Anaheim Run

Chapter Eleven

Hickok turned, his hands dropping to his Colts, scanning the wall of vegetation shrouding the bank.

Nothing.

The gunfighter faced the lake, watching the Gild members. He saw Leftwich leave, and shortly thereafter the others departed. His scheme had worked! Now all he had to do was wait a spell, then swim to the other side and make his way to the hotel to warn Blade. It would be a piece of cake!

He decided to find a warmer spot to wait and clambered onto the bank.

The brush was dense, and he had to force a path through a thicket and cross a grassy knoll before he discovered an ideal place to rest, a small clearing in a stand of trees. He sat with his soaked back against one of the tree trunks and surveyed his surroundings.

The dilapidated building was in partial view through the trees, about 30 yards to the north.

Hickok sighed, thinking of his beloved wife Sherry and their son Ringo, both expectantly awaiting his return to the Home. He missed them intensely, and he was beginning to understand the reason Blade disliked extended trips away from the compound and the Family. Gallivanting all over the countryside was all right for a single guy, but a married gent needed to consider the impact on those dearest to him.

A bird suddenly whistled to the east.

Only it wasn’t a bird.

Hickok leaped to his feet, his blue eyes scrutinizing the landscape. He knew a fake bird whistle when he heard one, and that imitation had been downright pitiful! The gunman listened for the whistle to be repeated or answered from elsewhere in the woods, but all was quiet. He frowned, annoyed by a nagging feeling of being watched. Was it possible the island was inhabited? Had he really seen someone near the building as he was swimming the lake?

There was one way to find out.

The Warrior moved toward the structure, alert for an ambush, his hands near his Pythons.

There was the soft padding of feet from the forest to the northwest.

Hickok halted, debating his next move. He could return to the lake and swim for the dock, but the Gild assassins might still be in the area. He could stay put, but the notion of being a sitting duck was distinctly unappealing. Or he could mosey on over to the building and have a look-see.

Another “bird” whistled to the northwest.

Hickok thoughtfully stroked his moustache. Whoever these hombres were, they knew he was there. They must have observed him crossing the water. He didn’t want trouble, but if push came to shove he was prepared to show them the business end of a .357 Magnum.

A bush rustled off to the right.

Hickok hooked his thumbs in his belt and ambled in the direction of the building, his saturated moccasins squishing with every step. No one appeared and he reached the end of the trees unmolested. The structure was ten yards away, a veritable mess; the front door was gone, all of the windows were busted out, and the walls were on the verge of collapsing.

He glanced to the right, discovering the large boat he’d seen before, and the sight of the vessel brought a photograph to mind, a picture he’d found in one of the books in the Family library. The photo had been of a steamboat.

More bird whistles broke out in the woods.

Hickok walked toward the steamboat along a well-defined path. The boat was 20 yards or so from the building, adjacent to a tumbledown wooden dock. From the sound of the birdbrains in the forest, he gathered there was a whole flock of the featherless varmints. And if they were out to get him, the boat would be the best spot to make a stand. They would have to cross the dock to reach him, giving him a clear shot.

The steamboat was listing, leaning to one side, inclining toward the dock, as if there might be a hole under the waterline on the island side of the vessel. A gap of four feet separated the boat from the dock.

Hickok reached the dock and stopped. Many of the planks were missing or cracked. He risked falling through the rotted wood if he tried to reach the steamboat, but there was no other choice.

A stooped-over figure dashed between two trees off to the right.

They were getting set to make their move! Hickok moved onto the disintegrating dock, his nerves tingling, advancing slowly. He wondered if he’d made the right decision, if he should chuck the notion and make his stand on the bank. But he was denied the opportunity.

“Get him!” a deep male voice bellowed, and eight forms charged from cover, five men and three women brandishing various weapons.

Hickok spun, his Colts sweeping up and out, cocking the hammers as he cleared leather, and just as he was about to squeeze the triggers, before he could drop a single foe, he was defeated by a weather-beaten, crumbling board. The plank underfoot gave way with a rending crash, and the Warrior plummeted toward the lapping waters below. He thrust his arms horizontal to his falling body, catching himself by his elbows, painfully jarring his arms and shoulders, his Pythons held fast in his straining hands. His lower torso and legs dangled below the dock.

“Don’t move, you son of a bitch!” someone commanded.

