New York Run

Chapter Fourteen

Hickok had seen those automatic rifles before: once at the Home when Plato had displayed the weapon appropriated from the spy slain by the Moles, and again at the fence bordering Technic City in the hands of the guards. He recognized a distinctly lethal armament when he saw one, and finding himself confronted by four troopers ten feet away, each with one of the rifles, he automatically reacted as his years of arduous training and experience dictated: he swept up the Commando and squeezed the trigger.

The corridor rocked to the booming of the Commando, the four soldiers taken unaware by the onslaught, their bodies jerking and writhing as they absorbed the large-caliber slugs. Only one of them uttered a sound, a gurgling screech, as he toppled to the tiled floor.

Time to make tracks!

Hickok whirled and ran, his speed impeded by the combined weight of the guns he was carrying. He saw an elevator ahead and paused, mentally debating. The elevator could be rigged, just like the one before. But it might take a minute or so for more troopers to arrive, and by then he could be far away. Besides, how would they know he was using the elevator? It could be any Technic.

Go for it!

The gunman sprinted to the elevator and pressed the down button. He didn’t know exactly where he was in the Central Core, but odds were he was on one of the higher floors. How many did the Central Core have? Ten, wasn’t it?

The elevator arrived with a loud ping and the doors hissed open.

Hickok ducked inside and examined the control panel. A circular button with an 8 imprinted on it was lit up. That must mean he was on the eighth floor! He stabbed another button, the down button, the one with an arrow pointing straight down, and the elevator doors closed.

So far, so good.

Hickok watched the lights flicker, apprehensive, praying he could reach ground level before the Technics realized he was making a bid for freedom.

The button for the sixth floor came on.

“Can’t you go any faster?” Hickok asked aloud, and kicked the door.

Why was the blamed contraption dropping so slowly? Was this typical of an elevator? A mare could deliver a foal in the time it was taking the blasted elevator to reach the ground!

The elevator had reached the fourth floor.

“Hurry it up!” Hickok said.

The third floor.

Somewhere in the distance a klaxon wailed.

They were on to him! Someone had sounded the alarm!

Second floor.

Hickok tensed, clutching the Commando. He must ignore the odds against him. So what if he was alone and outnumbered millions to one? So what if the entire Technic Army and Police Force would be after him? He was a Warrior, and Warriors never quit. Never. Ever.

The elevator reached the ground floor and the doors whisked open.

The lobby was crammed with people: soldiers, police in their blue uniforms, government officials, and civilians. Waiting outside the elevator was a Technic officer and one other, a man in a brown uniform with gray hair, blue eyes, and a hefty build. The gunman recognized him as the man from the interrogation room.

Not the one who’d showed up with the Minister!

“Howdy! Guess who?” Hickok said.

The Technic officer was completely confounded, frozen, but the man in brown reacted; his blue eyes widened fearfully and his mouth sagged.

“You!” he exclaimed.

“Bingo! You get the prize!” Hickok declared, and fired.

The Commando cut them in two, their chests exploding in a spray of crimson flesh.

Hickok burst from the elevator, heading for the gold doors visible on the other side of the spacious lobby.

A Technic policeman loomed ahead, blocking the gunman’s path, clawing at an automatic pistol in the holster on his left hip.

Hickok cut loose, ripping the Technic from his crotch to his sternum.

A woman nearby was screaming her lungs out.

Another woman, with a young girl at her side, stood five yards in front of the racing Warrior, gaping.

Blasted bystanders!

Hickok skirted the pair, weaving and twisting as he ran, the crowd parting to allow his passage.

But not all of them.

Another Technic policeman was standing before the gold doors, pistol in his right hand.

Hickok leaped behind a potted fern as the policeman fired. A high-pitched shriek added to the general din. Hickok rolled to the left, and as he did he saw the little girl he’d bypassed falling to the floor with a hole in her forehead.

The rotten bastard!

Hickok came up on his knees, the Commando pressed to his right shoulder, and pulled the trigger.

