Capital Run

Chapter Sixteen

The gunfighter was in his element.

Hickok had been reared in the placid environment of the Home. He’d attended the Family school as required of all youngsters and teenagers, and been taught all of the profound spiritual truths the wise Elders knew.

Although he perceived the validity of a doctrine such as “Love thy neighbor” intellectually, he found the practical applications left something to be desired. How was it possible, he often asked himself, to love your neighbor when that neighbor might be a scavenger intending to kill you and rob you, or a mutate bent on tearing you to shreds? He discreetly distinguished a flaw in such a philosophy. To him, it never made any sense for the spiritual people to allow themselves to be wiped out by their benighted brethren. There was only one viable alternative: the spiritual types, such as the Family, had to protect themselves from the manifold dangers proliferating after the unleashing of the nuclear and chemical holocaust. Early on, Hickok discovered his niche in life. He didn’t think he was qualified to become a teacher or a preacher, but he knew he was more than competent to defend those who were spiritual from those who weren’t.

Warrior status fit him like the proverbial glove.

Because he devoted his entire personality to whatever interested him, Hickok rapidly became one of the Family’s top Warriors. His ambidextrous ability with handguns insured his prominence. And because he never fretted over the fate of the foes he downed in a gunfight, because he sincerely believed the Elders when they instructed him to accept the fact of survival beyond this initial life for anyone with the slightest shred of spiritual faith, he entertained few compunctions about pulling the trigger. In short, Hickok was one of the most proficient, and most deadly, Warriors in the Family. Some, such as Blade, insisted Hickok was the most deadly.

The Russians might have been inclined to agree.

Hickok spun and fired at the three soldiers coming through the glass doors. The AK-47 bucked and chattered, and the trio of troopers were struck before they could bring their own weapons to bear. They were catapulted backward by the impact of the heavy slugs tearing through their chests. The glass doors were hit too, and they shattered and crumbled with a loud crash.

There was no time to lose!

Four soldiers were still advancing from the direction of the hedgerow, and three were sprinting toward the gunman from the parking lot.

Hickok darted into the building, dodging the prone bodies blocking the doorway. He ran to the receptionist’s desk and ducked behind it, straddling her unconscious form.

Footsteps pounded outside, and a moment later the seven soldiers raced into the receptionist’s area.

Someone shouted orders in Russian.

Hickok tensed, wondering if they would look behind the desk or mistakenly suppose he had taken one of the corridors.

The footsteps tramped past the desk.

Hickok counted to three and rose, the AK-47 cradled at waist level.

The seven troopers were ten feet off and heading down one of the corridors.

“Peek-a-boo!” Hickok shouted.

To their credit, they tried to turn and shoot instead of diving for cover.

Hickok squeezed the trigger and swept the AK-47 in an arc. The soldiers were rocked and racked by the devastating hail of lead. Only one of them managed to return the gunman’s fire, and he missed, his pistol plowing a shot into the desk in front of the Warrior.

Two of them screamed as they died.

All seven were sprawled on the tiled floor when the AK-47 went empty.

Hickok tossed the gun aside and vaulted the desk. He ran to the glass doors and leaped over the three dead soldiers.

About a dozen people from the park, civilians by their attire, were tentatively congregating outside the Headquarters building.

Hickok charged them, drawing his Colts, hoping none of them was armed. They frantically parted as he jogged past, and then he was crossing a paved road and entering a large natural area with high, unkempt grass and a row of tall trees. He bypassed two children flying a kite and reached the safety of the trees.

No one was after him. Yet.

Hickok kept going, and once beyond the row of trees he paused to get his bearings.

That was when he saw it.

Whatever “it” was.

Off to his left, towering over the surrounding landscape, was a gigantic obelisk. The top portion was missing, apparently destroyed during the war, leaving a jagged crown at the crest.

What the blazes was it?

