Cincinnati Run

Chapter Three

“I don’t like the looks of this, pard.”

“You and me, both,” Blade agreed, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

“Do we go around them?” Geronimo asked.

“No,” Blade said. “We can use some fresh meat. If they try anything, waste them.”

Hickok chuckled. “Now you’re talkin’ my language.”

Blade removed his right foot from the brake and eased down on the accelerator. The SEAL’S engine purred as the vehicle headed toward the cluster of tents and shacks situated at the base of the low hill.

“I’m glad the Founder had his engineers make this buggy bulletproof,” Hickok said. “If the jokers down there start something, they’re in for the shock of their lives.”

Blade nodded. The Family’s Founder, as he was called, a wealthy survivalist named Kurt Carpenter, had expended millions of dollars to have the SEAL developed. The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle was a prototype, the first of its kind, and thanks to the war the only one of its kind. In appearance the SEAL resembled a van, with its boxlike body composed of a shatterproof and heat-resistant plastic, tinted green to enable those within to see out but preventing anyone outside from observing the interior. The floor was an impervious metal alloy, while four enormous, puncture-resistant tires, each two feet wide and four feet high, supported the transport.

The SEAL received its power from the sun. Sunlight was collected by a pair of solar panels attached to the roof, then converted and stored in unique, revolutionary batteries located in a lead-lined case under the vehicle. The scientists had guaranteed Carpenter the SEAL would function indefinitely provided the battery casings and the solar panels were not damaged.

While he had been pleased with the SEAL’S capabilities, Carpenter had not been satisfied; he knew his descendants would need more than an all-terrain vehicle to endure in a world ravaged by a nuclear holocaust.

Consequently, after the automotive geniuses were finished with the development stage, he took the transport to another group of experts, men and women whose stock in trade was killing. He hired mercenaries to outfit the SEAL with armaments, and he received his money’s worth.

The SEAL was a virtual arsenal on wheels. A pair of 50-caliber machine guns were mounted underneath each front headlight. A flamethrower was positioned behind the front fender. There was a rocket-launcher in the center of the front grill. And there was a miniature surface-to-air missile concealed in the roof above the driver’s seat. The weapons were activated by silver toggle switches on the dashboard. A simple flick of a toggle, and the appropriate armament would slide out from its hidden housing and commence firing.

“We shouldn’t get trigger-happy,” Geronimo cautioned. “These people might be friendly.”

“We’ll soon know,” Blade said, glancing around. “But be ready, just in case.”

The interior of the SEAL was roomy. There were two bucket seats in the front separated by a console. Hickok was sitting in the passenger seat.

Behind the bucket seats was a wide seat, in which Geronimo sat, and the rear third of the vehicle was used as a storage section for their spare ammunition, food and other provisions.

“I’m ready,” Geronimo assured the giant. He wore an Arminius .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster under his left arm, in addition to the tomahawk under his belt. Resting on his lap was a Springfield Armory SAR, converted to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths.

“So am I,” Hickok said eagerly. He held a Colt AR-15 in his right hand.

Blade looked down at the Commando Arms Carbine on the console to his right. The 45-caliber Commando, with its 90-shot magazine, resembled the ancient Thompson-style submachine gun and was his favorite firearm.

“A short stop won’t hurt us,” Geronimo commented. “We’ve been making good time.”

“We’re almost to Red Territory, aren’t we?” Hickok inquired.

Geronimo picked up a map from the seat beside him. “We’re west of Watseka, Illinois. I estimate we’re about eighty or ninety miles north of the Russian lines.”

“You estimate?” Hickok repeated.

“It’s not like I have a map of the Soviet territory,” Geronimo responded.

“We know the Russians control most of New England, southern New York, southern Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Maryland, Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia. We also know they have sections of North and South Carolina, as well as southern Ohio, southern Indiana, and parts of Illinois under their thumb. But we don’t know the exact boundaries.”

“How far are we from the Home?” the gunman questioned.

“I haven’t calculated the miles to Lake Bronson State Park,” Geronimo replied, referring to the former scenic area in northwestern Minnesota near which the Home was located.

“Why?”

“I was just thinkin’ of Sherry and my little buckaroo, Ringo,” Hickok mentioned.

“I miss Cynthia and Cochise,” Geronimo admitted.

“What about you, pard?” Hickok questioned Blade.

“Need you ask?” the giant responded.

“Sorry. I know you miss Jenny and Gabe as much as we miss our kin,” Hickok said.

“Once, just once, I wish you’d talk like everyone else,” Geronimo declared.

“What’s wrong with the way I talk?” Hickok demanded.

“As I’ve told you a million times, you sound like an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Geromino leaned forward. “For years you’ve been talking like you think the real Wild Bill Hickok talked. I know Hickok was your childhood hero. I know you admired the man so much that you took his name at your Naming ceremony. But you’re going overboard. Do you hear me talking like the Geronimo of old?”

“No.”

“Does Sundance talk like the Sundance Kid?”

“No.”

“Does Samson use biblical language?”

“No.”

“Does Teucer speak Greek?”

“No.”

“And what about Plato?”

“What about him?” Hickok retorted. “He uses so many blamed highfalutin words, I never know what in Sam Hill he’s talkin’ about.”

“Okay. Forget Plato. But you get my point. All of us went through the Naming ceremony instituted by the Founder. All of us had the option of researching the history books in the library the Founder stocked and picking the name of any historical figure as our own. We can take our name from other sources, if we wish—”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Hickok quipped.

Geronimo ignored the dig. “The Founder initiated the Naming ceremony as a way of insuring we never lose sight of our historical roots.

He didn’t intend for us to completely copy our heroes in every respect.”

“Are you referrin’ to me?”

“Who else is a living dictionary of the Wild West?”

