Boston Run

Chapter Twelve

Hickok met the man bearing the white flag midway between the vehicles.

“Hey, dude. How’s it hangin’,” asked the other, and grinned broadly, exposing a gap where two of his upper front teeth had Been. Unkempt dark hair framed his dirty face. His beady eyes, thin nose, and oval chin gave him a rodentlike aspect. He wore a green, short-sleeved shirt and jeans, both of which had seen better days decades ago. From his right ear lobe dangled a large, circular diamond-studded earring. He also sported a silver safety pin through his nose. Adorning his left forearm was a tattoo, a depiction of a sneering skull and the words HEAVY DEATH RULES.

“What the blazes are you?” Hickok responded.

The scrawny man did a double take. “Whoa. Serious hostility. What a bummer.”

“What?”

“My name is Dezi.”

“I’m Hickok.”

“Cool name, dude,” Dezi said in a friendly fashion.

“Quit callin’ me ‘dude,’ pipsqueak,” Hickok stated testily. He glanced at the three vehicles, estimating the odds. In addition to the trio in the bed of the pickup, there were two in the cab, three men in the second car, and two more in the lead vehicle, all well armed.

Dezi made a clicking sound. “Man, what did you do in your last life to deserve such a rotten karma?”

“What are you babbling about?” Hickok asked impatiently.

“Like, you’re radiatin’ bad vibes,” Dezi said.

“And you’re one marble shy of brainless,” Hickok retorted. “What’s with the white flag? Who are you guys and what do you want?”

Dezi held the Winchester loosely in his left hand and placed his right on his hip. “You shouldn’t be rude, dude. I’m comin’ to the point.”

“This century?”

“We’re called the Cruisers, man. We’re from Motor City,” Dezi disclosed.

“Where’s that?”

“East of here a ways.”

“I’ve never heard of Motor City,” Hickok said.

“Oh, it was called something else before the major rumble.”

“The city you’re from was hit by an earthquake?”

Dezi cocked his head and cackled. “Get real, dude! I was talkin’ about the war. The city was called Detroit.”

“Detroit, huh?” Hickok repeated, and looked at the pickup. “You’re a long way from home.”

“We got tired of all the hassles, man. Tired of fightin’ for a worthless piece of turf. So we split, and we’ve been on the road ever since.”

“Doing what?”

Dezi frowned. “It’s not nice to intrude on somebody’s else’s space, dude.”

“Let me guess,” Hickok said. “You’re scavengers. You take whatever you want from whoever has it. How many folks have you killed? Twenty? Forty? Sixty?”

“Who keeps count?” Dezi responded, then added indignantly, “And we’re not scavengers, dude. We like to think of ourselves as road warriors. In fact, we get our kicks by wastin’ crummy scavengers. There’s a group of those scumbags in this area that we’ve hit a few times.”

Hickok suddenly understood the reason for the barricade. “So you go around the countryside killin’ scavengers. Women and children too, I’ll bet.”

“Hey, a brat grows up to be a full-grown scavenger. We do the world a favor by snuffin’ them. As for the women,” Dezi said, and smirked, “they’re our entertainment, if you get my meaning.”

“I get your drift, all right,” Hickok said scornfully.

“Then let’s get down to cases,” Dezi proposed. He gazed past the man in buckskins at the van. “Righteous wheels you’ve got there, bro.”

Hickok didn’t respond.

“You wouldn’t want to part with it, would you?”

A grin twisted the gunfighter’s lips. “Get real, dude,” he said, mimicking Dezi.

The scrawny man ignored the taunt. “What would you take for the van?”

“It’s not for sale.”

“Then how about a swap. Your wheels look to be in fine shape. We’ll swap you any two of ours for yours.”

“It’s not for trade.”

Dezi’s eyes narrowed. “We’re always in the market for newer, hotter wheels. We want yours.”

“No way.”

“You’d better think again,” Dezi warned, and motioned to the three vehicles to his rear. “You’re outnumbered, dude. If you don’t agree to our terms, we’ll take the van.”

Hickok sighed. “Never count your chickens until they’re hatched.”

“You don’t think we can take it?” Dezi asked arrogantly. “There are eleven of us. How many buddies do you have in the van?” He paused and snorted. “Hell, man. We’ve got hand grenades. If you don’t swap us, we’ll blow your wheels apart. Hot wheels like that either belong to us or they don’t belong to anyone. Get me?”

