Boston Run

Chapter Eight

“Where the blazes are we?” Hickok asked, his hands gripping the steering wheel firmly, his eyes on the rutted, pothole-dotted road directly ahead.

“You’re doing the driving,” the stocky man across from him responded.

“Don’t you know?”

“I know we’re in Iowa,” Hickok said.

“The white man’s sense of direction never ceases to amaze me,” cracked his traveling companion.

“And the cantankerousness of Injuns never fails to get my goat.”

“Cantankerousness? Wow. I’m impressed. I didn’t think you had words larger than two syllables in your vocabulary.”

Hickok sighed and glanced to his right at the man he considered his virtual brother, one of the two best friends he had, the other one being Blade. “Look, Geronimo, will you quit givin’ me a hard time and take a gander at the map in your lap?”

“I can’t,” Geronimo responded. A green shirt, green pants, and moccasins covered his muscular form. His black hair was cut short, barely covering his ears. The Blackfoot heritage in his family was evident in his facial features. Under his right arm in a shoulder holster rested an Arminius .337 Magnum, and tucked under the front of his brown leather belt and slanted across his right hip was a genuine tomahawk, taken from the enormous collection of weapons stockpiled in the Family armory.

“Why the heck not?” Hickok demanded.

Geronimo looked at the gunman, his brown eyes twinkling. “Because I want to keep my eyes on you and the road.”

“Why? I’m doing a right smart job.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“We haven’t had an accident yet, have we?” Hickok queried, wrenching on the wheel to avoid a hole two feet in diameter situated in the middle of the highway.

Geronimo clutched the dashboard for support, swaying as the transport lurched to the left. “No, but we still have about a thousand miles to cover.

I’m sure you’ll find something to hit.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, pard,” Hickok muttered straightening the steering wheel, pleased at the vehicle’s superb response.

The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle, dubbed the SEAL by the Founder, had been one of Kurt Carpenter’s pet projects.

He’d wisely foreseen that his descendants would require a unique vehicle capable of traversing the radically altered post-apocalypse terrain, and he had invested millions to have the SEAL developed according to his rigorous specifications.

Vanlike in shape, the transport was a revolutionary prototype powered by the sun. A pair of solar panels attached to the roof collected the sunlight, which was then converted and stored in special batteries housed in a lead-lined casing underneath the SEAL. The body was constructed of a heat-resistant, shatterproof plastic, fabricated to be nearly indestructible and tinted green. The tint prevented anyone outside from viewing the occupants. Four puncture-proof tires, each four feet high and two feet wide, supported the transport.

Knowing his followers would need protection from the hordes of scavengers, raiders, and worse roaming the countryside, Kurt Carpenter had hired mercenaries to add armaments to the SEAL. They’d done their job well. A flamethrower with an effective range of 20 feet had been mounted in the center of the front fender, surrounded by layers of flame-retardant insulation. Hidden in the front grill was a rocket-launcher, and concealed in recessed compartments under each headlight was a 50-caliber machine gun. A surface-to-air missile, heat-seeking with a range of ten miles, perched on the roof above the driver’s seat. All four weapons were activated by toggle switches on the dash.

Carpenter hadn’t spared any expense on the interior either. Spacious and comfortable to alleviate the strain of extended trips, a pair of bucket seats at the front accommodated the driver and a passenger. Between the seats ran a small console. Behind them, running the width of the vehicle, was another seat for passengers. The rear section served as the storage area for their supplies, spare parts, tools, and whatever other provisions were needed.

From the person sitting in the wide seat came a request. “I’d like to know where we’re at too, Geronimo. Would you check for me?”

“For you, Marcus, yes,” Geronimo replied, and consulted the map spread open on his thighs.

Hickok sighed. “This is going to be a long trip.”

“I can’t believe we’ve gone hundreds of miles and haven’t run into trouble yet,” Marcus commented.

“You sound disappointed,” Geronimo said, tracing his left forefinger on the map, following the route they’d taken.

“I was hoping to see some action,” Marcus stated. “I’ve heard so many stories about how dangerous the Outlands can be, but this run so far has been boring with a capital B.”

“Count your blessings,” Geronimo responded.

“Don’t you want to see action?” Marcus asked, sounding surprised.

“The less I see, the better.”

“But why? We’re Warriors, aren’t we? Fighting is our business, right?”

“Yeah. But I hope to live long enough to enjoy my grandchildren.”

“Not me,” Marcus said. “I don’t care if I live to be thirty. I’m not married, like you guys, and I don’t have any children. All I live for is to do my duty as perfectly as possible. And I can think of no greater honor than to go out in the line of duty, to die in the service of our Family.”

