the midst of a stand of the strange trees. He dove to cover behind a clump of weeds.

Nothing happened.

Hickok pursed his lips in perplexity and raised his head for a better view.

The thing was just standing there in the deep shadows.

What the blazes?

Hickok rose to his knees, striving to identify the alien creature, confused by its inactivity. Maybe the critter wasn’t hostile. He stood, the short hairs on the nape of his neck tingling. The animal was gargantuan, and he assumed the thing was a mutant. What else grew so enormous?

The blasted brute was still just standing there.

Hickok edged toward the creature, his Colts cocked, his fingers on the trigger. If the beast charged, he figured he could always jump into the lake. Some animals weren’t too partial to water except for drinking.

The wind stirred the peculiar trees, revealing a pair of whitish protuberances on the head of the critter.

His curiosity aroused, Hickok advanced to within eight feet of the bulky form. Details became clearer. He could see two colossal ears and a snake-like nose. The whitish projections were horns of some sort. No! Not horns! Tusks! Suddenly he perceived the creature’s identity, and astonishment washed over him.

What the dickens was an elephant doing in southern California?

Hickok tentatively walked closer, attempting to remember what little he knew about pachyderms. If he showed he was friendly, maybe the elephant wouldn’t attack. “Howdy, there, big fella,” he greeted the jumbo animal. “Don’t fret none. I ain’t here to harm you.”

The elephant was staring at the gunfighter with glassy brown eyes.

Was the critter sick? “Any more of your kind around here, big guy?”

Hickok asked, hoping his talk would calm the beast. “Where’d you come from, anyway? I know they used to have critter prisons called zoos. Did your great, great grandpappy belong to a zoo hereabouts?”

The elephant wasn’t budging, wasn’t reacting in any way.

Hickok was only four feet from the pachyderm, and his brow furrowed in bewilderment. The elephant was filthy, caked with grime and dust, and its tusks displayed discolored patches of pale yellow. And the animal’s eyes hadn’t blinked once since he first saw it.

Was it dying?

Hickok peered upward at the trunk and head, trying to penetrate the shadows enshrouding its face. He bolstered his left Python and gingerly reached overhead, tapping the trunk.

Hard as a rock.

“What the heck!” the gunfighter blurted. He gripped the trunk, astounded to discover the elephant was a fake. The creature was artificial, constructed of a plastic-like substance.

A bogus pachyderm?

Hickok bolstered his right Colt and ran his fingers over one of the tusks.

Why had someone built this mysterious marvel? Was the elephant part of the amusement park? He’d read about zoos and amusement parks and carnivals and such in the Family Library, the extensive collection of hundreds of thousands of volumes personally selected by the Family’s Founder. During his early schooling years, the Elders had taught several courses dealing with the prewar society, one of which had briefly delved into the fanatical devotion to diversion exhibited by the so-called civilized nations. But who would have thought they’d go so far as to make a phony elephant? Why didn’t they just exhibit the real thing? Maybe they were trying to save money on their feeding bill. Or more likely, they couldn’t find anyone willing to spend all day following the elephant around with a shovel.

Hickok shrugged and headed to the north along the shore. Those prewar types sure were loco. He wondered if he would encounter any more artificial animals, and his question was answered 40 yards further on.

This one was an alligator, a whopper of a reptile at least ten feet in length, lying on the shore with the tip of its tail in the water.

Hickok admired the superb craftsmanship as he neared the fake gator.

The detail work was magnificent. There was a broad, rounded snout, a thick, powerful body, and a wide tail. The body and the tail were capped with ridges of triangular spikes. Its well-armored skin was a light shade of black. The ancient artisans had even managed to duplicate the musculature. How splendid! The gator’s protruding eyes were closed as if the reptile was at rest.

The gunman was ten feet from the alligator when he startled a big bullfrog squatting on the bank. The bullfrog leaped away from the human, inadvertently bounding toward the gator. One of its leaps carried the amphibian to within a foot of the reptile, and the bullfrog abruptly whirled and executed a tremendous vaulting arc into the water.

Hickok chuckled. Stupid frog! Scared of a dumb fake alligator! The gunman was four feet from the reptile when he noticed how clean it was.

Being exposed, the construct was probably kept free of dirt by periodical rainfall.

Hickok elected to step over the reptile instead of going around, and he was in midstride, his right foot elevated in the air above the gator’s back, when the fake performed a most remarkable feat.

The alligator opened its eyes.