Cincinnati Run

Chapter Seventeen

Hickok elevated the Pythons and trained them on the bum. “Don’t even think it, old-timer,” he warned.

Elmer gaped at the revolvers, then at the knife in his hand, and tittered.

“What’s so blamed funny?”

“You figured I was going to try and cut you with this dinky knife?”

Elmer asked.

“Looked that way,” Hickok said.

“You must be nuts.”

“Nope. Just real cautious,” Hickok stated.

“Watch, sonny,” Elmer said, turning and walking to the southwest corner of the room. He knelt and inspected the floorboards. “Now where is it?”

Hickok ambled over, the Colts leveled, unwilling to lower his guard, still distrustful. “What are you lookin’ for?”

“Here it is!” Elmer declared, and leaned down to carefully insert the tip of the blunt knife into a crack in the floor. He grunted and strained, and a section of wood two feet square lifted from its recessed groves. Elmer took hold of the trapdoor and shoved it aside, exposing a pitch-black hole.

“What’s that?” Hickok inquired.

“Haven’t you ever seen a crawl space before?”

“Not that I recollect.”

“Repairmen and such use crawl spaces for checking pipes and wiring and whatnot.”

“We’re going down there?”

“Sure enough.”

“Must we?” Hickok questioned, lowering the Pythons.

Elmer glanced at the gunman and chuckled. “Don’t worry, sonny. The Browns and the rats will leave you alone if you make a little noise. Do what I do.”

“What’s that?”

“I fart a lot.”

Hickok slid the Colts under his shirt, insuring the barrels were securely wedged underneath his belt.

“I’ve been down this hole tons of times,” Elmer informed him. “I’ve never had any problem. The roaches bug me, though.”

“Roaches?”

“Cockroaches. The city is crawling with them, and I don’t mind telling you that they give me the creeps.”

“A few teensy bugs won’t bother me.”

“Teensy?” Elmer repeated, and laughed softly. “I’ll show you how teensy they are.” So saying, he extended his left arm into the hole, all the way to the shoulder, his forehead creasing as he felt here and there. “Usually there’s a couple near the opening. These buggers climb all over you when you’re in the crawl space, so don’t pay them no mind. They don’t bite.” He muttered an unintelligible word and straightened, smiling. “Take a look.”

His left hand came out of the hole.

Hickok felt goose bumps erupt all over his skin, and his eyes widened at the sight of the four-inch insect, with its flat, brown, oval body, its long, swept-back antennae, overlapping wings, and six writhing legs.

“This is a medium-sized roach,” Elmer said. “Some of these suckers grow over six inches long.”

“And there are a passel of them down there?”

“A what?”

“A lot of those bugs?”

“Yep. But don’t let them rattle you. They don’t bite,” Elmer told the gunman, then pressed the cockroach onto the floor and crushed the insect with the palm of his hand. “Want me to tell you a secret?”

Hickok stared at the mushy pieces of cockroach oozing between the bum’s fingers. “What?”

Elmer looked up and grinned. “The roaches make great eating.”

“You eat them?”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. When you’re down on your luck and can’t find a square anywhere, you take what you can get. A few of these will fill you right up,” Elmer divulged. “You should eat one sometime and see for yourself.”

Hickok’s stomach flip-flopped. “Not on your life.”

“Suit yourself, sonny,” Elmer said, and shrugged. He wiped his hand off on the floor, then bent toward the crawl space. “Let’s go.”

“Hold it.”

Elmer paused and gazed at the gunfighter. “Something wrong?”

“What was that business about your help costing me?”

“I want you to do me a favor. If you bump into General Stoljarov, I want you to kill him.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Do I need one? He didn’t get the nickname the Butcher because he’s a nice guy,” Elmer said, and frowned. “A lot of decent folks have died at his hands, and several of them were friends of mine. The Butcher is the most hated Commie in Cincinnati, probably in all of Ohio.”

“How would I know him if I saw him?”

“That’s easy. Just look for the crap seeping out his ears.”

Hickok grinned and nodded. “If I run into the vermin, I’ll plug him for you.”

“Thanks,” Elmer said. He lowered his torso into the crawl space, dropping headfirst into the Stygian hole, disappearing slowly. “Keep your head low,” he advised, his voice muted.

Frowning, Hickok advanced to the crawl space and knelt for a better view, disconcerted by the fact that the darkness obscured everything, bothered by a nagging, lingering mistrust of the bug-eater. What if Elmer was setting him up? He’d be a sitting duck down there.

“Are you coming or what?” Elmer called back.

“I’m comin’,” Hickok said.

“Sometime this year would be nice,” Elmer declared. “If you want to save your buddies, that is.”

The reference to Blade and Geronimo galvanized Hickok into action, and he gingerly stretched his arms downward until his hands made contact with bare earth.

“Are you part turtle?” Elmer queried, and snickered.