Hickok resisted an urge to plug the varmint in the head. The road warriors didn’t know about the SEAL’S capabilities; they figured they had the upper hand. He was of a mind to teach them the error of their ways. “I don’t want our van damaged.”

“There’s the spirit,” Dezi declared. “Why not make this easy on all of us? Agree to a trade and you can ride away unharmed.”

“I’ll have to talk to my pards.”

“Be my guest,” Dezi said graciously. “I’ll wait right here.”

Hickok wheeled and strode to the transport. He opened the door, nodded at Dezi, and climbed in.

“What’s up?” Geronimo asked.

“Those gents want to trade two of their buggies for the SEAL,” Hickok revealed. He laid the Henry on the console and shifted into gear.

“Did you tell them to get stuffed?” Geronimo queried.

“I told them I’d talk to you.”

“You what?” Geronimo responded in disbelief.

“They’ve got grenades.”

“Oh,” Geronimo said, and began rolling down his window.

Hickok gestured at Dezi. “The pipsqueak, there, thinks we have a hot set of wheels.” He chuckled. “I reckon I’ll show him just how hot.”

“What’s going on?” Marcus asked, perplexed by the conversation.

“Use my Henry,” Hickok instructed him. He quickly rolled down his window.

“I don’t get it,” Marcus said. He grabbed the rifle and leaned between the bucket seats. “Are we taking these guys on?”

“Yep!”

“All right!”

“Remind me when we get back to the Home to have a long talk with you about your lack of enthusiasm,” Hickok said, and looked at Geronimo.

“Are you ready, pard?”

“I was born ready.”

“Good grief. Whatever Marcus has is contagious,” Hickok cracked. He poked his head out of the window. “Do you promise you’ll let us skedaddle unharmed?” he shouted.

“I promise,” Dezi responded, grinning maliciously. “Drive the van over here, but do it slowly.”

“Here we come,” Hickok said, and pressed lightly on the accelerator.

“Why are you playing along with that idiot?” Marcus inquired.

“Heavy Death Rules,” Hickok replied.

“Huh?”

The gunman glanced at Geronimo. “What’s the range on the flamethrower again?”

“The Operations Manual claimed twenty feet.”

“Let’s put it to the test,” Hickok said. He drove a few yards and braked.

“This should be about right.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Dezi yelled, waving them on. “Drive the van to me.”

The machine gunners in the pickup and the occupants of the two cars all pointed their weapons at the transport.

Hickok grinned and stuck his head out again. “Guess what! I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to trade.”

Dezi took a step forward and raised the Winchester. “Don’t mess with us, bastard! We’ll blow you to pieces if you screw around. Ask anybody.

We’re mean mothers!” he declared proudly.

“No, you’re rump roast,” Hickok corrected him, and reached to his right to flick the toggle activating the flamethrower. He heard a hissing noise, and an instant later a sheet of red and orange flame erupted from the front of the SEAL, engulfing Dezi entirely.

The Warriors listened to the raspy screams as the scrawny man was incinerated on the spot.

Hickok let up on the toggle and tromped on the accelerator, and the transport responded immediately, racing at the three vehicles blocking the highway. He swerved to the left, intending to drive on the strip of weeds between the road and the forest, and gave Geronimo a clear field of fire.

Stunned by the grisly demise of their leader, the Cruisers were sluggish in bringing their weapons to bear.

Geronimo rested the barrel of the FNC on the window, waited until the SEAL was within three yards of the first car, and squeezed the trigger. The burst riddled the windshield and the passenger side, the rounds stitching the man in the front seat and slamming him onto his back.

A beefy Cruiser in the back seat was in the act of pulling the pin on a hand grenade.

“Grenade!” Geronimo bellowed, and sent a withering spray of lead into the back seat, perforating the Cruiser’s chest and neck. The man dropped, still holding the grenade. “Move!”

Hickok kept the pedal to the floor. The SEAL sped past the pickup and the second car, and he angled onto Highway Three and shot eastward. He looked in the rear view mirror just as the grenade detonated, and he saw the lead car explode, saw the ball of fire and the shower of metal pieces intermixed with body parts. “One down,” he said under his breath, hoping the explosion also took care of the other two vehicles.

“Here they come!” Marcus exclaimed.