Hickok glanced back at the man in brown. “Listen up, eager beaver. I didn’t bring you along so you could become a martyr. You’re not allowed to kick the bucket without my say-so. Savvy?”

“I’ll do my best to stay alive,” Marcus said. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a death wish.”

“Here we are,” Geronimo declared, leaning over the map. “We’re on Highway Three, or what’s left of it, a few miles west of a tiny town called Strawberry Point.”

“The folks livin’ before the war sure gave their places strange names,” Hickok remarked.

“Maybe they grew a lot of strawberries,” Geronimo guessed.

Marcus sat forward and leaned on the console. “Why are we sticking to the back roads? Wouldn’t we make faster time if we used the major highways?”

Geronimo shook his head. “Blade started the practice of using only the secondary roads and avoiding all the larger towns and cities. From past experience we know that the major highways are patrolled by bands of scavengers who ambush everyone they meet, and the cities are swarming with all kinds of misfits and mutations. We’re better off sticking to the back roads. Hickok knows what he’s doing,” he said, then placed his left hand over his mouth and mumbled, “Oops.”

“I heard that!” Hickok declared. He grinned and looked at Geronimo.

“You finally admitted it.”

“Admitted what?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, pard. You finally admitted I know what I’m doing. And I’ve got a witness.”

“Would you believe it was a slip of the tongue?”

“Nope.”

“Can I plead temporary insanity?”

“Nope. I’ve got you dead to rights. You actually paid me a compliment.”

“I pay you compliments all the time.”

“Oh, yeah? Like when?”

Geronimo winked at Marcus, then gazed at the gunman. “Like the time Sherry claimed you are the most aggravating man on the planet and she couldn’t understand why she loved a dimwit like you.”

“My missus said that?”

Geronimo nodded. “Yep. She also said you were becoming more aggravating every day.”

“So how’d you compliment me?” Hickok asked suspiciously.

“I told her it wasn’t humanly possible for you to become more aggravating than you already were.”

“Gee. Thanks,” Hickok muttered. He stared at the vegetation lining both sides of the road, then gazed out the windshield as the SEAL crested a low hill. The sight he saw made him tramp on the brake, sending the transport into a slide, slewing the front end at an angle. With an abrupt jerk the vehicle lurched to a stop.

“What the—!” Geronimo exclaimed, both his hands on the dashboard.

“See what I mean about your driving.”

Hickok nodded straight ahead. “Looks like Marcus will get his wish.”

Geronimo faced front and scowled.

Forty yards from the SEAL, stacked ten feet high and arranged in a pile stretching from the woods on the north side to the woods on the south, completely blocking Highway Three, was a stack of recently failed trees, the leaves still green and healthy.

“Blast!” Hickok snapped. “There’s no way around unless we cut through the forest, and that’d slow us down.”

“Is this an ambush?” Marcus inquired excitedly.

“This is an ambush,” Hickok confirmed.

“All right!”

“Try not to get too broken up about it,” Hickok quipped, studying the layout, his right hand tapping on the steering wheel.

“How will we handle this?” Marcus questioned.

“I’m thinkin,” Hickok said.

Geronimo sniffed loudly. “I thought I smelled something burning.”

“Pass out the long guns,” Hickok directed Marcus.

The man in brown twisted and reached into the rear section, where two automatic weapons and a rifle lay on top of the supplies. He grabbed the rifle first, a Navy Arms Henry Carbine in 44-40 caliber, and passed the weapon to Hickok.

“Thanks,” the gunman said.

Next Marcus gave an FNC Auto Rifle to Geronimo. Then he seized the Heckler and Koch Model KH 94 he’d selected from the many automatics available in the armory, and cradled it in his arms. Once a semiautomatic, the HK 94 had been converted to full-auto capability by the Family Gunsmiths, whose job it was to insure every weapon in the armory worked properly.

“We could use a rocket or the flamethrower on the barricade,” Geronimo suggested.

“I want to save the rockets and the incendiary fuel for later. We might need ’em,” Hickok said.

“How about if we ram it?” Marcus proposed.

Both Hickok and Geronimo glanced at the man in brown and slowly shook their heads.

“Why not?” Marcus asked.

“For all we know, there could be explosives planted in there,” Hickok noted. “If we ram it, we might be blown to kingdom come. It’s not likely, I’ll admit, but we can’t take the chance. The SEAL is tough, but dynamite or a grenade would damage it.”

“We have to push those trees aside,” Geronimo stated.

