Capital Run

Chapter Seven

So what the blazes was he supposed to do? Count the stars?

Still smarting at being left behind to babysit the SEAL, Hickok was seated on the highway, his back resting against the undercarriage of the transport, a canteen on the ground near his left knee. His rifle, a Navy Arms Henry Carbine in 44-40 caliber, was propped against the vehicle to his right.

Talk about boring!

The night sky was rich with stars, a fantastic display of the mightiness of creation, splendid galaxies traversing their ordained course much like the prescribed circuits of electrons on the subatomic level of reality.

Hickok experienced a rare sense of awe as he admired the spectacular heavens. He recollected his schooling days at the Home, the survivalist compound in northwestern Minnesota constructed by Kurt Carpenter immediately prior to World War III. Carpenter’s close-knit descendants—

the Family, as they called themselves—were dedicated to insuring every child in the Home received a quality education. With the Family Elders as Teachers, the school developed self-reliant personalities with noble, moral character. Many times, Hickok remembered, he’d been told there was a grand design to the scheme of things. The Elders wisely taught there was a distinct purpose to every element of creation. Now, as he gazed at the sea of stars and was impressed by the immensity of the cosmos, Hickok began to wonder what his purpose was in life. How did he fit into the scheme of things? The only special talent he possessed was in handling firearms, especially handguns. The others might label him as too cocky, but he positively believed that nobody, but nobody, could match him with a revolver. His expertise was inherent, a totally unconscious aptitude on his part. The Family Elders taught thankfulness for the gifts bestowed by the Maker. Was it possible, he asked himself, his gift was his ambidextrous ability with revolvers? Was it conceivable the Maker had placed him on this planet to be exactly what he was: one of the Family’s preeminent Warriors, devoted to safeguarding the Home and protecting his loved ones?

Was it likely?

Hickok shook his head, clearing his mind, bemused by his train of thought. He’d never really considered the issue much before, and now was hardly the time to start. The only reason he gave it any attention at all was because of the sermon given by the Family’s spiritual sage, Joshua, shortly before his departure to St. Louis. Why was it, Hickok wondered, folks like Josh always had to analyze everything to death? Why couldn’t they just accept things for what they were and leave it go at that?

The gunman chuckled. It was way over his head, that was for sure! Oh, he could recollect a few details from his Family science courses about the formation of galaxies and the formation of matter and stuff like that, but what good did it do him? All he ever wanted out of life was a cool breeze, his Colts in his hands, and his wife and son by his side.

What else mattered?

Hickok relaxed, listening to the sound of the insects and nocturnal critters emanating from the forest on both sides of the highway. There were crickets by the thousands, tree frogs, an occasional owl, and others.

Once, far off in the dark depths of the woods, arose the challenging roar of some large carnivore.

Maybe this waiting wasn’t so bad after all.

At least he’d catch up on his shut-eye.

The forest suddenly became quiet, absolutely silent, not a creature so much as fluttering its wings.

Hickok was instantly alert. He grabbed the Henry and rose, staring into the gloomy vegetation on his side of the highway.

The silence could only mean one thing.

Something was prowling through the woods, something deadly, something the other animals were deathly afraid of.

But what? A cougar? Was this neck of the woods part of their range?

How about a bear? Or worse? One of the ravenous, mutated horrors proliferating since the Big Blast? Or the deadliest killer of all?

Man.

Hickok crouched and moved to the edge of the road, his head cocked to one side.

An unnerving hush enveloped the forest.

Was something stalking him?

The gunman flattened, knowing the lower he was, the less of an outline he presented, the less of a target he was. At night, the surest way to detect someone or something in your vicinity was to drop to the ground and scan the near horizon for the fluid movement of a figure silhouetted by the backdrop of the sky.

Nothing.

Which meant whatever was out there was lurking in the trees.

So!

Sneaky bunch of varmints!

Hickok crawled toward the tree line, his knees and elbows propelling him forward. He reached the base of a mighty oak and stood, flattening against the tree.

So far, so good!

The next move was up to whatever was out there.

A branch snapped off to his left.

Something crackled to the right.

There was definitely more than one of them!

Hickok could feel the rough bark of the tree through his buckskin shirt.

A stub or a broken section of a branch was gouging his lower back.

Another twig crunched to the left.

No doubt about it! They were making too much noise to be critters. No self-respecting animal would be so klutzy sneaking up on a meal.

Had to be humans.

Or something similar.

A black form detached itself from the wall of vegetation not ten feet to Hickok’s left.

A second later, a second shape did likewise on the gunman’s right.

Upright.

Bipeds, as Plato would say.

Men. Or women.

Lugging lengthy sticks in their hands. Sticks… or guns.

Time for a surprise party!

Hickok raised the Henry and aimed at the figure to his left. The 44-40 boomed, and the shadow disappeared. He spun, sighting on the middle of the form to his right and pulling the trigger. The Henry’s stock slammed into his shoulder, and the silhouette screamed as it was brutally flung backward to the turf.

Two down!

Hickok dodged behind the sheltering oak, and not a moment too soon.

A machine gun opened up from the other side of the highway, its heavy slugs biting into the tree in the exact spot the gunman had vacated.

Someone out there was a darn good shot!

Hickok darted into the brush, avoiding trees and tangled bushes, treading carefully to avoid tripping on a rock or limb on the ground, heading deeper into the forest. The SEAL was locked up tight as the proverbial drum, and there was no way these dudes would be able to bust inside. So his best bet was to lead them on a merry chase, a chase away from the transport. Considering he was obviously outnumbered, it was the sensible thing to do. The murky forest would reduce their mobility and limit their effectiveness.

Someone was crashing through the undergrowth to his right.

