Cincinnati Run

Chapter Four

Blade’s lightning reflexes were more than equal to the occasion. He simply slid the Commando’s barrel over the lower rim of the window and squeezed the trigger. A torrent of slugs slammed into Hefty’s chest and smashed him to the fissure-ridden asphalt, geysers of blood spurting from his torso.

On the passenger side, Hickok leaned out of the window and fired each Colt. Two of the men dropped, their craniums shattered.

The remaining pair were back pedaling frantically, shooting as they went, their shots deflected by the SEAL’S impenetrable windshield.

Blade and Hickok ducked inside.

“What say we teach these cow-chips a lesson?” the gunman asked.

“Take this,” Blade said, extending the Commando to Geronimo with his right arm as he rolled up the window with his left.

“Look at ’em!” Hickok said, following Blade’s example.

The scavengers were charging the SEAL en masse, except for the children and a few of the women, who were fleeing into the woods. Dozens of guns were firing simultaneously, and round after round ricocheted off the transport with a loud, pinging sound.

Blade saw the scavengers converging on the highway directly ahead, evidently intending to block the SEAL’S path. He glanced at the vehicles in the trees, thinking of the unfortunate victims previously slain by the mob rushing toward him, and his features hardened grimly. He reached to his right and flicked the silver toggle marked with an M.

The scavengers nearest the SEAL were astonished to see metal plates underneath the headlights slide upward, exposing the 50-caliber machine guns in their recessed compartments.

“Look out!” one of the men shouted.

Too late.

Thundering death and destruction, the 50-calibers decimated the foremost ranks in seconds. Men and women toppled to the roadway, screeching and wailing. The scavengers behind the front rows tried to flee, but their limbs could not outrun the heavy slugs. They dropped where they stood, their bodies perforated, spilling their life’s blood on the unyielding pavement. Four of the scavengers darted to the right, sprinting toward a shack.

Blade angled the SEAL to the right and applied the brakes again.

The fleeing scavengers were each struck in the back and flung to the ground.

“Got the varmints!” Hickok said.

Blade switched the toggle off and the machine guns ceased chattering.

He gazed at the bleeding forms littering the highway, many of whom were moaning or crying. A brunette was convulsing and spitting crimson down her chin. An elderly man was trying to regain his footing, an impossible feat because his left leg was missing below the knee.

“They had it comin’,” Hickok remarked.

“Did they?” Geronimo asked.

The gunman looked over his left shoulder. “What’s with you?”

“Who appointed us their executioners?”

Hickok knit his brow, perplexed. “You’re beginning to sound like Joshua. They were tryin’ to kill us, pard, or didn’t you notice?”

“They couldn’t hurt us in the SEAL,” Geronimo said.

“They didn’t know that,” Hickok stated testily.

“Those people were murderers and thieves,” Blade interjected. “Who knows how many people they’ve killed? Sure, we could have bypassed them without a fight, leaving them free to continue their depredations. And the life of every person they killed from now on would be on our shoulders.”

“So there,” Hickok said.

“I guess you’re right,” Geronimo responded.

“What’s gotten into you?” Hickok inquired. “You never got upset about blowin’ away cow-chips before.”

“Some of those scavengers had children,” Geronimo said.

“So? Rattlesnakes have young’uns too.”

“So I have a son now,” Geronimo mentioned. “I see things differently.”

Blade twisted in his seat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Geronimo shrugged. “I didn’t want to mention anything until I made my decision.”

“What decision?” Hickok asked.

“Whether to resign from the Warriors,” Geronimo answered.

Blade and Hickok exchanged flabbergasted expressions.

“You’re kiddin’!” the gunman blurted.

“I’m quite serious,” Geronimo said. “I’ve been considering the matter for some time.”

“You can’t quit!” Hickok exclaimed. “The three of us are best buddies.

We’re a team. Alpha Triad wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“The Elders would select a new Warrior to replace me,” Geronimo said.

“You know the procedure as well as I.”

“I know you were born to be a Warrior, just like me,” Hickok asserted.

“It’s in your blood.”

“My family must come first.”

“You’re out of practice,” Hickok said. “You haven’t been on a run in a spell. Give yourself a few more days. Once you’ve plugged a few lowlifes, you’ll feel a lot better.”

“I don’t think so,” Geronimo replied.

“All right. You sit back and take it easy this trip. I’ll do your share of the killin’. Heck, I don’t mind. I never sweat the small stuff.”

“Small stuff?”

Blade faced front and drove forward, steering the SEAL to the left, skirting the figures cluttering the road. The transport’s massive tires pulverized two tents and reduced a crude wooden shack to kindling, and then they were past the scavengers. He slewed onto Highway 24 and resumed their journey.

“I didn’t mean to spring this on you,” Geronimo said after a minute. “I knew you’d be upset.”

“Upset? Who’s upset?” Hickok snapped, then lowered his voice. “I think I’ll toss Josh in the moat when we get back.”

“Joshua had nothing to do with the way I feel,” Geronimo said.