Hickok looked up to find the barrel of a Ruger rifle a finger’s width from his nose. The man holding the rifle was a big man with wide shoulders, a barrel of a chest, a tangled mass of black hair, and dark eyes.

His clothing consisted of torn, faded jeans and a crudely constructed deer-hide shirt. Sandals adorned his filthy feet. Hickok mustered his friendliest smile. “Howdy, neighbor!”

The big man blinked several times, his dark eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I ain’t your neighbor, bastard!”

Hickok perceived he was as good as dead if he didn’t do some real fancy talking, and quickly. “I have this pard with the handle of Joshua. He lives at my Home, and he’s the most spiritual person I know. Josh says all of us are neighbors because we all share the same planet. So I reckon we are neighbors, if you get my drift.”

The big man leaned down to peer into the Warrior’s face.

Hickok nearly gagged when the man’s putrid breath assailed his nostrils.

“You’re out of your gourd, mister,” the man declared.

Hickok grinned, struggling to keep from falling further into the hole. He doubted the cavity was broad enough to permit his shoulders to slip through, but he didn’t want to become wedged in more tightly than he already was. “I’d be right grateful if you’d see fit to get me out of this hole.”

The big man nodded. “We’ll get you out, mister. We don’t want to lose you now.” He wagged the rifle barrel. “But first you drop them pretty handguns of yours. Nice and easy!”

Hickok hesitated, reluctant to part with his Colts.

“You do it or I’ll blow your face off!” the big man threatened.

“I like a man who knows how to motivate folks,” Hickok commented wryly. He released the Pythons, laying them on the dock.

The big man straightened. “You might not be as dumb as you look. Tab! Come here!”

A young man joined the big one. The newcomer was a thinner, smaller version of the man with the Ruger. He sported a ragged scar on his right cheek, and was wearing tattered brown trousers with a short black jacket and an outlandish yellow bow tie. A slightly rusted hatchet was in his left hand. “Yeah, Pax?”

“Get this moron’s guns,” Pax directed.

Tab crouched, warily reaching out and grabbing first one Colt, then the other. He rose, holding them in his right hand. “Wow! These are something else! Can I have one?”

“Maybe,” Pax said.

“Those irons are mine,” Hickok stated contentiously.

Tab smirked. “Not any more they ain’t, mister!”

“You won’t be needing them,” Pax commented, chuckling. “Jack! Phil! Get this turkey on his feet!”

Two men came forward and brutally hoisted the Warrior from the hole, careful to insure they didn’t suffer a similar fate. They rudely shoved him several paces forward onto the bank.

Hickok examined his captors. All eight were on the grungy side, wearing an odd assortment of strange, soiled clothing. The one called Jack was a beetle-browed hulk wearing a faded pink shirt with ruffles down the front, black pants with his knees protruding through irregular holes, and a weird black hat made conspicuous by the yellow skull and crossbones on the front flap. Another man crowned his head with a black cap resembling a set of enormous rodent ears. The three women were dressed equally as bizarrely. One of them was attired in a red and white polka-dot dress and white gloves, while another covered her feet with furry imitation dog paws. “Are you folks tryin’ to start a new fashion trend?” he quipped.

Pax rammed the barrel of his Ruger into the Warrior’s back. “Shut your face and move your ass!”

Hickok winced, staring at the evident boss. “You touch me with that rifle again and I’m going to cram the barrel down your throat!”

Pax pointed the barrel at the Warrior’s head. “Keep flapping your gums and you can die right here!”

“Go kiss a buffalo’s butt,” Hickok cracked.

Pax angrily motioned with the Ruger. “Move it! Now!”

“Which way?” Hickok asked.

“Follow them,” Pax directed.

Four of the motley group were walking to the north along a faint trail.

Hickok fell in behind the four.

“No tricks, mister!” Pax warned, staying behind the Warrior. Tab and two men brought up the rear.

“You mind tellin’ me who you people are?” Hickok inquired.

“As if you don’t know!” Pax rejoined acidly.

“I don’t,” Hickok said. “I’ve never laid eyes on you before.”

“Bullshit!” Pax declared bitterly. “You saw all of us a week ago!”

“I’ve never seen you before,” Hickok reiterated. “I wasn’t even in California a week ago.”

“What’s a California?” Pax queried.

Hickok glanced over his right shoulder. “You’re joshin’ me, right?”

“My name’s not Josh,” Pax responded.

“You really don’t know what California is?” Hickok questioned in disbelief.

Pax shook his head.

