Chicago Run

CHAPTER FIVE

Blade crouched, leveling the Commando, and unleashed a withering burst at a range of eight feet, sweeping the barrel from right to left.

In the act of drawing the Arminex, Quint took a half-dozen slugs full in the chest. The sledgehammer impact lifted him out of the saddle and hurled him over his mount’s rump to crash down in the dusty street.

Other nearby riders toppled, their horses neighing and shying at the metallic bleating of the submachine gun.

From the balcony Geronimo opened up, spraying a rain of lead from his FNC. He killed six men in half as many seconds, then ducked as some of the Outlaws returned fire.

At the initial retort of the Commando someone else had galvanized into action. Hickok’s arms were blurs as both Pythons leaped from their holsters and he thumbed both hammers with ambidextrous precision. He moved toward Glisson’s firing on the run, always going for the head and always hitting the rider he aimed at.

Bedlam ensued in the street as the desperate Outlaws vainly endeavored to shoot back while keeping their frightened animals under control. Packed together as they were, they were unable to bring their weapons to bear effectively.

Blade darted to the right as rounds narrowly missed him and thudded into the front of the store. He saw a pair of scraggly raiders break from the pack and gallop toward him, one aiming a pistol, the other a Winchester.

Throwing himself farther to the right, he rolled to the very edge of the porch and swept to his knees, the Commando’s stock tucked against his side.

The rider with the pistol squeezed off a hasty shot.

A breeze seemed to stir Blade’s hair, and then his finger tightened on the trigger, the Commando bucking and belching lead.

As if hit by a gigantic invisible fist, the raider was catapulted backwards, and sprawled in a heap in the dust.

The second man had his Winchester leveled.

With a mere flick of his wrist Blade brought the Commando to bear, watching in grim satisfaction as a half-dozen holes blossomed on the man’s face and the Outlaw went limp and fell from the saddle. Blade shifted, taking in the melee in a glance, and fired discriminately, making every shot count.

Across the way Geronimo was in trouble. Seven of the riders were pouring a blistering swarm of lead hornets into the balcony, sending wood chips flying from the balcony. The Indian was down low and acquitting himself as best he could.

Blade dived from the porch, flattening and slaying a trio of raiders who broke from the cluster and came straight at him. There were still plenty of rounds left in the special 90-shot magazine the Family Gunsmiths had fitted the Commando with, and he shoved to his feet, staying in a crouch, intending to go to Geronimo’s aid. Out of the corner of his left eye he registered a streak of buckskin and glanced around.

Hickok had darted out from behind a post, apparently having just reloaded because he was snapping both loading gates shut even as he appeared. He raced into the thick of the band, spinning and weaving, firing first one Colt, then the other, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake as he sped to his friend’s assistance.

The seven killers were concentrating their firepower on Geronimo. They had their backs to the middle of the street, and so had no idea they were in danger until three of them were drilled from behind.

Blade saw two mounted raiders trying to get a bead on the gunfighter.

He snapped the stock to his right shoulder, sighted, and bored holes through their abdomens, dropping both.

The quartet of Outlaws still striving to nail Geronimo realized they were being attacked from the rear and spun.

Hickok killed two in the blink of an eye.

Up popped Geronimo, the FNC steady, to blister the last pair.

Blade moved into the street, firing right and left, taking out rider after rider. A stinging sensation lanced his left shoulder, but he ignored the discomfort.

Six of the Outlaws had wheeled their mounts and were in full flight to the east. They looked over their shoulders in terror, as if demons were on their trail.

Stitching a hefty raider in the act of pointing a sawed-off shotgun with holes from the guy’s sternum to his crotch, Blade swung toward the center of the street, ready to slay more. It took a second for his mind to acknowledge there were no Outlaws left to fight.

Dozens of bodies littered the dusty ground, and most in spreading pools of blood. Many were groaning and twitching. There were also nine horses lying on their sides, a few wheezing or whinnying pitiably.

