Denver Run

Chapter Five

“What the blazes are we gonna do now?” the gunman demanded.

“You’re the one who wanted to come this way,” Geronimo retorted. “I said we should swing to the north, but nooooo! Mr. Know-It-All had to do it his way!”

Hickok pounded the dashboard in frustration. “How the heck was I supposed to know they’d be here! They could’ve gone another way, you know?”

“Oh, yeah? With all the trucks they’ve got? And a tank? Did you expect them to take a back road?”

The troop transport was parked on the shoulder of U.S. Highway 59, slightly over four miles south of Halma. The road ahead curved around a wooded section. Camped a quarter of a mile beyond was the Civilized Zone convoy.

Sitting on the seat between the two Warriors, his hands and feet bound and a cloth gag jammed into his mouth, was Mitchell.

Hickok glanced at the trooper. “We’re gonna have to leave you for a spell.” He opened the driver’s door. “No hard feelings about this?” He leaned over and groped under the seat for a moment. Smiling, he straightened, holding a rifle in his right hand.

Geronimo opened his door and dropped to the road.

“I hope you don’t have to tinkle anytime soon,” Hickok said to Mitchell.

He winked and jumped to the ground, closing the door behind him after he landed.

Geronimo walked around the front of the troop transport. “So what’s your great plan?”

“I don’t have one,” Hickok admitted, wiping a dirt smudge from the stock of his Navy Arms Henry Carbine.

Geronimo hefted his FNC Auto Rifle. “No plan, huh?”

“Nope.” Hickok grinned. “I’ll do what I always do.”

“Which is?”

“We’ll play it by ear,” Hickok said. “Trust me.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Geronimo stated.

Hickok walked to the back of the truck, Geronimo on his heels. The gunman drew aside the canvas flap and peered inside. “How’s everybody doin’?” he inquired.

There were three occupants of the rear section. One was a short man in his forties. He wore buckskins and carried a large brown-leather pouch.

He was balding, had puffy cheeks and an oval chin. His name was Morton, and he was a Cavalryman. He was also skilled in the healing arts, and his services were sorely needed because of the condition of the other two occupants; one of them, a lovely black woman, was in critical condition, while the second, a man, was in serious condition.

“They’re still alive,” Morton said in a raspy voice.

Hickok climbed up onto the bed of the transport and walked to the woman. She was lying on a makeshift bed of blankets, her black hair cradled on a white pillow appropriated from the garrison in Catlow, Wyoming. Hickok knelt alongside her and tenderly touched her right cheek. “Bertha? It’s me, Hickok.”

“She can’t hear you,” Morton advised him.

Hickok frowned, his mind flashing back to the battle in Catlow. Bertha was a fighter from the Clan, and one of the dearest friends he had outside of the Family. She had fought valiantly against the Doktor in Catlow, and during the course of the conflict had taken three hits. The ones to her right thigh and the left side of her head weren’t life-threatening. Her third wound, though, was another story. Bertha had been shot in the left side of her chest.

“Why have we stopped?” Morton asked. “How soon before we reach this Home of yours?”

Hickok glanced at the Cavalryman. He was glad Kilrane, the Cavalry leader, had agreed to send Morton along. Bertha required skilled medical care, and Blade had ordered Hickok and Geronimo to transport her to the Home so the Family Healers could properly take care of her. “We stopped because we got some bad hombres up ahead,” he told Morton. “Don’t know how soon we’ll get to our Home.”

Someone groaned to Hickok’s right.

Hickok twisted.

Lying three feet from Bertha was a lean man with long brown hair and a lengthy beard. Like Bertha, he was swaddled in green Army blankets to keep his body temperature elevated. Unlike Bertha, his injuries weren’t due to gunshots. His name was Joshua, and he was recognized as the most spiritual member of the Family.

The Doktor had crucified him.

“How’s Josh doin’?” Hickok inquired.

“Joshua sustained severe wrist and ankle wounds,” Morton replied. “He has a high fever, but he’s in much better shape than Bertha is. We must get both of them to your Home as fast as we can.”

Hickok nodded in agreement and stood. “We’re workin’ on it. Geronimo and I gotta scout ahead. We left that soldier boy tied up in the cab. You might want to check on him now and then.”

“I will,” Morton said.

Hickok walked to the edge of the truck bed.

Evening was descending.

Geronimo had overheard Morton’s words. He studied Hickok’s face, striving to read his reaction. “Bertha will pull through,” he offered by way of encouragement.

“She’d better!” Hickok stated, his tone low and gravelly. He dropped to the ground. “Let’s go.”

The two Warriors crossed the highway and entered the woods beyond.

