New York Run

Chapter Sixteen

“Turn in there,” Hickok directed.

Spencer immediately complied, pulling the four-wheeler into a parking lot.

Hickok scanned the lot, noting a lot of civilians and trikes and other vehicles, but the Technic police weren’t in evidence.

Good.

“Pull into that parking space,” Hickok instructed the Technic.

Spencer parked between two other four-wheelers, one of them red, the other brown like his. “What now?”

“We sit here,” Hickok said. He needed time to think. They were about three miles from the Central Core. Dozens of Technic police and military vehicles had passed them along the way, but the security forces were all headed toward the Core. Most likely, the Technics believed he was still in the vicinity of the Core. And they undoubtedly had their hands full cleaning up the mess he’d created with the truck. Not to mention the reaction the Minister’s death would create, the turmoil it would stir up.

“How long?” Spencer inquired.

Hickok glared. “Until I say otherwise. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer said feebly.

“Turn the other way,” Hickok instructed him. “Count the trikes for a spell.”

Spencer twisted, his back to the gunfighter.

Hickok quickly reloaded the giant cartridges in his right Python, keeping the revolver out of sight between his knees. As he was slipping the last cartridge into the cylinder, he suddenly realized something was missing. He’d forgotten Blade’s Commando! He’d left it on the floor of the truck! “Damnit!” he declared in annoyance.

Spencer turned in his seat. “What did I do?” he asked in a fright.

“Nothin’, idiot!” Hickok said. “Turn around or else!”

Spencer obeyed.

Hickok sighed, pondering his next move. He had to bust out of Technic City. The question was how! How to get past a mine field and an electrified fence with enough juice to fry him to a cinder? How to elude the scores of Technic police and military types on his tail? And how to reach the safety of the Home, alone and on foot? This wasn’t turning out to be a piece of cake after all.

What to do?

Hickok idly surveyed the buildings surrounding the parking lot on three sides. One of them, a two-story structure with pastel walls, supported a billboard on the side visible from the lot. A beautiful woman was seated in an elegant restaurant, a bowl of soup on the table in front of her, a heaping spoonful close to her red lips.

A siren wailed in the distance.

Hickok absently read the billboard as he deliberated.

Worms?

Hickok’s mind belatedly registered the menu advertised. He read it again.

Worms?

“What’s that mean?” Hickok demanded.

“What’s what mean?” Spencer responded, watching the traffic.

“That!” Hickok declared, pointing at the billboard.

“Can I turn around now?” Spencer wanted to know.

“Turn around!” Hickok stated, still pointing. “And tell me what that is all about.”

Spencer shifted and gazed at the billboard. After a moment he looked at the gunman. “You’ve never seen a billboard before? Where are you from?”

“I’m talking about what’s on the billboard,” Hickok said, correcting the Technic.

Spencer seemed puzzled. “It’s called an advertisement.”

“I figured that out for myself,” Hickok declared archly. “I want to know about the food.”

“Oh,” Spencer said, as if that explained everything. “Well, shrimp is a seafood. We get ours from the Androixians—”

“I know what the blazes seafood is!” Hickok cut Spencer short. “What about the worms?”

“Worms are these creepy-crawling things which live in the ground,” Spencer explained. “They—”

Hickok’s flinty blue eyes had narrowed. “Are you doin’ this on purpose?”

“Doing what on purpose?”

“I know what worms are,” Hickok said, peeved. “Why are they on the menu?”

“I’m not certain I follow you,” Spencer said. “Worms are on the menu at every restaurant and diner in Technic City.”

Hickok was shocked. “You mean to tell me you folks eat worms?”

“Do you mean to tell me you don’t?” Spencer replied.

“But worms! How can you eat worms?” Hickok asked, nauseated by the mere idea.

“Worms are quite tasty,” Spencer said. “You should try them sometime.”

Hickok grimaced. “Not on your life.”

“Everybody eats worms,” Spencer detailed.

“Not where I come from,” Hickok said. “I’ve never heard of anybody eatin’ worms. What a bunch of cow chips!”

“What kind of food do you eat?” Spencer asked.

“Our Tillers grow a heap of vegetables,” Hickok said, “and we have some fruit, but our meat is usually venison.”

“What’s venison?”

Hickok squinted at the Technic. “You’re puttin’ me on.”

“We don’t have venison,” Spencer said. “What is it?”

“Deer meat.”

“What’s a deer?”

“You’ve never seen a deer?” Hickok queried incredulously.

“No. Is it some kind of animal? Animals are illegal in Technic City,” Spencer disclosed.

“What about dogs and cats?”

“They’re popular,” Spencer commented, “but, personally, I don’t like them as much as worms.”

“You eat dogs and cats?” Hickok questioned him.

“You don’t?”

Hickok studied the billboard, perplexed. He could understand eating dogs, because feral dogs were a rare family fare. But worms! Revolting! He gazed around the parking lot, stared at the crowded avenue beyond, and perceived a spark of sanity in the notion. Technic City contained millions of people, all fenced in like cattle, herded into a limited area and forced to live out their manipulated lives subject to every whim of the totalitarian regime controlling them. With so many mouths to feed, and with scant dietary resources, the Technics had supplanted the typical prewar fare with the one food source capable of breeding faster than rabbits; with an abundant animal readily available at any time of year; with a creature easily cultivated and processed: worms. When you looked at it logically, Hickok grudgingly admitted, the idea sort of made sense.

Another siren sounded from afar.

Hickok dismissed the worms from his mind and concentrated on his escape. He glanced at Spencer. “I want you to tell me everything you know about this buggy of yours.”

“Everything?”

“Everything,” Hickok affirmed. “How it runs, how you stop it, what those things are on the ends of the handlebars I saw you turning. Everything.”

Spencer commenced his instruction, and as the gunman listened, fascinated, a crafty scheme blossomed, a devious ploy designed to achieve his deliverance from the vile metropolis of worm-eaters.