The relative silence after the gunfire was eerie. Blade scrutinized the fallen Outlaws carefully, seeking any who might have a spark of defiance still in them. He saw none, and hastily removed the almost-spent magazine and replaced it with a fresh one.

Hickok stood two thirds of the way to the opposite building, his arms at waist height, his narrowed eyes roving over the Outlaws. He looked at the giant and grinned. “Just like I figured. A bunch of wimps.”

Blade walked forward, alert for treachery. There was always the possibility one of the Outlaws might be faking and waiting for the chance to fire.

In another few seconds Geronimo ran from the two-story building and halted, breathing deeply, a thin red line marking his left cheek. “We did it,” he said in astonishment.

“Was there ever any doubt we would?” Hickok asked arrogantly.

“Thanks for your help,” Geronimo said.

“What help? I like shootin’ cow chips in the back, is all.”

Halting, Blade frowned at the sight of a horse sporting a nasty, ragged hole in its neck. Reddish spittle flecked its mouth. “Hickok, finish off the Outlaws. I don’t want one alive.”

“You got it, Big Guy.”

“Geronimo,” Blade went on, “the horses are yours.”

“I hate killing horses.”

“Join the club,” Blade said. He walked to Glisson’s and climbed the steps. A twinge in his shoulder reminded him of his wound, and he tilted his neck to find a shallow crease. Nothing to get upset about. A glance eastward showed the half-dozen Outlaws a quarter of a mile distant and continuing their pell-mell flight. Too bad, he reflected. It would have been nice to bag all of them.

A revolver cracked. Hickok had shot an injured raider at point-blank range. He went from body to body, and those killers he found alive he promptly terminated.

Scowling in revulsion, Geronimo did likewise with the horses. He patted each animal and whispered in its ear before he shot it.

Blade let his muscles and nerves relax a bit. How unfortunate, he mused, that they hadn’t been able to bring the SEAL on this trip.

Confronting the Outlaws would have been much easier.

The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle had been the brainchild of the Family’s Founder. Carpenter had spent millions to have the amazing prototype developed by financially strapped and therefore eager automotive executives in Detroit. Solar-powered, designed to negotiate any terrain, the SEAL was unlike any vehicle that had ever existed or ever would.

Once the engineers completed their task, Carpenter had turned to different experts, mercenaries, who’d outfitted the enormous bullet-proof van with more armaments than a tank. The Warriors had taken the SEAL on many a run to various sections of the country, and it had saved their lives on many an occasion.

But not this time, Blade reflected wryly. Two months ago, while conducting routine maintenance after a trip to the city-state known as Sparta, he’d discovered a crack in the lead-lined case underneath the SEAL that contained the revolutionary batteries used to power the vehicle.

Plato, the Family’s Leader, had decided to call in specialists from the Civilized Zone, mechanics who knew the basics of automotive construction and could assist in repairs. When Blade and his companions had departed the Home, those same mechanics, with the help of selected Family craftsmen, were in the process of welding the case and going over every square inch of the SEAL to be certain there were no other cracks.

Waiting until the van was fully restored would have made the trip less difficult, but the giant had decided he couldn’t afford another two weeks of delay. So off they’d gone.

And here we are, Blade noted, scanning the carnage, aiding complete strangers when the three of us should be hot on Yama’s trail. He heard muffled voices, and gazed to the west.

A majority of the townspeople, farmers, and trappers were nearing the settlement warily. At the forefront were Glisson and Old Jerry, leading his donkey.

Blade leaned on a post and thought about the irony of the situation. If not for Yama going AWOL, the three of them wouldn’t have been anywhere near Second Chance and the Outlaws would have razed it. Truly, as Plato often claimed, the workings of the Spirit were too mysterious to fathom.

Geronimo completed his mercy killings, and began helping Hickok to put the remaining raiders out of their misery.

The crowd hurried toward the Warriors, their fears dispelled when they fully realized the Outlaws had indeed been defeated.