Hickok nodded. “The SEAL could do it. Someone has to go out there and check those trees before we try, though.” He frowned. “I’ll go.”

“You can’t go,” Geronimo said. “We can’t risk anything happening to you. You’ve had the most experience driving the SEAL. I’ll go.”

“Let me go,” Marcus interjected, but neither of his fellow Warriors paid attention.

Hickok looked at Geronimo. “You know they’ll be waiting for you.”

“I know,” Geronimo said.

“Let me go check,” Marcus said.

“I want you to stay here,” the gunman told Marcus.

“Give me one good reason.”

“I said so.”

“That’s not good enough,” Marcus stated testily. “I have just as much right as Geronimo does to go out there.”

“Geronimo has more experience,” Hickok said.

“So? Didn’t you bring me along on this run so I could get experience for myself?”

“I reckon I did.”

“How am I supposed to get the experience I need if you keep me cooped up in the SEAL?”

“You can watch us.”

“Come on, Hickok,” Marcus urged. “I don’t need a babysitter. Let me prove I’m reliable.”

Annoyed, Hickok gazed at the barricade. Marcus had a point. The man deserved a chance to show how good he was. “Okay. I’ll compromise. Both of you will go. I’ll cover you with the SEAL.”

“Try not to run us over,” Geronimo said, and opened his door.

“Try not to get your butt shot off,” Hickok said.

Geronimo grinned. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t. I just don’t want you to lose whatever it is you use for brains.”

With the utmost caution Geronimo slid to the pitted, cracked asphalt.

He crouched below the door, scanning the barricade and the woods, his entire body tense.

Marcus climbed between the bucket seats and went to follow Geronimo.

“Be careful,” Hickok said.

“I won’t let you down,” Marcus replied. “I’m not a kid, .Hickok. I don’t need a mother hen watching over me all the time.”

“I know that or I wouldn’t have brought you along,” the gunman stated.

“And if you ever call me a mother hen again, I’ll shoot your toes off.” He smiled sweetly.

Marcus gripped the HK 94 and jumped to the ground beside Geronimo, who promptly swung the door shut. The muted whine of the SEAL’S engine seemed extraordinarily loud to Marcus.

“You take the left side. I’ll take the right,” Geronimo instructed him.

Together they straightened and stepped around the front of the transport, then advanced slowly toward the barricade, their automatic rifles leveled, their eyes alertly probing the vegetation.

An unnatural stillness pervaded the forest. Nothing moved, not even an insect. The birds were hushed.

Marcus walked along the left side of the highway, his body tingling with expectation. He licked his dry lips and willed himself to stay calm. If his excitement got the better of him, he’d become careless. He prided himself on his ability to remain cool and collected at all times, even in the direst crisis, and here was a golden opportunity to put his self-control to the ultimate test. Hickok would stop treating him as a brainless novice if he proved his dependability.

Wait!

What was he doing?

Marcus almost stopped, startled by the realization he was thinking. He was letting his mind be distracted by internal musing when he should be totally focused on the external situation. Peeved at his lack of discipline, he made his mind a blank, sublimating his conscious thought, concentrating on the road, the barricade, and the woods. The road, the barricade, and the woods. The road, the barricade, and—

Something moved in the woods.

Marcus continued to advance, pretending he hadn’t noticed the movement, his finger caressing the trigger of the HK 94. He glanced at Geronimo, who appeared to be unaware of the movement in the trees.

From the rear came the sound of the SEAL’s huge tires crunching on the asphalt as Hickok followed them.

A twig snapped off to the left.

Marcus gazed at the barricade, now 20 yards distant. The tangled branches jutting from the downed trees formed an ideal curtain of green for any enemies who might be lying in concealment. Even as he watched, one of the limbs quivered, its leaves fluttering, as if someone had bumped it. For a second he felt exposed and vulnerable, knowing that he was the proverbial sitting duck, but he shook off the feeling and stepped forward.

Ten more yards were covered without incident.

Marcus glanced at Geronimo, who still seemed to be oblivious to the ambushers; he was walking along nonchalantly instead of being wary, which astounded Marcus. He knew Geronimo was rated as one of the best Warriors, and he couldn’t comprehend why the Indian wasn’t more concerned about the trap. Unless, he reasoned, Geronimo’s attitude was a ruse, a method of lulling their adversaries into complacency, a means of allowing the Warriors to get closer to the barricade without drawing fire.

Another limb shook for a moment, then subsided.

Five yards separated the Warriors from the fallen trees.

And suddenly a dozen forms rose from hiding at the barricade, while from the forest on both sides of the road poured 30 or 40 shrieking, bloodthirsty figures.