“What’s your real reason?” Blade inquired. “You’ve never displayed any reservations about killing in the past. You know as well as we do that killing is part of our duty as Warriors. Sometimes it’s a distasteful part, but it must be done. We’re a lot like the prewar law-enforcement officers.

They had to keep the lid on a society falling apart at the seams, and they had to protect the decent, law-abiding citizens from the predators and vultures. On occasion they had to kill. They might not want to squeeze the trigger, they might try to avoid doing so at all costs, but in the final analysis, those officers, just like the Warriors, had to confront the prospect of killing every day.” He paused. “You’ve been an outstanding Warrior for years. It’s not the killing that bothers you. What is it?”

Geronimo sighed and gazed to the right at the forested landscape.

“Cynthia and Cochise.”

“What about them?” Hickok questioned. “Do they want you to quit?”

“No.”

“Then what?” Hickok asked impatiently.

“What happens to them if I’m slain?”

Blade stared into the rearview mirror at Geronimo’s reflection, regarding his friend’s troubled expression. “The possibility of being killed in the line of duty is an occupational hazard of our profession.”

“I know.”

“But?” Blade prompted.

“But do I have the right to expose my family to the same hazard?”

Geronimo queried. His shoulders slumped. “I never told you this, but Cynthia was a nervous wreck when I returned from our run to Nevada.

She hardly slept a wink the whole time we were gone. Cochise was even worse. He started having nightmares, and he would wake up in the middle of the night screaming my name. He’s still having nightmares occasionally, and he’s scared of his own shadow.”

“Have you discussed the situation with them?” Blade inquired.

“Of course. Cynthia admits that she’s excessively worried about the likelihood of my being killed. She can’t help herself. And as far as Cochise is concerned, what do you say to a three-year-old? How do I explain my extended absences?” Geronimo wanted to know, his tone betraying his profound inner turmoil.

“They’ll come around eventually,” Hickok said.

“I’m not so sure,” Geronimo replied.

“Have you mentioned resigning to Cynthia?” Blade questioned.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And she doesn’t want me to resign on account of them.”

“The lady has brains,” Hickok stated. “You should listen to her.”

“I am, with my heart.”

“Have you made your final decision yet?” Blade asked.

Geronimo shook his head. “No. I’m leaning toward resigning, though.”

“Good. Then I’ve got time to help you see the light, pard. When we get back, I’ll talk to your missus too,” Hickok proposed.

“This is personal, Nathan,” Geronimo said, using the name bestowed on the gunman by his parents. “I’ll handle it.”

“Fine. Be that way,” Hickok said.

“No offense meant,” Geronimo commented.

“None taken,” Hickok said, his tone contradicting his words.

They drove on in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes. Finally Hickok turned and stared at Geronimo.

“I think you’ll be makin’ the biggest mistake of your life if you resign.”

“Why?”

“You’ll be miserable if you step down,” the gunman predicted. “What else would you do?”

“I’m considering becoming a Tiller,” Geronimo divulged.

The gunman shook his head. “Never happen. You like excitement and adventure. Sittin’ around watching plants grow would bore you to tears.”

“I could become a Hunter,” Geronimo proposed. “I like hunting and trapping, and providing meat for the Family is a worthy occupation.”

“In that case, you might as well stay a Warrior.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Hunters go up against mutants and wild critters every time they go out of the Home,” Hickok said. “You could be killed just as easily.”

“But the Hunters don’t venture as far from the Home as we do,” Geronimo argued. “The Hunters don’t usually take on cannibals or professional assassins or insane power-mongers. I’d be safer as a Hunter.”

“If you want to play it safe, become a Weaver.”

“I never expected bitterness from you,” Geronimo told the gunman.

“I’m not bitter. I’m just ticked off,” Hickok asserted.

“We’ve got company,” Blade announced abruptly.

Hickok straightened and grabbed the AR-15. “Where?”

“Behind us, about three quarters of a mile.” Blade informed them.

Hickok looked out the rear of the SEAL, his blue eyes widening slightly as he spied a large, green, single-rotor helicopter. “How long has that contraption been there?”

“I just noticed it,” Blade said.

“Russian?”

“It must be,” Blade deduced, “but I haven’t seen any markings.”

“Who else would have a helicopter in this area?” Geronimo queried.

“No one, to my knowledge,” Blade responded. He glanced at the side mirror repeatedly as the SEAL covered another mile, expecting the chopper to draw closer rapidly. Instead, the craft kept its distance.

“Why is it hangin’ back?” Hickok asked.

“Who knows?” Blade said.

A rusted sign appeared at the side of the highway: WATSEKA 1 MILE.

“Will we go through the town?” Geronimo inquired.

“We’ll bypass Watseka,” Blade replied. He preferred to avoid cities and towns whenever possible. Prior experience had taught him that the inhabitants of urban centers were invariably hostile, and although most of the dwellers in the Outlands were poorly armed and ill-equipped to cause any serious damage to the SEAL, he wanted to avoid unnecessary confrontations and delays.

“Look!” Hickok suddenly declared, pointing at the sky to the east.

Blade glanced up and tensed.

A second helicopter was less than a half mile distant and heading directly toward the transport.