Hickok headed to the right. He spied a stand of trees 40 yards distant and made for them. He knew the soldiers would be after him in force, and he had to find a refuge quickly. But where? He didn’t know the layout of the city. Were there any safe areas, sections of the city inhabited only by descendants of the original Americans? Or had the Russians imported their own people to populate the city? And what about the ones he saw in the park? Were they Americans or Russians? For all he knew, he could be alone in a city where every person was an enemy.

The gunman reached the trees.

Hickok dropped to his knees, holstering his Pythons, gathering his breath. He saw a road yonder, past the trees, and beyond the road a long lake or pool.

Where the heck was he?

Frustrated, he slowly stood and walked to the edge of the road. Directly ahead was the pool. To his right was a wide, cleared space filled with pedestrians. To his left, the road seemed to branch out and encircle another pool. The air had a misty quality about it, and he wondered if he was near a large body of water.

Which way should he go?

The Red Army would be sweeping the area any minute. He decided to gamble, to mingle with the masses, hoping he could lose himself in the crowd. He walked from the trees and ambled parallel with the long pool.

A young man and an attractive woman, seated on a blue blanket with a wicker picnic basket by their side, glanced up as he approached.

“Hi,” the youth said.

“Howdy,” Hickok greeted them.

The woman gawked at the gunman’s waist and nudged her companion.

She whispered to him and his brow knitted in consternation.

Hickok was five feet from them.

“Nice guns you have there,” the youth commented nervously.

“I like ’em,” Hickok said.

“I thought guns were illegal,” the youth stated.

“Not mine,” Hickok assured him.

The youth and his lady friend exchanged hurried whispers.

Hickok passed them, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt.

“Say, mister,” the youth ventured.

Hickok stopped and looked over his left shoulder.

“We just heard some shooting,” the youth said. “Was that you?”

Hickok scrutinized them, debating whether he could trust them.

“I’ve never seen anyone dressed like you before,” the youth remarked, rubbing his hands on his jeans as he spoke. “You stand out like a sore thumb. It’s none of my business, you understand, but if you’re looking for somewhere you won’t stick out, go around the west end of the Reflecting Pool, past the Lincoln Memorial, and go south. You’ll come to Independence Avenue, and on the other side is West Potomac Park. They don’t bother to cut the grass or trim the trees there and it’s a real jungle.”

“Why are you tellin’ me this?” Hickok demanded.

“I can put two and two together,” the youth said. “Gunshots. A stranger with a pair of revolvers.” The youth lowered his voice. “I may not be with the Resistance, but that doesn’t mean I like the Reds.”

Hickok grinned. “Thanks, pard.” He waved and walked toward the far end of the Reflecting Pool. What a stroke of luck! If he could reach West Potomac Park, he could lay over for a spell and figure out how to return to St. Louis. That was going to be the tough part. Evidently, they’d flown him from St. Louis to Washington, D.C., in just one night. The feat sounded impossible, but then he didn’t know how fast one of those Red copters could fly. What was it General Malenkov had said? St. Louis was 860 miles from Washington? Did the Red Copters need to refuel en route?

Seemed likely to him.

More people were in the vicinity of the Reflecting Pool, enjoying the sunshine, idly strolling or chatting with friends. Several kids were floating wooden boats in the water.

Hickok realized he was attracting a lot of attention; nearly everyone was staring at him, a few going so far as to stop and gape. The residents he saw wore cheaply constructed clothing of an indeterminate fashion.

None wore buckskins. And none packed hardware. That youth had been right on the money. He did stand out like a sore thumb.

The gunman reached the west end of the Reflecting Pool and paused, gazing at the edifice before him. The Lincoln Memorial, the youth had said. The structure was immense and impressive, with a massive dome and elaborate columns. Unlike the obelisk, the Lincoln Memorial hadn’t been damaged during the war. A red banner with white lettering was suspended above the portal. The sign was in English: “Lincoln, Champion of the Proletariat.”

Hickok absently scratched his chin.

What the blazes was a proletariat?

“Excuse me, comrade,” intruded an insistent voice.

Hickok swiveled to his right.

A stocky man in a blue uniform and carrying a nightstick was approaching.