The Technic in front of the gold doors was slammed backward by the impact, crunching into the doors and slipping to the floor, leaving a red swath in his wake.

Hickok sprinted to the doors. He paused, kicking the dead Technic in the face, crushing his nose. “I can’t abide a lousy shot!” he growled, and pushed on the nearest door.

Nothing happened.

What the blazes! Hickok tried one more time with the same result.

What the heck was going on? Why wouldn’t the door open? He suddenly recalled Wargo using a button to the left of the doors when they entered the Central Core.

There!

Hickok was to the bank of buttons in an instant.

They weren’t marked!

The gunman stabbed the first button on the right.

The doors remained closed.

Blast!

A bullet whined off the doors not six inches away.

Hickok punched the button on the far left.

The gold doors slid open.

Move it! his mind thundered, as he scurried outside. The doors slid closed again as he spun, the Commando bucking, the bullets striking the outside button bank and destroying it in a shower of plastic, metal, and fiery sparks.

Let ’em try and get those doors open now!

Hickok crouched and turned to face the parking lot, shocked by the sight he beheld.

Two dozen Technic police were lined up 15 yards away, at attention, their stunned faces focused on the Warrior. Between the formation of police and the gunman was a solitary jeep, and sitting in the rear of the topless vehicle, his features frozen in horrified shock, evidently paralyzed by the abrupt advent of the Warrior, was the Minister.

For the space of a heartbeat it was as if the tableau were in suspended animation. Hickok was hardly aware of a green truck parked alongside the yellow curb not ten feet to his right, or the squad of Technic commandos 40 yards off and approaching on the run. All he saw, the only object of his concentration, the sum total of his world, was the man responsible for subjecting him to the most acute humiliation he’d ever felt, the callous, egotistical tyrant who’d degraded him, who’d caused him to lose face, as Rikki would say, who’d made him eat crow and reveled in the gunman’s debasement: the Minister.

For the space of a heartbeat no one moved.

And then the Minister opened his mouth to shout orders to his assembled men, his personal guard, and all hell broke loose.

Hickok fired, the Commando chattering, and the Minister’s eyes and nose dissolved as his face was torn to gruesome shreds.

The Technic police went for their weapons.

The Technic commandos were now 30 yards distant.

Hickok raced toward the parked truck, bent over, presenting as difficult a target as possible, shooting as he ran.

Three of the Technic police hit the pavement, blood gushing from their riddled uniforms.

Hickok reached the truck with bullets chipping at the sidewalk and striking the Central Core. He passed a wide picture window and saw a female civilian on the other side, screaming in terror at the demise of the Minister. At least, he assumed she was screaming. Her mouth was open but no sound was audible.

How could this be?

The gunman could scarcely afford a moment’s idle speculation. A trooper appeared around the tailgate of the truck, one of those fancy automatic rifles in his hands.

Hickok dived for the sidewalk as the soldier fired. His knees and elbows’

were lanced by excruciating agony, pain he ignored as he aimed the Commando and squeezed the trigger.

A distinct click greeted his efforts.

The Commando was empty!

There was no time to reload! Hickok rolled to his left, nearer the truck, his right hand flashing to his holster and the right Colt clearing leather even as the trooper sent a few rounds into the sidewalk to the gunman’s right, concrete chips flying in every direction. The warrior fired as the commando sighted for another shot, fired as the commando staggered backward with a hole where his left eye had been, and fired as the commando crashed to the ground with both eyes gone.

Hickok surged erect, his balance unsteady because of all the extra weapons he was carrying, and he lunged for the only available cover, the cab of the green truck.

A red dot appeared on the door of the truck, inches from his left hand.

A red dot?

The Commando clasped between his thumb and first finger, the gunman grasped at the truck handle as the door was hit, flying metal shards zinging every which way. A sharp piece burned a furrow in his left cheek. He instinctively ducked and whirled, cocking the Python.

A soldier was standing near the jammed gold doors, rifle to his shoulder.

Where the blazes had he come from?

Hickok snapped a shot as a red dot materialized on his chest, and the trooper toppled backwards.