Geronimo was picturing their position in his mind. They were on U.S. Highway 59, south of Halma. Between them and Halma was the army convoy from the Civilized Zone. A mile north of Halma, the Family had cleared a direct path from Highway 59 to the Home, driving several troop transports back and forth to flatten any weeds or bushes while four men with axes walked ahead of the transports and chopped down all intervening trees. This had been accomplished immediately prior to the departure of the Freedom Federation’s invasion force.

How were they going to get past the Army convoy?

The sky progressively darkened as the two Warriors cautiously moved nearer to the enemy camp.

Hickok slowed as the vegetation ahead thinned out. The sounds of a large encampment filled the cool air: the subdued jumble of hundreds of voices participating in restrained conversations; the crackle of branches and logs burning in a dozen campfires; the clink of metal against metal as many of the troopers savored their evening meal, field rations consisting of baked beans and midget hot dogs; and dozens of other normal camp noises, the belching and burping and laughing which usually accompanied the congregation of so many people in one spot.

Geronimo stopped behind a tree trunk and glanced at the gunfighter.

Hickok was standing with his arms folded, studiously scrutinizing the camp.

“Should we risk getting any closer?” Geronimo asked in a whisper.

“We’ve got to get a heap closer than this,” Hickok replied.

“What does that pea-sized brain of yours have in mind?” Geronimo inquired.

Hickok glanced at Geronimo and grinned, his teeth, a white patch in the gloom of twilight, “Infiltratin’!” he said excitedly.

Geronimo walked over to his friend. “What?”

“You heard me,” Hickok declared. “We’ll do some infiltratin’!”

Geronimo stared at the camp for a bit, noting the brightness of the campfires, the number of the enemy, and the merits of Hickok’s idea.

There was only one logical reaction. “Are you nuts?” he demanded.

“It’ll be a piece of cake!” Hickok assured him.

“Sure it will,” Geronimo retorted.

“It will!” Hickok insisted. “We’ll tippy-toe in, mosey around for a spell, and see what we can learn about their plans.”

“I’d like to tippy-toe on your head,” Geronimo grumbled.

“If you don’t like the idea,” Hickok said stiffly, “just say so.”

“Do you want me to engrave it on your forehead?”

“So what’s the matter with my plan?” Hickok demanded.

“For starters,” Geronimo pointed out, “won’t we be just a little bit conspicuous walking around in these clothes?”

“I’ve already thought of that,” Hickok stated.

“You can think?”

Hickok started to move toward the camp. “If you don’t want to come, fine! I’ll go it by my lonesome.”

Geronimo prayed to the Great Spirit for guidance, and promptly caught up with the gunman. “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to be sorry about this?”

“SSSssshhh!” Hickok hissed.

Geronimo resisted an impulse to kick Hickok in the seat of his pants.

Somewhere to their left, in the dark depths of the forest, an owl hooted.

They reached the final row of trees before the camp. The outer perimeter of the encampment was only 15 yards from the woods. When it had come time to stop for the night, the convoy had simply braked to a halt in the middle of the road. The soldiers had pitched their tents around the trucks and other vehicles, serving as a buffer in case the convoy should be attacked. Guards had been posted at 20-yard intervals. A ring of alert soldiers completely encircled the encampment.

Hickok knelt on the turf, scratching his head.

Geronimo, sheltered behind a nearby tree, spotted a guard about ten yards to their right, slowly walking in their direction. Another sentry was the same distance to their left, drawing nearer. He shook his head, discouraged by the setup. There was no way they would be able to take out any of the guards without being seen by some of the soldiers in the camp.

Hickok must have reached the same conclusion. He was carefully backing away, his Henry at the ready.

Geronimo dropped to his hands and knees and crawled up to the gunman. “Any more bright ideas?” he whispered.

“Where there’s a will, pard,” Hickok quipped, “there’s a way. What say I amble to the right and you take the left? Scout around a bit. See if there’s a way in. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Before Geronimo could offer an objection, Hickok, bent over at the waist, jogged to the right and vanished in the undergrowth.

Just great!

Geronimo rose and moved to the left, treading cautiously, watching for limbs in his path or objects underfoot. The darkness made a silent passage all the more difficult. One snap of a twig might apprise the sentries of his position.

The owl wanted to know who was there.

Years of training and discipline, combined with his finely honed instincts and a lifetime spent in the wild, had sharpened Geronimo’s senses to the keenest possible level. He felt the breeze on his skin and detected the pungent scent of the pine trees and the rich earth. His ears distinguished the faintest rustling of branches overhead as nervous birds stirred at his passing. He was primed for anything out of the ordinary.

Consequently, he heard the muted voices long before he spotted the speakers.

Geronimo crouched and eased forward, avoiding protruding twigs and circumventing dry bushes.

What was this?

Two men were outside the camp, beyond even the sentries, standing near the forest. From their postures and gestures, it was evident they were arguing.

Odd.

Geronimo eased onto his stomach and inched ahead. A small pine provided an ideal place of concealment only two yards from the duo. He slid under the lowest branches and strained his ears.