Hickok fell to his knees, peering through the vegetation.

A bulky form was foolishly plowing through a thicket eight yards away.

What a cowchip!

Hickok aimed at the advancing figure and fired, the 44-40 thundering in his ears.

Cowchip screeched and dropped, uttering an awful gurgling sound as he thrashed on the ground.

Hickok kept going.

From the rear, from the direction of the SEAL, a man began barking orders.

Hickok stopped, perplexed. What language was the rascal using? It sure wasn’t English. Or Spanish. It was like no language he’d ever heard before.

The underbrush was alive with the passage of black figures seeking the Warrior.

So much for catching up on his shut-eye!

Hickok reached a rocky knoll and quickly climbed to the top. A ring of small boulders furnished excellent concealment and an ideal spot to defend himself.

Let them come!

They did. Four, five, six forms slowly moving toward the knoll.

How the blazes did they know where he was?

The figures stopped and abruptly vanished.

Hickok realized they had gone to ground or were hiding behind trees or other cover.

More orders were shouted in the strange tongue.

There was a rustling and a series of metallic clicks from the woods below the knoll.

Now what?

A shadow appeared for an instant from behind the trees, and there was a loud whooshing sound.

Hickok sighted the Henry, but the form receded behind the tree before he could fire.

There was a muffled thump followed by a strange hissing noise as something struck the top of the knoll five feet below the rim.

What the blazes was going on?

Wispy smoke tendrils began filling the night air, spiraling upward, assuming the proportions of a hovering gray cloud.

More distinct whooshing sounds came from the forest below the knoll, one after the other, nine in all.

More thumping noises ringed the knoll.

The mysterious gray cloud grew bigger and bigger, completely enshrouding the knoll.

Confounded by the odd sounds and wary of the clouds, Hickok eased over the boulders and crawled toward the woods. The gray cloud descended to ground level. Caught by the smoky substance, the gunman almost gagged as he breathed in his first mouthful. An intense burning sensation erupted in his throat and chest and his eyes started watering.

He coughed and held his breath, rolling down the knoll, trying to get well out of the cloud before he would need to take another breath.

Was it a poison gas of some kind?

Hickok resisted an impulse to gag, his lungs heaving. He rolled into a boulder and was jarred by the impact. Unable to control himself, he accidentally inhaled.

It was as if he had swallowed a handful of red hot coals.

Hickok doubled over as his body was rocked with painful spasms, his breathing impaired, his breaths coming in great, ragged gasps. The burning sensation in his chest increased, becoming acute, nearly unbearable.

Poison gas! It had to be!

The Warrior staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the trees.

Fortunately, the lower he went the thinner the cloud became, until he reached the bottom of the knoll and clear, fresh air.

Hickok inhaled the cool, crisp air, endeavoring to pump the poison from his system.

Black figures were advancing toward him from the woods.

The lousy varmints! They couldn’t take him fair and square! They had to resort to their poison gas! They may have succeeded in killing him, but they had horse patties for brains if they expected him to lie down and die without so much as a whimper of protest! By the Spirit! He’d show them what it meant to tangle with a Warrior! Despite the reluctance of his limbs to comply with his mental commands, he managed to raise the Henry.

Someone was yelling in the unfamiliar language.

Hickok squeezed the trigger, his effort rewarded by the collapse of one of the approaching forms.

That’d show the curs!

His eyes moist from his copious tears, his arms feeling leaden and burdened by the heavy Henry, Hickok opted for a change in tactics.

If it was his time to buy the farm, he might as well go in style!

Hickok dropped the Henry and drew his Pythons, his arms sluggish, his draw a mere fraction of its normal speed. His feet shuffled forward, directly at his foes.

There were more of them than he’d imagined. Ten or more, closing in from all sides.

Why weren’t they shooting?

Hickok swiveled the Colts, going dead center on one of the figures. The Pythons cracked and bucked in his unsteady hands.

Another opponent bit the dust.

Why weren’t they returning his fire?

Hickok turned, wobbly, and fired his right Python.

Yet another form screamed and fell.

What was going on? Why didn’t they fight back?

Hickok’s ears detected a slight rustling behind him, and he tried to swing around to confront the source.

He never made it.

The gunman felt a hard object slam into his head, and he was knocked forward onto his hands and knees. He wheezed as he struggled to stand, but before he could rise someone leaped onto his back and strong hands gripped his blonde locks and yanked.

Hickok grunted as his head was snapped backwards.

What were they trying to do? Break his neck?

Something soft and reeking of an obnoxious odor was pressed over the gunman’s nostrils and mouth.

What the-!

Hickok knew they were expecting him to try and stand, to toss the attacker from his back. Instead, he did the opposite, allowing his body to pitch forward, hoping the unexpected motion would dislodge or disorient the person on his back.

He was right.

The man on the gunman’s back lost his hold and toppled to the left.

Hickok rolled to the right, extending his Colts.

There was more shouting in the weird lingo.

A bulky form reared above the Warrior.

Hickok let the vermin have it. Both Pythons from point-blank range.

The blurry figure was hurtled backward by the impact.

Hickok rose to his knees, relieved because his vision was beginning to return.

They converged on the gunman in a rushing mass, piling on him from everywhere. Powerful hands grabbed his arms and legs. Someone had him by the hair again.

Hickok was knocked onto his back. A knee rammed into his stomach.

Fingers were tugging on the Colts, striving to strip them from his hands.

The obnoxious odor penetrated his nostrils as the soft material was again pressed over his mouth and nose.

What were they doing?

Hickok thrashed and heaved for all he was worth, knowing he was dead if he didn’t break free.

There were simply too many of them.

The gunman’s last thoughts were of his wife and son.