Move!

Hickok wrenched the door open as a female member of the Technic police rounded the front fender with her pistol already out. He fired and she stumbled and crashed into the truck, her pistol clattering on the pavement.

This was no place for Momma Hickok’s pride and joy!

The gunman scrambled into the truck, letting the Commando drop to the floor, his anxious gaze roving over the dashboard and locking on a set of keys, one of which was already inserted to the right of the steering column.

Eureka!

Hickok grabbed the keys as the windshield was splintered by a fusillade of gunfire.

The Technics were pouring everything they had at the cab.

Hunched over behind the steering wheel, the gunman turned the key and pumped the accelerator. He recollected the last time he’d driven a truck, from Wyoming to Minnesota, and he tried to remember the proper procedure. He recalled the ignition and the gas pedal, but overlooked one crucial component.

The clutch.

Hickok was taken unawares when the truck abruptly jerked forward.

Something thudded against the grill. A bullet obliterated the rearview mirror. The truck lurched ahead like a wobbly drunk, starting forward and abruptly stopping, again and again, tossing him against the steering wheel.

What the dickens was wrong?

A bullet penetrated the windshield and thudded into the seat beside him.

Hickok glanced at the floor and spotted the third pedal. The first was the gas pedal. And the one on the left was the brake. But what was the other one?

A slug creased his right shoulder, breaking the skin.

The police and commandos were deploying in a circle, enclosing the vehicle.

The clutch! That was it! Hickok tramped on the clutch, grinding the gears as he shifted from first to second and the truck roared across the parking lot. He kept his head below the dash as round after round lipped into the vehicle. The clamor was incredible: metal whining and glass breaking and people shouting and the windshield dissolving in a shower of glass.

There was another pronounced thud from the front of the truck.

Hickok sat up to get his bearings. He was going due south, the truck heading toward a row of parked trikes.

Not ten feet ahead was a solitary commando, a woman, down on one knee, shooting at the truck engine in an attempt to disable it.

Hickok floored the accelerator and the truck lumbered forward. He saw the commando’s mouth open and her petrified eyes widen an instant before there was a crushing thump and the truck bounced as if the wheels had encountered a bump.

The passenger-side window blew apart.

Hickok frantically turned the steering wheel, but too late. The vehicle slewed to the right, its rear end smashing into the row of trikes and bowling them over. He spun the wheel again, thundering down an aisle between the trikes.

A jeep containing three Technic police was zooming toward him.

Hickok wasn’t about to stop. To stop was certain death. The Technics would be on him in a second. He intended to get as far as possible from the Central Core as quickly as possible, and no one or nothing was going to stand in his way.

Especially not one measly jeep!

Hickok’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as the truck closed on the jeep. He could see a determined expression on the policeman driving.

Obviously, the Technic wasn’t about to surrender the right of way.

Thirty feet separated them.

Hickok hunched over the steering wheel and braced for the collision.

Twenty feet.

Would the truck survive the crash? It was a big vehicle, the green trailer it was hauling adding to its bulk, but a wreck at high speed would undoubtedly cripple the motor.

Ten feet.

Hickok held his breath as the two vehicles sped at one another. He flinched in expectation of the impact, and that’s when the jeep unexpectedly altered course, swerving to the left and ramming into some trikes.

He’d done it!

Elated, Hickok didn’t perceive the danger he posed to the mass of trikes occupying the avenue beyond the parking lot until the truck had jumped a curb and slammed into their midst. Chaos resulted. Screams and shrieks rent the air; battered bodies were flying everywhere; trikes and travelers alike were squashed beneath the huge truck tires, trikes crunching and their drivers and occupants being mashed to a flattened pulp; and random gunshots from the Technic police and the soldiers punctuated the general din.

Blast!

Hickok slammed on the brakes and the truck ground to a rocky halt, the motor idling. He saw dozens of trikes and four-wheelers crash as they wildly endeavored to avoid the melee.

Cries of torment and anguish were voiced by the injured and dying.

