Cincinnati Run

Chapter Twenty

Hickok could scarcely credit his own eyes.

The mutant surging out of the sewer was an enormous, repulsive, leechlike creature with glistening greenish-brown skin divided into segmented rings and a huge, disk-shaped maw. Slimy refuse sprayed in all directions as the mutant broke the surface and reared like a striking cobra.

“No!” Elmer cried, fear lending speed to his legs.

Hickok slowed, the right Python streaking from under his shirt. He snapped off three shots from the hip, and all three hit home, drilling into the mutant’s body. The booming of the Colt was deafening.

Stung by the slugs, the leech veered past the Warrior and bore down on the bum.

“Elmer!” Hickok yelled. “Look out!” He sprinted forward, attempting to reach Elmer’s side before the leech attacked.

The mutant got there first.

Elmer’s feet were pumping frantically when his right heel made contact with a wad of slippery sewage on the walkway and he fell, his arms swinging wildly, landing on his buttocks.

Hickok saw the leech angle down and in, its huge mouth fastening on Elmer’s face, choking off his strangled scream, the disk covering Elmer from his hairline to his chin.

“Try me!” Hickok cried, thumbing the hammer twice, each shot smacking into the center of the creature’s thick body.

Oblivious to its wounds, the leech whipped its body backward, dragging Elmer with it, his arms and legs thrashing, causing the lighter to flicker out and plunging the tunnel into dank darkness. The mutant’s inky bulk was barely visible as it dived into the sewage, its mouth gripping Elmer’s face with the power of a vise, hauling the flailing bum under the surface.

“Elmer!” Hickok shouted, taking several paces and halting, shocked by the sudden demise of his newfound friend. Except for a faint swishing, the tunnel was quiet. Goose bumps broke out all over his body as he gazed at the foul, black stream.

Dear Spirit!

Elmer was gone!

And the gunman realized he could well be next. Without the feeble light cast by the lighter, he was shrouded in gloom. If another leech should come after him, he’d have scant warning. And as it was, the Pythons were ineffective against the bloodsucking worms. He replaced the right Colt under his shirt.

There was only one thing to do.

Head for the hills.

So to speak.

Hickok hastened along the tunnel, staying as close to the wall as he could, straining his ears to hear the telltale swishing of the leeches.

How many yards before he reached the access tunnel?

The gunman frowned, thinking of Elmer, wishing he could have saved the poor man. He’d only known Elmer for a short while, but he’d grown to like the old-timer. His failure to protect his newfound companion distressed him terribly. As a Warrior, his whole life was devoted to safeguarding others, whether they belonged to the Family or not. Rarely had he let those he was protecting down, making Elmer’s death all the harder to take. The man had tried to help him, had saved him from the Russians, and he had flopped when Elmer needed him the most. There was no one else he could blame. The responsibility belonged to him.

And the Soviets.

Elmer would still be alive if not for the Russian superweapon. Without the development of the L.R.F., the Warriors would not have traveled to Cincinnati, and Elmer would not have offered to help.

Yes, sir.

Any way Hickok considered the circumstances, the ultimate blame had to be shared with the Commies, and the longer he dwelled on Elmer’s horrid end, the angrier he became. He covered 30 yards immersed in cogitation.

What was that?

Hickok drew up short as an indistinct swishing sounded from the rear.

He looked back, the hair at the nape of his neck prickling.

Another leech!

Or maybe the same mutant returning for a second helping!

The gunman turned and raced recklessly on the cement. Never again would he wear someone else’s footwear! The boots he’d taken from one of the dead troopers fit too tightly, cramping his feet, slowing him down. He could hear the swishing growing louder, and he sensed the leech was after him. His eyes detected a break in the tunnel ahead, a lighter shading near the top, and he ran for all he was worth.

The swishing seemed to be right on his heels.

Hickok reached the patch of feeble light and glanced up, perceiving the outline of a manhole cover and the metal rungs leading upward. There was a hiss almost in his ear, and he leaped into the air, his outstretched fingers catching on a rung as something nipped at his right foot. He banged against the side, then climbed quickly, applying his right shoulder to the lid and heaving. The cover slid partially aside, and he grabbed the edge with his right hand and shoved.

There was a commotion in the sewer below.

The gunman clambered from the hole and rolled to the right, and he heard a heavy body slap the rim and then a loud splash. Inhaling the fresh air deep into his lungs, Hickok rose to his knees, finding himself in the middle of a deserted, narrow side street.

He’d made it!

But his relief was fleeting. The gunman stood and proceeded to load the spent chambers in his right Python.

So much for the leeches.

Now he had a score to settle with the Russians.

But wasn’t that the way it always was? There were always scores to settle. A death for a death. Tit for tat. And there were always those innocents who wound up caught in the crossfire.

The thought gave him pause.