The brown pickup and the second car, a battered Ford, roared out of the dust in pursuit of the SEAL.

“Marcus, show them what will happen if they get too close,” Hickok directed.

Marcus squeezed over the gunfighter’s left shoulder and eased his head and arms out the window. The wind tore at his face and khaki shirt. He elevated the 44-40, snuggled the stock against his right shoulder, and tried to get a bead on the Ford, which was closing rapidly. The bouncing of the SEAL made the barrel dance wildly no matter how hard he attempted to hold it steady.

“What are you doing?” Hickok shouted. “Admiring the scenery?”

Exasperated, Marcus fired, not really expecting to hit anything, the rifle bucking against his shoulder. To his astonishment he saw the Ford abruptly careen from the road and barrel at the trees on the north side.

“Not bad,” Hickok complimented him.

But the gunman spoke too soon. The Ford corrected its course and resumed the chase, speeding recklessly in an effort to make up the ground lost.

The pickup was still coming on strong. The three machine gunners were using the top of the cab for support, their weapons aimed at the rear of the transport, holding their fire until they narrowed the range.

Marcus aimed at the pickup and squeezed off a shot.

Nothing happened.

“Get in here,” Hickok ordered.

Reluctantly, Marcus complied. He sank on his seat and frowned. “I couldn’t nail them.”

“No foolin’?” Hickok responded.

“The pickup is gaining,” Geronimo announced.

The gunfighter glanced over his right shoulder at the onrushing vehicle.

“Marcus, forget the Henry. We’ll try one of your pigstickers.”

“One of my machetes against a pickup truck?”

“Do you have any brighter ideas?” Hickok asked.

“No,” Marcus admitted, “but how—”

“Get ready!” Hickok barked, his eyes glued to the rear view mirror. He estimated the pickup to be slightly less than 15 yards from the SEAL. Both vehicles were doing in excess of 70 miles per hour.

Marcus slid his right machete from its sheath and leaned over the gunman.

“Don’t show yourself yet,” Hickok admonished. “Wait until I give the word.”

“My machete won’t make a dent in the truck,” Marcus noted.

“Go for one of the cow chips in the bed,” Hickok directed, watching the pickup. The machine gunners, evidently confident a sustained fusillade at close proximity would disable the transport, fired in unison. The rounds smacked into the impervious green shell and zinged off. They emptied their magazines and went to replace the spent clips.

Which was exactly what the gunman wanted.

Hickok swerved slightly to the right, tromped on the brake, and yelled, “Now!”

Marcus needed no encouragement. He understood the part he was to play. The instant the SEAL started to slow, he bent his torso out the window, the machete clenched in both hands, and faced the hurtling pickup.

The gunfighter’s strategy worked flawlessly.

Taken unaware by the van’s unexpected braking, the driver of the pickup couldn’t stop in time. The truck came abreast of the transport in the twinkling of an eye, passing within two feet of the SEAL. With their machine guns empty, the three Cruisers on the bed could do no more than gape in stupefaction as they passed the van.

Marcus tucked his back against the SEAL and sucked in his gut. He ignored the speeding truck, ignored the fact he would be crushed if either vehicle deviated from its course by even a few inches, and focused on the nearest man in the pickup bed.

The Cruiser endeavored to throw himself out of harm’s way.

Marcus slashed the machete in a wide arc, the blade glistening in the sunlight, the razor edge connecting, biting deep into the machine gunner’s neck. The combined force of Marcus’s swing, the reverse thrust of the braking SEAL, and the momentum of the racing pickup enabled Marcus to execute a feat he’d never before performed. He decapitated the Cruiser.

Trailed by a geyser of gushing blood, the machine gunner’s head sailed high into the air, then fell end over end to the asphalt and bounced down the center of the highway. The headless body swayed for several seconds, then toppled backwards into the bed, its arms outstretched. The driver of the truck finally applied the brakes, causing the remaining machine gunners to lose their balance and fall on top of the headless corpse.

“Piece of cake!” Hickok stated. He angled the SEAL in behind the pickup and activated the 50-caliber machine guns mounted under the headlights.

The result was a slaughter. The slugs punched through the tailgate and the rear of the cab, drilling into the two Cruisers in the bed as they attempted to scramble to their feet and slaying the driver before he could take evasive action.

