Memphis Run

Chapter Nine

“Watch out!” Chastity cried. “There’s a hole!”

Blade braked and stared at the shallow rut in the roadway.

“I doubt we’ll fall in,” he remarked sarcastically.

“I don’t want to lose my daddy if you hit another hole,” Chastity chastised him.

Sighing, Blade accelerated slowly.

“The kid has a point,” Bonnie commented. “That last hole you managed not to miss almost sent me through the roof.”

I wish it had! Blade almost replied, but he held his tongue. He glanced to his right. Chastity was beside him, then Bonnie and Clyde. The bazooka, snug in its crate, was propped between Clyde and the passenger door.

“How far until Memphis?”

“About a half-mile,” Bonnie replied. “We want to take a left up ahead and stick to the back roads all the way into downtown Memphis.”

“I hope you’re as good as your word,” Blade mentioned.

“Trust me,” Bonnie said, smiling.

Blade leaned over the steering wheel and shouted. “Anything, Hickok?”

“Nothin’ yet, pard,” the gunman responded from his post at the .50.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Blade advised.

“Aw, shucks. I thought I’d catch forty winks,” Hickok quipped.

Chastity giggled. “Isn’t my daddy funny?”

“A regular comedian,” Blade said.

“Why can’t you be funny like him?” Chastity inquired.

Blade was about to answer when he saw the cluster of long, low structures several hundred yards distant on the right side of the highway.

Former warehouses? Or another shopping mall? He never could understand the prewar mania for shopping. If all of the malls and stores he’d seen on his travels were any indicator, then Americans must have spent practically all their free time buying things. Why? Was it because Americans had grown accustomed to having their needs supplied by others? Their entertainment, their clothing, even their food had been provided by specialized industries. Had the American people grown lazy?

He recalled a speech given by one of the Family Elders on the state of the United States prior to World War Three. The Elder presented an eloquent case criticizing America’s citizens for failing to cultivate the rugged independence of their forefathers. Americans, the Elder opined, had lost track of their spiritual roots and substituted the collecting of material objects as a measure of self-worth instead of the possession of noble personal traits.

Blade’s reflection was abruptly dissolved by a yell from above.

“Something on the right!”

His grey eyes narrowing. Blade applied pressure on the brake and scrutinized the road in front of them. A second later he spotted the fender, or part of one, jutting past the corner of the second of the four low structures.

“It could be part of an old wreck,” Bonnie guessed, “I don’t recall seeing a wreck there before,” Clyde commented.

Blade stopped and put the half-track in neutral. “I’m going to investigate. Stay put.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bonnie offered.

“Read my lips.” Blade said. “Don’t get out of the cab.” He took the M-10 from the dashboard, opened his door, and dropped to the ground.

“Want some company?” Hickok asked.

“Cover me,” Blade directed, and advanced vigilantly, cradling the M-10 on his right hip. He’d feel foolish if the fender did belong to a wreck, but he’d be dead if they were driving into an ambush and he didn’t take the time to check. Better safe than sorry, as the adage went. There were more lives at stake than his.

“Be careful. Uncle Blade,” Chastity called.

So much for secrecy. He took another stride, then halted, listening. A weather-battered frame house was situated in the center of a weed-choked yard to his right. Trees filled the backyard and lined the edge of the highway. Wildlife should be in evidence. Birds. A squirrel or two. At the very least, insects.

There were none.

Blade approached the fender, estimating he had 60 or 70 yards to go.

He scanned the roofs of the structures, the broken windows and the gloomy doorways.

If the Hounds were there, they were well hidden.

Fingering the trigger of the M-10, Blade covered five yards. With his attention focused on the fender and the low structures, he missed the motion in a tree to his right.

But Hickok didn’t.

“It’s a trap!” the gunman bellowed, and the .50 boomed.

Blade dove for the asphalt, scuffing his elbows and knees in the process.

He looked to the right in time to behold the machine gun’s heavy slugs rip through the foliage of an oak tree. Leaves and limbs were torn to pieces, and surpassing the blasting of the .50 was the rising scream of a falling Hound.

The sniper slammed into the ground with a crunch, his M-16 clattering onto the road.