“…called you out here because I don’t want the men to hear what I have to say. It wouldn’t be good for morale.”

“Screw morale!” snapped the second speaker.

Geronimo twisted to his left, risking a glance upward.

The first speaker was an officer, judging by the insignia on his green uniform. He was about six feet tall, his lean frame straight as an arrow, his brown hair cropped close to his head. His hands were on his narrow hips, his angular chin protruding in a defiant posture. “The morale of my men is important to me,” he coldly informed the second speaker.

The other man snickered. “The only thing important to me, and the only thing the Doktor will care about, is whether you do as you’re told and achieve our objective. We were told to destroy the Family, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“Don’t lecture me about my duty, Brutus!” the officer said harshly.

The second man stiffened. He was well over six feet in height, and even in the subdued light from the campfires his body emanated raw power and… something else. He was solidly built, his brown shirt and pants scarcely able to contain his rippling muscles. A sneer twisted his bestial features as he glared at the officer. His hair was black, his eyes smoldering pools of an indeterminate color. “I’ll lecture you, Captain Luther, whenever I feel like it!” he stated in a guttural growl.

Captain Luther wasn’t intimidated. “I’ll remind you for the last time, Brutus. The Doktor put me in charge of this mission, and I’ll thank you to stop giving orders to my men!”

Brutus laughed, a peculiarly ominous sound. “Are you threatening me, Luther?”

“What if I am?” Captain Luther countered.

Geronimo saw the one known as Brutus reach out with his right arm.

His huge right hand closed on the officer’s shirt, clamping down with the tremendous force of an iron vise. He raised his arm straight up, his elbow slightly bent, and lifted Captain Luther from the ground.

“Let me go!” the officer ordered, striving to pry those stony fingers from his shirt.

“Don’t ever threaten me,” Brutus warned, his tone low and grating, “I won’t tolerate being threatened. If you do it again,” he said, and paused, glaring into the officer’s eyes, “I’ll rip your heart from your chest and eat it raw.”

“Let go of me!” Captain Luther cried, enraged by the humiliating treatment he was receiving.

“As you wish,” Brutus remarked.

The hulking psychopath grinned and released his grip.

Captain Luther dropped to the grass, stumbling and almost going down on one knee. But he recovered his balance and stood erect, glowering up at Brutus, refusing to be cowed. “I am in command of this strike force,” he snapped, “and you will obey my orders or else! The Doktor sent you as an adviser—”

“The Doktor sent me to keep my eyes on you,” Brutus said, correcting the officer. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. If you don’t like it, tough!”

“You can keep an eye on me all you want,” Captain Luther stated. “Just don’t let me hear of you countermanding an order of mine again!”

“I did what I thought was best,” Brutus said.

“You ordered a patrol out without my approval,” Captain Luther declared, “and knowing damn well I had already said we weren’t going to send one out!”

“We should check up on the Family,” Brutus rejoined, “and see what they’re doing.”

“They’re waiting for us to attack,” Captain Luther mentioned crisply.

“What else do you think they would be doing?”

“They could be preparing a surprise for us,” Brutus commented.

“What can they possibly do against all of us?” Captain Luther demanded.

“You never know,” Brutus said.

Captain Luther snickered. “We have two thousand men and a tank, not to mention the other goodies I brought along. By this time tomorrow night, the Home will be a pile of rubble and the Family will all be dead.”

He chortled. “I can’t wait! We’ll destroy them!”

“I hope so,” Brutus stated, “for your sake. The Doktor will be furious if we fail, and you know what he does with failures.”

“I know,” Captain Luther said, a tinge of fright in his voice.

“It’s strange we haven’t heard from the Doktor by now,” Brutus noted in a calmer voice.

“He should have contacted us,” Captain Luther agreed. “He might simply be busy with other matters.”

Geronimo was surreptitiously studying Brutus. The man’s high, sloping forehead, extremely bushy brows, and protruding lips all combined to lend a sinister aspect to his appearance. A sudden flaring of one of the nearby campfires caused Brutus to be bathed in a glow of reddish-orange light.

For a brief moment, his face was vividly illuminated.

Geronimo was riveted by the bizarre sight.

Brutus was an ogre. His eyes were unnaturally large, giving him a popeyed countenance. The tip of his nose slanted at an abrupt angle, decidedly snoutish in its shape. Two of his teeth, the incisors, extended from under his upper lip. And his skin had a queer pitted quality about it, as if its texture were as rough as the trunk of a tree.

Geronimo recognized Brutus for what he, or it, was.

One of the Doktor’s genetic deviates.

The infamous Doktor had refined a technique for altering a human embryo in a test-tube. He had perfected a method of restructuring the genetic code, of producing outlandish animalistic humans, monstrosities part human and part… thing. The Doktor had been one of the world’s leading genetic engineers. But instead of devoting his skills to the benefit of humankind, he had used his warped genius to create a corps of personal assassins with superhuman strength.