Dear Spirit! What had he done? The gunman vaulted from the cab, landing next to a demolished trike with an elderly man prone over the handlebars. Hickok gaped at the man’s vacant brown eyes, appalled by the needless deaths and misery he’d inadvertently caused. To his left was a young boy, lying in a pool of blood. He was shocked to his soul, and the gunman’s senses swirled.

He’d killed innocent children!

Children!

A blast from a pistol brought Hickok back to reality. He saw one of the Technic police sighting for a second shot, and whipped his right Colt clear and fired.

The policeman pitched to the tarmac.

Hickok turned, seeking a way out. Six feet away was a lone man seated in an idling four-wheeler, apparently stunned by the destruction, gaping at the Warrior.

Just what he needed!

Hickok jogged to the four-wheeler and shoved the Python barrel into the driver’s chest. “Move out!” He climbed into the four-wheeler beside the driver. “Move!”

The driver, a man of 40 with a bald pate and jowly jaws, his green eyes fearfully locked on the Colt, nodded. “Yes, sir!”

“Go!” Hickok goaded him, glancing over his shoulder. The police and soldiers in the parking lot were prevented from reaching him by the gigantic traffic jam blocking the avenue.

The driver of the four-wheeler pulled out, slowly wending his way through the maze of trikes and other vehicles. “Which way?” he asked.

Hickok alertly scanned the avenue for threatening soldiers or Technic police, but the highway ahead was filled with civilians. Very few of them had seen him jump from the truck, but one or two glared at him as he passed.

“Which way?” the driver nervously queried.

“Just keep going,” Hickok told him.

“Yes, sir.”

The four-wheeler reached an impasse, thwarted by a veritable wall of vehicles halted by the wreckage and the truck.

“We can’t go any further,” the driver wailed.

“Yes we can,” Hickok said, wagging the Python to the right. “Use the sidewalk. It’s not as crowded.”

“But that’s illegal!” the driver objected.

Hickok rapped the driver on the temple with the Colt. “Take your pick.

A spell in the calaboose or a bullet in the brain?”

“Calaboose?”

“The hoosegow,” Hickok explained.

“Hoosegow?” the driver repeated, even more confused.

“The jail, dummy!” Hickok snapped.

The driver gingerly wheeled the four-wheeler onto the sidewalk. Shouts and oaths greeted this unprecedented action, but the civilians moved aside at the sight of the blond man in the strange buckskins carrying an arsenal.

Hickok glanced back at the carnage he’d caused. He remembered that little boy, dead, awash in crimson, and he shuddered. He thought of his precious Ringo, and he could vividly imagine the grief the parents of the boy would feel when—

Wait a minute!

That boy didn’t have any parents! Not natural ones anyhow. Would his surrogate parents feel the same way a natural parent would?

“What’s your name?” Hickok demanded of the driver.

Pale as the proverbial ghost, the heavyset man looked at the gunfighter.

“Spencer.”

“Do you love your parents?” Hickok asked.

If complete consternation was comical, then the driver was hilarious.

But Hickok didn’t feel much like laughing.

“My parents?” Spencer said. “You want to know about my parents?”

“Yeah. I know you folks in Technic City ain’t raised by your true mom and dad,” Hickok stated. “But what about the people who do rear you? Do you love them?”

“Of course not,” Spencer responded while circumventing a squat blue box in the middle of the sidewalk marked with the word “MAIL.”

“You must not be from Technic City if you can ask a stupid question like that…” Spencer’s voice trailed off as the enormity of his own idiocy sank home. He’d called this crazy man stupid! What would the lunatic do?

Hickok disregarded the insult. “If you don’t love ’em, how do you feel about them?”

“They raise us,” Spencer replied. “That’s it. Why should we feel anything? Emotion is for simpletons.”

The lunatic, amazingly, grinned. “Thanks. I needed that.”

Spencer, perplexed, shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

Hickok waved the Colt. “No. But you will if you don’t quit flappin’ your gums and pick up speed.”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Spencer protested.

Hickok rammed the Python into Spencer’s ribs.

The four-wheeler increased its speed.