“Howdy,” Hickok said to him.

“What play are you with?” the man asked.

Play? Hickok casually placed his right hand on the right Python.

“I’m Dimitri, Capitol Police,” the man said, smiling, revealing even spaced teeth. “I saw a play last year at the People’s Center. You know, the old Kennedy Center. It was about the reign of Napoleon, and the costumes were fabulous. What play are you with?”

“Scouts of the Prairie,” Hickok replied.

“When did it open?” the man asked, excited. “What is it about? I just love the plays!” he gushed. “There are so few anymore.”

“It opens tonight,” Hickok told him. “At the… People’s Center!”

“What is it about?” the policeman reiterated.

A flash of inspiration motivated the gunman. “It’s all about how the Old West capitalists exploited the Indians and stole their land.”

“Ahhhh, yes,” the policeman stated. “We studied it in school. What part do you play? Your costume is most excellent.”

“I play a man named Hickok,” Hickok said. “He was what they called a gunfighter, or some such. It’s a real exciting play.”

“I can’t wait to see it!” the policeman declared enthusiastically.

“Tell you what,” Hickok said, leaning closer to the policeman. “I’m not supposed to do this, but I’ll leave a message with the head honcho. Why don’t you come and tell them Hickok sent you. I can promise you a time you won’t forget. Bring the missus too.”

“Free seats?” The policeman laughed, elated at his good fortune. “I can’t thank you enough, comrade!”

Hickok shrugged, feigning humility. “That’s what comrades are for, right?”

“Thank you just the same.” The policeman continued on his rounds, whistling, content with the world.

Hickok turned from the Lincoln Memorial, bearing south. Yes, sir.

There’s no idiot like a happy idiot! He glanced behind him and detected a commotion at the eastern end of the Reflecting Pool.

Uh-oh.

Time to make tracks.

Hickok hurried, cutting across a lawn until he reached an avenue. Was it the one he wanted? Independence Avenue? There was no way of telling.

But on the other side of the avenue was a veritable wall of vegetation, dense underbrush, and abundant trees.

The racket had reached the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

Hickok looked both ways; nobody was nearby. Perfect! He ran across the avenue and into the bushes on the far side. The vegetation was thick, but negotiable. He pressed onward, keeping low, crawling under low limbs and protruding foliage or skirting them where possible. After 30 yards he stopped and listened.

Nothing behind him.

Maybe he had the breather he needed.

Hickok crept to the base of a spreading maple and leaned against the trunk.

So what was next?

The gunman thought of Blade and Rikki, and speculated on how they were faring in St. Louis. He certainly hoped they were doing better than he was. How would Sherry take it if he never returned to the Home? And what about little Ringo…

Hickok shook his head, annoyed at himself. Sure, he was in a tight scrape, but that was no reason to get all negative. He must look at the positive side of things.

There had to be a way out of this mess!

The air above abruptly became agitated by a stiff wind, and the tops of the trees started whipping from side to side as a funny “thupping” sound drew nearer and nearer.

Hickok drew his left Colt, craning his neck for a clear view through the tree limbs.

An enormous helicopter appeared, flying slowly to the southeast. It dwarfed the other helicopter Hickok had seen, the one responsible for flipping the SEAL on its side. This one was easily ten times as big. For a moment, the gunman believed the copter was searching for him, but it maintained a steady course to the southeast without deviating. A helicopter seeking him would be zigzagging all over the woods.

Where was it heading?

Hickok holstered his Python and rose. He hastened after the copter, striving to keep it in sight, flinching as thorns bit into his legs and arms.

He felt the helicopter might be landing close by. Why else would it be so low? He reached a small glade and stared upward.

The helicopter was descending toward the southeast.

He was right!

Hickok resumed running, ignoring the jabs and stabs from the sundry branches and twigs he passed. If he could reach that helicopter, and if he could force the pilot to fly him, he might be able to escape from Washington and head for St. Louis.

If.

If.

If.

Whoever invented that word should have been shot!