Brutus was obviously one of the Doktor’s killers.

Captain Luther and Brutus had calmed themselves considerably.

Apparently, the officer wanted to stay on the best possible terms with Brutus despite their disagreement.

“Do you ever wonder what this Family is like?” Captain Luther asked.

“Who cares?” Brutus retorted.

Brutus certainly is the intellectual type, Geronimo thought.

“Don’t you ever think about what life would be like outside the Civilized Zone?” Captain Luther inquired.

“Such thoughts are dangerous,” Brutus reminded the officer. “They can get you in a lot of hot water.”

“Then you’ve never considered it?” Capture Luther pressed him.

Brutus fidgeted uncomfortably. He unconsciously ran his left hand along his neck, stroking a thin metal collar he wore.

“Don’t worry,” Captain Luther said, laughing. “The Doktor can’t hear you with that monitoring collar of his.”

“What?”

“How can he eavesdrop?” Captain Luther queried. “All of his equipment, including the satellite link, was destroyed when Cheyenne was nuked. There’s no way he can hear us.”

“I don’t know,” Brutus said doubtfully.

“Suit yourself,” Captain Luther stated, and shrugged. “But I can’t help but wonder what these people are like. We know a lot about them, like why they call themselves Warriors and Tillers and Healers and such, but—”

“Why do they?” Brutus interrupted.

“It has something to do with the man who started the Home,” Captain Luther revealed. “He was a believer in ‘social equality,’ so he began this nonsense about having every member of the Family receive a title. He thought it would make everyone socially acceptable. You wouldn’t have anyone looking down their nose at someone else just because of the job they did.”

“Sounds pretty weird to me,” Brutus said.

“They’re a weird bunch,” Captain Luther concurred. “When I learned I was coming here,” he elaborated, “I consulted the records on this Family. I wanted to learn their strengths and their weaknesses.”

“What did you find out?”

“You’d be surprised how much data we’ve accumulated over the years with out listening posts,” Captain Luther remarked. “Samuel had a great idea there. By periodically setting up our sensitive microphones outside isolated communities, we’ve been able to keep taps on them.” He paused, staring at the encampment. “This Family isn’t all that strong. They have a dozen or so warriors who are responsible for protecting their Home. They also have a well-stocked armory. But that’s about it. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“We’ll crush them like bugs!” Brutus predicted.

“We haven’t spied on them in months, though,” Captain Luther went on, “so we don’t know what they’ve been up to lately.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Brutus opined.

“The Doktor gave me the impression he thought they might have had something to do with the nuking of Cheyenne,” Captain Luther said.

“The Family?”

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Captain Luther stated, “but that’s the impression I received.”

“Do we leave at first light?”

Captain Luther gazed at the stars. “At first light,” he confirmed. He looked at the camp again. “I still can’t believe the Doktor gave command of this assignment to me.”

“Most of the senior officers were killed when the headquarters in Cheyenne went up in smoke,” Brutus pointed out. “Besides, the Doktor trusts you.”

Captain Luther smiled slyly, as if the unsuspecting canary had swooped within range of the cat’s claws. “Then why don’t you?”

“It isn’t that I don’t trust you,” Brutus began lamely.

“Then why do you keep butting in?” Captain Luther demanded.

“I need to insure we succeed.”

“We will,” Captain Luther promised. “Don’t worry.”

“I can’t help but worry,” Brutus declared. “If we don’t do as the Doktor wants, I could wind up being the course of instruction in one of his anatomy classes.”

“If you’re—” Captain Luther started to say, then abruptly stopped.

The sharp crack of gunfire erupted from the east side of the encampment.

Captain Luther and Brutus took off at a brisk clip.

Geronimo crawled from under the pine tree and stood.

It had to be Hickok!

What had the big dummy done and gone now?

Geronimo turned and jogged to the south, moving as rapidly as feasible. The trees were giant black sentinels in the night, their limbs ready to gouge or ensnare him if he blundered into one of them.

The shooting had ceased.

What if the soldiers had killed Hickok?

Geronimo increased his pace, taking senseless risks, darting between and around trunks and other obstacles at a reckless speed.

He should never have let Hickok go off by himself!

They should have stayed together!

Some shouting broke out, off to the east.

Geronimo ran between two trees and artfully skipped to his right to avoid a big bush.

That’s when it happened.

His left foot caught in something, an exposed root or a low limb, and before he could break free and right himself, he stumbled forward, headfirst, his arms outstretched.

He never saw the tree trunk.

Geronimo felt an excrucating pain lance through his head. He fell to his knees, dazed, struggling to retain his consciousness. Bright white stars exploded before his eyes, and he collapsed on the musty ground.

In the distance there was more shooting.