Hickok accelerated again, bypassing the pickup on the right. He saw the driver of the truck slumped over the steering wheel, and he stared at the van’s side mirror as the SEAL sped to the east. The pickup slowed to a crawl, then slanted to the north and left the road. It coasted to a stop a yard shy of the tree line.

“The Ford is still on our tail,” Geronimo declared.

Hickok shifted his attention to the rearview mirror. “I see it,” he said.

The armored car was 40 yards behind the transport and reducing the distance swiftly.

“These guys don’t give up easily,” Marcus commented.

“Just what we needed,” Hickok muttered. “Persistent psychos.”

“Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve?” Marcus asked.

“Just the obvious,” the gunman said.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see in a bit, as soon as I find what I need,” Hickok said. He spotted an abandoned, dilapidated house 200 feet ahead, on the south side of the road. “And this could be it. Geronimo, get ready to grab the wheel.”

“Why?”

Hickok noted the overgrown weeds surrounding the house. He scrutinized the front yard, a stretch of tangled brush, and distinguished the curved contours of an asphalt driveway. “I’m bailin’ out.”

“You’re crazy,” Marcus interjected.

“We can’t afford any more blasted delays,” Hickok stated. “I want to end this nonsense and head for Boston.”

Thirty yards separated the SEAL from the Ford.

Hickok gripped the wheel tightly, gauging the distance of the driveway.

He wondered if the Cruisers in the Ford possessed hand grenades. A single accurate toss and the SEAL would be totaled. He would have to dispose of the Cruisers before they could throw, requiring split-second timing.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Geronimo said, then added with a smirk, “for once.”

“Are you kiddin’? Every move I make is planned,” Hickok fibbed.

“It’s getting deep in here,” Geronimo remarked, gazing at the Ford.

“Then I’d best leave before my moccasins get all smelly,” Hickok joked.

He braced for the turn and shouted, “Hang on!” Then he arrowed the transport toward the driveway and wrenched on the steering wheel at the very last instant. The SEAL took the corner on two wheels and almost flipped over. Hickok slid against the door. A moment later the transport settled on all four tires. He buried the brake pedal and the van lurched to a precipitate stop. “Take over,” he yelled, and vaulted from the SEAL, leaving the gearshift in Drive. Every second was crucial. He hit the ground running and dashed toward the highway, drawing the Colts as he ran.

The Cruiser driving the Ford was on the ball. Although the gunman’s maneuver caught the man by surprise, the driver only overshot the driveway by a few yards. A burly man carrying a grenade leaped from the armored car the second it halted.

Hickok reached the end of the driveway and swiveled toward the Ford, thumbing back the hammers, and he fired both revolvers as the burly man went to pull the pin on the grenade. The slugs slammed the Cruiser into the armored car and the man slumped to the road. Without slowing, Hickok sprinted to the Ford and moved along the driver’s side.

A Cruiser armed with a rifle stuck the barrel out the open rear window and snapped off a shot.

Hickok was already somewhere else. He dove for the ground a hair’s breadth before the rifle boomed, and he landed hard on his elbows and knees and rolled onto his back, aiming the Pythons straight up at the grimy face framed in the car window. The Colts cracked and the man was flung from view.

The driver, apparently deciding that his life was more important then revenge, floored the Ford.

The gunfighter rose, tracking the armored car, his arms extended, wanting to be sure. He could see the driver’s window, but he didn’t have a clear shot. If the man would look back once, just once, he could put an end to the Cruisers.

The man did. Grinning broadly, as if he was gloating, confident he had escaped, the driver glanced over his left shoulder at the Warrior.

A fatal mistake.

The Pythons discharged. Hickok felt the revolvers buck and saw the driver’s head snap around. The Ford cut to the right, doing over 50, crossed the edge of the highway, and smashed into the base of a towering pine tree with a tremendous crash. “Got you,” Hickok said softly.

Marcus dashed to the gunman’s side. “I thought you might need some help.” He gazed at the wrecked Ford. “I should have known better.”

Hickok twirled the Pythons into their holsters. “Let’s reload the rocket-launcher and the 50-calibers and get the heck out of here.”

“How long will it take us to reach Boston?” Marcus asked idly.

“At the rate we’re going, we’ll be lucky if we reach Boston before Christmas,” Hickok snapped. “We have to pick up the pace. I have a bad feeling that Blade is in a heap of trouble.”