Ike Glisson was first on the scene, his anxious gaze on his store. He noted the bullet holes with disapproval, but mustered a smile and declared, “You saved our town! We can never thank you enough!”

“Is that a fact?” Hickok asked bitterly, and planted a slug in the head of the last groaning raider. He promptly started to reload.

More of the people arrived, their shocked expressions betraying their true reactions to the slaughter. Mothers turned their children away from the blasted, blood-spattered corpses.

Old Jerry came up to the steps and grinned at the giant. “You’re everything they say you are.” He nodded at the battleground. “I ain’t never seen the like.”

“We get a lot of practice,” Blade commented.

“So I hear.”

“How can we ever repay you?” Glisson inquired, walking onto the porch.

“With information,” Blade said.

“Is that all?” Glisson asked in surprise. “We’ll help if we can. What do you want to know?”

“We’re trying to find a friend of ours. We have reason to believe he’s on his way to Technic City,” Blade said.

“What’s that?” called a man in the crowd.

“Technic City was once called Chicago.”

“Never heard of it,” volunteered a trapper.

“Chicago was a major American city located in Illinois on the southwest shore of Lake Michigan,” Blade patiently elaborated. Their profound ignorance reminded him once again of the deplorable conditions existing in the Outlands. Few could read; fewer still could write. Public education, the proud cultural hallmark of the prewar nations, was no more than a historical footnote.

“What’s an Illinois?” someone wanted to know.

Hickok and Geronimo strolled over. The gunfighter twirled his Pythons into their holsters and fixed a critical stare on the assembled Outlanders.

“My pard is tryin’ to find out something. The next one of you who butts in is liable to get me real riled, if you get my drift.”

Scores of lips were suddenly tightly sealed.

Blade smiled and looked at Glisson. “As I was saying, we’re after a friend of ours. If he made a beeline for Technic City from our Home, then he might have passed through Second Chance.”

“A lot of wanderers pass through,” Glisson noted. “What does this guy look like?”

“You’d remember him if you saw him. He’s almost as big as I am and carries an arsenal. He also wears a dark blue outfit with a black skull on the back.”

“Him!” Glisson exclaimed, and many in the crowd murmured.

The three Warriors exchanged excited glances.

“He was here, then?” Blade asked.

“Sure as hell was,” Glisson confirmed. “No one in Second Chance is likely to forget him.”

“Why not?”

Old Jerry supplied the answer. “Your friend killed three men right there in Ike’s place.”

Blade’s features clouded. “Tell me about it.”

The proprietor of Second Chance’s leading establishment glared at the grizzled prospector, then provided the details. “Well, a guy wearing the clothes you describe walked into my joint one night well after sunset. I was behind the bar and I noticed him right away. I mean, a big son of a bitch like that stands right out in a crowded room.”

“Go on.”

“He came up to me and asked for a glass of water. I sort of laughed and asked if he didn’t want a stronger drink, but he looked me in the eyes and shook his head.” Glisson couldn’t repress a slight shudder. “I don’t mean no offense or nothing, but there’s something about that guy, about his eyes, that can scare the living daylights out of you. Staring into them is like staring into… into… into living death, if that makes any sense.”

“No offense taken,” Blade said softly.

Geronimo nodded. “We know what you mean.”

“Anyway,” Ike went on, “I gave him what he wanted.

It struck me as odd that he’d just waltzed into town. There aren’t too many men who will travel the Outlands at night, not with all the mutations and wild animals lurking everywhere, just waiting to rip a person to shreds. Most folks who are on the road and who don’t reach a settlement by nightfall generally make a roaring fire and stay up most of the night tending it.”

“We know,” Blade said, wishing the man would get to Yama.

“So there I was, standing right across from your friend and not knowing what to say or do. The whole room had gone silent when he entered. Everyone sensed that he was a tough one and no one bothered to be friendly.”