Hickok ignored the crack and eased lower until he was flat on his stomach. The air was musty, the dirt dank. “Why is it moist down here?” he whispered.

“Probably all that cockroach piss,” Elmer replied, and sounded like he was gagging on his own laughter.

“A regular comedian,” Hickok muttered, scanning in all directions, waiting for his eyes to adjust. A trickle of light seeping through cracks on the south side scarcely relieved the oppressive gloom, although he was able to discern that the crawl space extended under the entire building.

“Which way?”

“Follow me,” Elmer replied softly. “Just be careful you don’t accidentally get your nose in any rat shit.” He wheezed and snorted.

Hickok could perceive a vague shadow where Elmer must be, and he crawled toward the bum. The shadow moved, bearing to the east, and he stayed within half a yard of Elmer’s shoes. A pungent odor crinkled his nostrils. “Don’t you ever wash your feet?”

Elmer sniggered. “Excuse me for living. If I’d known someone was going to get intimate with my tootsies, I would have taken my annual bath early.”

Something skittered across the gunman’s left hand.

“What the dickens was that?” Hickok blurted.

“What happened?”

“Something ran over my hand.”

“A cockroach, most likely.”

“I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Wimp.”

They continued to crawl across the clammy, acrid earth, attended by squeaks, vague rustlings, and scratching noises from every direction.

Hickok resisted an impulse to sneeze. He inadvertently stiffened when a thing that squealed ran over his legs. The crawl space gave him the willies!

He preferred a straightforward, stand-up fight to all this skulking and slinking about in the dark. Having hordes of icky bugs clambering over his body was as appealing as dining on a cockroach.

A thin… something… with lots of legs unexpectedly climbed up his collar and onto his right cheek.

Reacting instinctively, Hickok slapped at the insect and crushed it. He used his fingers to flick the pulp away.

“What are you doing?” Elmer asked.

“There was a blasted bug on my face.”

“Must of been in love.”

“Keep going,” Hickok directed.

“Some people have no sense of humor,” Elmer whispered.

For the gunman, the time seemed to drag on interminably. Scores of insects scaled his moving form, scrambling and scrabbling, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was a human. Over a dozen climbed in his hair and were promptly dislodged.

Elmer began giggling.

“What’s so funny?” Hickok demanded.

“I’ve got a cockroach down my shirt, and the bugger tickles.”

“Too bad it isn’t a black widow.”

“Boy, a little dirt and a few bugs and you go all to pieces.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Damn straight.”

“Are you part Blackfoot by any chance?”

“What’s a Blackfoot?”

“Never mind.”

A minute later Elmer stopped. “Hot damn!”

“What?”

“We’re here.”

“You’d better not be joshin’ me.”

“Wouldn’t think of it, sonny.”

Hickok perceived the outline of a wall in front of them, and he heard a slight grating noise. A square of welcome light materialized, and a draft of fresh air tingled his skin.

“Stay low,” Elmer cautioned, and squeezed through the opening.

Hickok wasted no time in following, and found himself in a confined space between two buildings, with not more than four feet from wall to wall. He twisted and faced Delhi Road, glimpsing a truck bearing to the west.

Elmer was crouching against the opposite wall. “Can you lift that?” he inquired, and pointed at a manhole cover a yard to their rear.

“Where does it lead?” Hickok asked.

“Down into the sewers.”

“We’re not going down there?”

“We are if you want to find your friends,” Elmer said.

Hickok sighed and edged to the cover. The rim was imbedded flush with the surface, but there was a single hole near the edge. He inserted his right index finger, rose to his knees, and heaved. The heavy metal lid rose a quarter of an inch.

“What’s the matter, sonny? Are you a pansy?”

Gritting his teeth and straining his finger, hand, and arm, Hickok succeeded in elevating the manhole cover several inches. He gripped the rim with his left hand, bracing the lid, and jerked his finger from the hole.

“Don’t drop it or we’ll have the Commies breathing down our necks,” Elmer said.

“Instead of flappin’ your gums, why don’t you lend me a hand?” Hickok queried.

“Since I’m the one with the brains, you can do all the heavy work.”

Hickok eased the manhole cover aside and gently lowered it to the ground. “Tell me something, old-timer. Do you have many friends?”

“Very few.”

“I figured as much.”

“Most of them were killed by the Commies.”

The gunman frowned, regretting he had baited the bum. “One day the Commies will get theirs,” he stated to cover his embarrassment.

“I hope I’m around to see the day.”

Hickok peered into the manhole nauseating stench wafted upward. “I suppose there are cockroaches and rats down here too?”

“Tons of them.”

“I knew it.”

“But there are other things down there. Muties. We’ve got to stay on our toes every step of the way.”

“Mutants, huh?”

“Yeah. I was told that a long, long time ago, right after the war, a lot of pink rain fell on the city. Many of the people were sick as dogs and a bunch died. They swept and flushed the rain into the sewer system, and ever since then there have been the Browns, the giant roaches, and other freaks of nature to deal with.”