“The Free State of California is the name of the state you live in,” Hickok explained.

“What’s a state?” Pax wanted to know.

Hickok’s brow creased in bewilderment. “You mind settin’ me straight on a few things?”

Pax scrutinized the man in the buckskins. “Like what?”

“Can you read?” Hickok inquired.

“What’s that?” Pax responded, the Ruger barrel fixed on the prisoner’s back.

“Do you know what a book is?” Hickok asked.

“Nope,” Pax replied.

“Ain’t them those things we use to help get the fires started sometimes?” Tab chimed in.

“Those things?” Pax said. “We don’t see many of them in the Kingdom anymore.”

“The Kingdom?” Hickok repeated quizzically.

“The Kingdom, mister,” Pax stated. “Where we live. This place.”

“You call this old amusement park the Kingdom?” Hickok remarked.

“Why?”

“I don’t know nothing about no amusement park,” Pax asserted. “This place is our home. It’s always been called the Kingdom. That’s what my dad called it and his dad before him.”

“How long have you folks lived here?” Hickok asked.

“Our families have lived here since doomsday,” Pax answered.

“Doomsday? You mean World War Three?”

Pax shrugged. “Call it whatever you want, mister. My dad told me all about it. A long, long time ago, in the land outside of the Kingdom, everybody was trying to kill everybody else. Doomsday, my dad called it. The end of everything. We’ve been here ever since.”

“Your family, your ancestors, hid out in the park during the war and stayed here after it was over,” Hickok reasoned aloud.

“Of course we stayed here in the Kingdom,” Pax said. “Where else would we go?”

“There’s a whole wide world out there,” Hickok stated. “You should see it sometime.”

Pax made a snorting sound. “Who are you trying to kid? We know what’s out there! Poison air and poison ground. Killers and robbers. And lots of mutants. We wouldn’t last a day out there, mister.”

“You can call me Hickok,” the gunman suggested. “Where’d you ever hear the world is as bad as all that?”

“From my dad,” Pax said. “His dad passed it on to him. We know we’re safe in the Kingdom and we’re never going to leave.”

“You’ve got to leave sometime,” Hickok advised. “You’ll be surprised to find out that the folks out there aren’t half as bad as you make ’em out to be. Not all of ’em, anyway.”

“Yeah. Sure. And I suppose you and your friends are a good example, huh?” Pax demanded testily.

“My friends?”

“Don’t play innocent, you son of a bitch!” Pax exploded. “We don’t know how all of you got in, but a week ago Chester found the bunch of you staying in that building on Orleans Square. We spied on you for two days, watching you come and go. You bastards with your black robes and puff guns!”

Puff guns? Hickok realized the man was referring to the Gild members’ favorite weapons, the Darters.

“Chester was all for being friendly,” Pax was saying. “He said we shouldn’t kill you before we found out what you wanted.”

“What happened?”

“You know damn well what happened!” Pax snapped, his face livid.

“You shot Chester and three of our brothers and drove us to the island!

You would have caught all of us, but you didn’t know we had canoes on the north shore.”

Hickok contemplated Pax’s disclosures. No wonder these people hated his guts! They believed he was part of the Gild, and the Gild had tried to wipe them out.

“We’ve been watching you on and off ever since,” Pax went on. “No one knows the Kingdom like we do. We can spy on you anytime. You ain’t such great shakes!”

“And I saw what you did to those three outsiders,” Tab mentioned. “I followed one of your scouting parties.”

“You never should have left the Kingdom,” Pax said reproachfully.

“I wanted to see what they were up to,” Tab explained. “They didn’t go very far. I think they were just looking around to see what was out there.”

He paused, frowning at Hickok. “I never did see no sense in why those three people were killed.”

“Don’t look at me,” Hickok said. “I’m not one of the Gild.”

“What’s the Gild?” Pax inquired.

“They’re the varmints who gunned down your kin,” Hickok said.

“And you ain’t one of them?” Pax asked skeptically.

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you,” Hickok stressed.

“You expect us to believe you?” Pax retorted resentfully.

“I’m tellin’ the truth,” Hickok averred.

“Lies won’t save you,” Pax declared. “We’re going to pay you back for what you did to Chester and the others.”

“You’d kill an innocent man?” Hickok asked.

“Doesn’t matter to us whether you’re innocent or not,” Pax said.

“Why not?”

Pax grinned, exposing his discolored teeth. “Because we’re hungry.”