“Get to the killin’ part, idiot,” Hickok snapped.

“Yes, sir. The guy in blue had been there not more than a minute when three drunks walked over to him and started making fun of him.”

“Three drunks?” Blade repeated.

“Yeah. They weren’t regulars. Just drifters. They arrived in Second Chance about an hour before sunset and took a room at Mabel’s boardinghouse. Later they came in my place and paid for a bottle of shine.

By the time your friend showed up they were pretty well soused.”

“What did our friend do?” Blade inquired.

“He ignored them at first. They were teasing him about his outfit, about the skull on his back. Me and several others tried to get them to leave him alone, but they told us to get screwed. Your buddy finished his water and turned to leave. That’s when it happened.”

Hickok made a hissing sound. “If you don’t get to the killin’ part right quick, there’s going to be another killin’.”

Glisson continued rapidly. “One of the drunks asked your friend if his girlfriend knew he walked around dressed like a sissy.”

“Uh-oh,” Geronimo said.

“Your buddy didn’t say a word, didn’t even move, but everyone else could tell there was something different about him. I don’t quite know how to describe it,” Glisson stated. “He seemed to change, to become harder or colder or I don’t know what. I never saw anything like it.”

“We know what you mean,” Blade told him.

“It was spooky. Anyway, he advised the drunks to mind their own business or prepare to embrace eternity,” Glisson said, and chuckled.

“Those were his exact words. ‘Prepare to embrace eternity.’ The drunks laughed, of course, and one of them shoved your friend, and they all spoke up and claimed they were going to teach him some manners and give him a bath in a horse trough. He brushed right past them and headed for the door.”

“And? And?” Hiekok prodded.

“And the dumb-ass drifters went for their guns. I was right behind them so I ducked down low. Half the time in a shootout innocent bystanders also get hit by wild shots. I knew from experience not to be in the line of fire when gunplay erupts.”

Hiekok came up the steps in two bounds and stood directly in front of the startled business owner, his eyes flashing. “How would you like to see some gunplay right here on your porch?”

“There’s not much left to tell,” Glisson assured him. “I heard three shots, that was all, and when I peeked over the bar the three drifters were dead on the floor and your friend was going out the door. That’s it.”

“You mean you didn’t actually see the killin’?” Hickok demanded.

“No, not exactly,” Glisson confessed. “But I heard the shots,” he emphasized.

The gunfighter looked as if he wanted to punch someone. Anyone.

“I saw what happened,” Old Jerry stated. “I was sittin’ at a corner table nursin’ a glass of prime shine and watched the whole blamed thing.” He paused. “Never saw anyone as fast as your friend. He had some kind of fancy carbine over his left arm, but he didn’t go for that.”

“A Wilkinson ‘Terry’ Carbine,” Blade said. “It’s one of his favorite weapons.”

“Whatever. He also had a couple of guns in shoulder holsters, a pistol and a revolver, if I recollect rightly. When the drifters grabbed for their irons, the big guy in blue went for his pistol. Not one of those jerks even cleared leather,” Old Jerry related. “They were downright pitiful.”

“You sure have a way with words, old-timer,” Hickok remarked.

Geronimo snickered. “You would think so.”

“And our friend never said a word after he shot the drifters?” Blade asked.

“No,” Glisson said. “He just left. And I can tell you it was at least fifteen minutes before anyone had the nerve to poke their head outside. By then he was long gone.”

Old Jerry stared at the giant Warrior. “Do you mind lettin’ us know the name of your friend?”

“Yama,” Blade revealed.

“Never knew anyone called that before,” the prospector noted.

“He named himself after the Hindu King of the Dead,” Blade explained.

“He named himself?”

“It’s a custom our Family has.”

“A king of the dead, you say?” Old Jerry said, and nodded. “Well, it sure as hell fits him. That friend of yours is living death.”

Hickok rested his hands on his Colts and sighed. “We know, old-timer.

Believe me, we know.”