An engine roared to life, and the fender protruding past the second structure swept into view attached to a jeep filled with four Hounds. Three of them were armed with automatic rifles, and they cut loose at the half-track.

Blade pressed the M-10 to his right shoulder and fired, elevating the barrel to compensate for the range. He saw his rounds tear into the jeep’s grill, and the vehicle swerved as the driver briefly lost control.

The three Hounds shifted their weapons, aiming at the giant.

Blade rolled to the right, then rose to his knees, ejecting the spent magazine and inserting another. The main disadvantage to an M-10 was its high cyclic rate. At up to 1150 rounds per second, the M-10 could empty a 30-round magazine in one and a half seconds. Insuring every shot counted was imperative.

Again the jeep swerved, toward the Warrior.

His lips a compressed line. Blade raised the barrel and sent half a magazine into the jeep’s windshield.

Glass cracked and splintered, and the driver threw his arms in the air and slumped down. Unguided, the jeep veered sharply to the left. One of the Hounds in the rear tried to grip the wheel, his body sprawled over the top of the front seat and the dead driver, but his frantic lunge was for naught. The jeep careened into a tree with a tremendous crash, then flipped onto its side, spilling the Hounds. One man in black was flipped, headfirst, into a nearby trunk, his skull splitting with the ease of a rotten puffball. The other two landed intact, rising to a crouch and aiming at the giant.

Blade flattened both with a quick burst.

For a second there was lull, the only sound the hissing from the jeep’s ruptured radiator. And then all hell broke loose.

Three jeeps and a truck, a troop transport, hurtled from concealment behind the four low structures. The truck rumbled across the highway and halted, becoming a makeshift roadblock. Hounds jumped from the bed and fanned out, forming a skirmish line, as the three jeeps sped toward the half-track.

Blade knew he’d be cut to ribbons out in the open. He dashed to the right side of the road, firing the last of the rounds in his magazine, and darted for cover in the shelter of an oak. With a deft flip of his left hand he discarded the empty clip and slapped in another. He glanced at the halftrack, his eyes widening as the motorized behemoth was shifted into gear and driven forward.

Bonnie was driving!

He took a stride, seeing the bewildered expression on Hickok’s face.

There was no sign of Clyde and Chastity. Bonnie’s countenance was a mask of grim determination as she hunched over the steering wheel. He was about to try and intercept the half-track, but the ground at his feet suddenly sprayed over his boots and he was compelled to flatten against the oak.

The three jeeps were now abreast and closing on the halftrack at top speed, the Hounds shooting indiscriminately.

Blade could hear the metallic smacking of the rounds peppering the cab. He expected Bonnie to swerve to minimize the target she presented to the Hounds. Swerving would be the smart thing to do to save her skin.

Instead, Bonnie held the half-track on a straight course, and Blade realized she was holding the armored vehicle steady so Hickok could fire accurately.

And fire he did.

The .50-caliber machine gun raked the highway from left to right, its heavy slugs tearing into the three jeeps, causing one to explode in flames when the fuel tank was struck. Out of control, with all four Hounds in the vehicle ablaze, the stricken jeep angled into the path of the jeep occupying the middle of the highway. The collision spun the second jeep around, and three Hounds slammed onto the cracked asphalt. Out of commission, smoke billowing from its ruined engine, the second jeep drifted to a stop five yards from the first, which was now a crippled inferno.

Leaving the third and last jeep. The driver weaved back and forth, his three companions blasting away, and slanted to the edge of the highway, intending to pass the half-track on the driver’s side. His purpose was clear; he wanted to give his companions an unobstructed shot at Bonnie.

Blade sighted the M-10, but before he could squeeze the trigger an unexpected development turned the tide.

Clyde appeared at the half-track windshield, the bazooka on his right shoulder and pointed at the approaching jeep.

In order to avoid obliteration, the driver reacted instinctively, jerking the steering wheel and sending the jeep into a screeching skid. Thrown off balance, the three with automatic rifles clutched at anything for support.

They were unable to train their weapons on the half-track as the jeep swept past. The driver skillfully whipped the jeep in a tight U-turn for a second run.