Pink rain? Was that the same thing as fallout? What color was radioactive fallout, anyway? Hickok pondered for a moment, staring into the murky cavity, spying metal rungs leading downward. “Do you go into the sewers very often?”

“Hardly ever. Too dangerous.”

“I’ll lead the way,” Hickok offered.

“Thanks, sonny, but I will. I know which way to go and what to look out for,” Elmer said. “Besides, the lighter is mine.” He produced his lighter from his left pants pocket and moved to the edge of the manhole, his countenance etched with anxiety.

“I can handle this myself,” Hickok suggested. “Give me directions and I’ll be okay.”

Elmer looked at the gunman and grinned. “I promised to help you get into the L.R.F., and I’m a man of my word.” With that, he slid his legs into the hole, twisting and grabbing the top metal rung.

“Be careful,” Hickok said.

“You’re the one who needs a nursemaid,” Elmer responded, and lowered his body from view. A flickering glow filled the access hatch when he snapped on his lighter.

Admiring the oldster’s gumption, Hickok angled his legs into the hole and clambered down the rungs. A narrow concrete walkway afforded footing at the bottom, and Hickok turned, the fetid, rancid odor almost making him gag.

Six feet high and six feet wide, the sewer tunnel was aligned from east to west. Between the walkway on which they stood, and a similar walkway on the other side, flowed a sluggish stream composed of reeking refuse, putrid garbage, and repulsive globs of indeterminate matter.

“That gunk is four feet deep,” Elmer mentioned. “Don’t fall in or you’ll regret it.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Hickok said, revolted by the brownish sludge.

“This way,” Elmer said, and headed to the east, treading carefully, the lighter held aloft in his right hand.

Hickok pinched his nose shut with his left hand and trailed after the bum.

“Keep your peepers on that crap,” Elmer stated, and pointed at the sewage.

“Why?”

“The muties swim in the shit.”

“You’re kiddin’ me.”

“I wish I was.”

How could anything exist in that sickening slime? Hickok stared at the festering muck, searching for a trace of life.

Elmer increased his pace, hastening at a rapid clip.

“What’s your big hurry?” Hickok inquired, watching their shadows shift and undulate on the tunnel walls, concerned the old-timer might slip on the slick walkway.

“The sewer gives me the creeps.”

“Wimp,” Hickok joked, giving the bum a taste of his own medicine.

Elmer glanced at the sewage and hurried on.

They covered 30 yards uneventfully and came to a junction where another tunnel forked to the south.

“We go this way,” Elmer said, and took the fork, his shoes padding on the cement. “This tunnel runs under Delhi Road. Sixty yards from here is one of the manholes on the L.R.F. grounds.”

“So I’ll come up inside the outer wall?” Hickok said.

“Wouldn’t do you much good if you came up outside, now would it?”

“If you despise the sewers so much, how come you know about the tunnels into the L.R.F.?” Hickok asked.

“A pal of mine, Gorgeous George—”

“Gorgeous George?”

“Don’t interrupt me, sonny,” Elmer stated. “Gorgeous George and I were curious about the installation, and we wanted to take a look-see for ourselves. So one night we snuck down here and found this tunnel leading under the base. We scoped out the silver toothpick and other buildings and split before we were caught.”

“Where’s your pal now?”

“Gorgeous George bit the farm two months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Was his own fault. The dummy got blitzed out of his gourd and passed out in a condemned building. He forgot to cover himself or curl into a ball and the rats got him. Chewed all the way through his throat.”

“A horrible way to go,” Hickok remarked.

“I can think of worse,” Elmer said. “George should have…” he began, and halted abruptly. “What was that?”

Hickok stopped and listened, hearing the faint gurgling of the sewage and the dripping of sludge from the walls. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear that noise?”

“Nope,” Hickok responded.

Elmer shrugged and took a stride, then froze, extending the lighter over the sewage. “Damn it! Are you deaf?”

Hickok was about to tell the bum he was imagining things, until his ears registered the peculiar sound, like an indistinct swishing. Whatever it was, the sound came from their rear. “What is it?”

“A mutie!” Elmer exclaimed, casting a terrified glance backwards.

“We’ve got to get the hell out of the sewer!” He spun and bolted as fast as his spindly legs would carry him.

Placing his right hand on his right Python, Hickok jogged on Elmer’s heels, looking repeatedly at the tunnel behind them, alarmed that the swishing was becoming louder and louder.

“Oh, God! I hope we make it!” Elmer cried.

They traversed ten yards.

Hickok peered over his right shoulder again, and he felt as if his blood changed to ice as he beheld the sewage rippling and cresting with the passage under its surface of a large, sinuous…thing.

“Run!” Elmer screamed.

The mutant was on them in seconds.