Hickok had other ideas. He popped up at the tailgate, a Python in each hand, and the Colts boomed four times in rapid succession. With each shot a Hound toppled from the jeep—except for the driver, who stiffened, arched his back, and died.

Blade heard the grinding of gears and looked at the troop transport.

Some of the Hounds were clambering onto the bed as the driver endeavored to move the truck from the halftrack’s path. Other, braver Hounds were firing at the on-rushing colossus.

Hickok mowed the exposed Hounds down with a sweep of the .50, then pivoted and leveled the machine gun at the truck, punching holes in the cab and the canvas covering the bed. The transport driver thrashed and sank from view, and agonized shrieks of the dying arose from the bed. The gunman sent round after round into the truck, reducing the canvas to shreds, as the half-track braked. Only when the ammunition was exhausted did the gunfighter stop.

The half-track, its engine sputtering and coughing, was less than ten yards from the transport.

Hefting the M-10, Blade sprinted forward.

Hickok was surveying the carnage, insuring the Hounds were finished.

He looked at Blade as his friend drew near. “Where the blazes were you? Takin’ a leak?” So saying, he jumped to the ground.

Blade ignored the quip and stepped to the cab. “Is everyone all right?”he asked, pulling the passenger door open.

Clyde was leaning on the dash with his left hand and braced the bazooka with his right. His face was ashen, and he licked his lips as he gazed at the Warrior. “It wasn’t loaded,” he said weakly. “I was bluffing.”

“You did fine,” Blade said, complimenting him.

Beside Clyde, just scrambling up from the floor, was Chastity. “Where’s my daddy?” she inquired fearfully.

“Right here, princess,” said the gunman, moving closer to the seat.

Chastity climbed over Clyde’s lap and leaped into the gunman’s arms.

Blade stared at Bonnie. She was sagging on the steering wheel, sweat beading her forehead. “How about you?”

“I’m hunky-dory,” Bonnie replied in a caustic tone.

“Where’d you learn to drive?” Blade queried.

Bonnie looked at him. “We found an antique clunker once in drivable shape. It lasted about four months, as I recall. We siphoned gas from an underground tank at a run-down station. The gas smelled terrible and the car ran like sh—” She checked herself. “Crud. But we had fun tooling around. Genius, here, got the car running.” She nodded at her brother.

The half-track was belching dark smoke from its exhaust, and the motor was clanking and clunking.

“This contraption is on its last legs,” Hickok remarked.

In confirmation of the gunman’s observation, there was a loud bang and the engine was still.

“What did I tell you?” Hickok said.

Bonnie turned the key, but nothing happened. She tried several times with the same result. “Dead,” she declared.

“Want me to take a look at it?” Clyde offered.

Blade noted the dozens of bullet holes pockmarking the hood and the grill, then crouched to peer at the puddles forming underneath the vehicle.

“The half-track isn’t going anywhere,” he announced, and straightened, scanning the highway. The troop transport was a hopeless case, its motor destroyed by the .50. Two of the jeeps were on fire, and the third was on its side, its front end crushed. With the dead driver’s lifeless eyes fixed on the sky, the fourth jeep was crawling toward the left side of the road, its engine idling. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and ran to catch the jeep.

The loss of the half-track was both good and bad. Without the armored vehicle’s firepower, he knew they would be hard pressed to oppose the Hounds. On the other hand, the jeep would enable them to reach downtown Memphis faster, and if they were spotted the jeep gave them greater getaway speed. Another idea occurred to him. If they survived the upcoming conflict with the Hounds, and if they could manage to keep the jeep intact, in another week they could be back at the Home with their loved ones.

The prospect brought a smile to his lips.

Absence, so the adage went, made the heart grow fonder. In this instance he agreed. He missed his wife and son unbearably, and he was aware that Hickok and Rikki missed their loved ones equally as much.

When people were separated from those dearest to their hearts, he mentally noted, the separation accentuated their love like nothing else could.

What in the world was he doing?

Blade shook his head, irritated with himself. Now was hardly the time to dwell on his family. First things first. First he had to rescue Rikki from the Hounds, then journey over a thousand miles through the hostile Outlands, warding off mutants and scavengers every mile of the way.

Oh.

Was that all?