“Is that what I am?” Hickok asked, and smiled. “Gee. I’m flattered.”

“Boys,” Blade stated with special emphasis, interrupting their banter.

“We’re expected.”

Hickok and Geronimo faced front.

The SEAL was still 500 yards from the tents and shacks. There appeared to be about a dozen of each, lined in uneven rows on both sides of the cracked, pitted, pothole-dotted highway. They passed a faded, rusted sign indicating the road was once known as Highway 24.

“Look at ’em all,” Hickok said.

Over three dozen men, women, and children were milling about the encampment. Most wore tattered clothing. Many of the men and women carried weapons, either a rifle, a revolver, or both. Five men were standing in the roadway, strung out across Highway 24, watching the transport approach. All five held rifles.

“Are they the welcoming committee?” Geronimo queried.

“Looks that way,” Blade said.

“Let me talk to them,” Hickok proposed.

“I’ll do the talking,” Blade replied.

“Why you?”

“For two reasons,” Blade answered. “One, you’re likely to gun them down before we find out what they want.”

“And what’s the second reason?”

Blade glanced at the gunman. “I said so.”

Hickok shrugged. “You’re the head honcho.”

“They look like scavengers,” Geronimo commented, “but scavengers never stay in one place.”

“Maybe they’re startin’ their own town,” Hickok speculated.

“In the middle of nowhere?” Geronimo said.

“Some folks have no common sense, pard.”

Geronimo gave the gunman a meaningful look. “Don’t I know it.”

Blade applied the brakes lightly when the SEAL was 40 yards from the five men. He allowed the transport to glide forward slowly, his eyes on the quintet of hardcases. A glint of sunlight off to the right arrested his attention, and he saw several antiquated vehicles parked in a stand of trees to the south of the tents and shacks. The afternoon sun was gleaming off the front bumper of a white car. Although the bumper and grill were visible, the car’s body was obscured by dense brush. For that matter, all of the vehicles were partially screened by undergrowth. Blade’s eyes narrowed.

Wait a minute.

Were those vehicles parked in the trees—or hidden there?

“Everyone is lookin’ at us,” Hickok observed.

All of the people in the camp had ceased whatever they were doing and were staring at the SEAL.

“This setup is definitely a trap,” Blade announced. “We’ll let them make the first move.” He rolled down his window.

Hickok was doing the same. He placed the AR-15 between his legs, drew his Pythons, and held the revolvers next to the passenger-side door, just below the edge of the window.

The transport was now ten yards from the bedraggled men, none of whom displayed the slightest inclination to move aside.

Blade brought the SEAL to a stop six feet away and poked his head out the window. “Hello,” he said with a smile.

“Hi, stranger,” declared the man in the middle, a hefty fellow with a cleft chin and bushy brows. He wore a torn flannel shirt and baggy brown pants, and in his hands was a Winchester 30-30. “Nice van you have here.

Never saw one like it before.”

“It’s special,” Blade said.

“Is that so?” Hefty responded, smiling in a friendly fashion.

“Would you happen to have fresh venison you’d be willing to trade?”

Blade inquired politely. “We’ve been eating jerky for the past two days and could use a change.”

Hefty nodded and came around the front of the SEAL to stand near Blade’s window. “Yep. Just killed an eight-point buck this morning.

There’s lots of deer in these parts.”

Blade allowed his left arm to casually dangle out the window while gripping the Commando with his right hand. “You have a lot of mouths to feed,” he remarked.

“We truly do,” Hefty acknowledged. “And it ain’t easy, let me tell you.”

Blade pointed at the encampment, which began approximately 15 yards to the rear of the men. “Are you their leader?”

“You could say that,” Hefty admitted with a smirk.

“How long have you been camped here?”

“Oh, a couple of months.”

“I’m surprised to find your camp near the highway, in the open,” Blade said. “Aren’t you concerned the Russians might discover it?”

“The Reds don’t come this far north much,” Hefty said. “We’ve seen a helicopter or two of theirs, but they left us alone. Didn’t want to waste the ammo, I guess.”

Blade stared at the man. “What would you take in trade for some fresh venison?”

“Do you have any guns in there?” Hefty asked, tilting his head and trying to peer inside.

“We won’t trade guns,” Blade said.

“What will you trade, stranger?”

“We have a spare canteen, several boxes of matches, and a hatchet,” Blade disclosed. “Would you be interested in any of those?”

“We could use all of it.”

“I’ll trade you the canteen and a box of matches for three venison steaks,” Blade offered.

Hefty made a show of scratching his stubbly chin. “Throw in the hatchet.”

“The hatchet and a box of matches,” Blade amended.

“No. We’ll take the canteen, the matches, and the hatchet,” Hefty said.

“We don’t need the entire buck,” Blade said wryly.

Hefty grinned. “You’re a tough customer, that’s plain to see.” He nodded toward the encampment. “Tell you what. Why don’t you and whoever else is in that contraption come out and join us in a brew. We can talk over the trade cordial-like.”

“Don’t mind if we do,” Blade said, and he saw the five men visibly relax.

They were undoubtedly convinced they had pulled the wool over his eyes.

“Just park your van over there,” Hefty said, indicating a patch of grass between two tents.

“All right,” Blade said, then paused. “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask you a question.”

“What’s that, stranger?”

“I couldn’t help but notice those vehicles in the trees,” Blade said innocently. “Where did they come from?”

Hefty frowned. “You’re real observant, mister.”

“Are they yours?” Blade inquired.

“Yeah,” Hefty said, glancing at his four companions.

“Why are they parked in the trees?” Blade pressed him.

“Uhhhh,” Hefty began, his forehead creasing. “We don’t want the Reds to spot them.”

“But you just said the Russians rarely travel this far north of their lines,” Blade stated.

“You never know,” Hefty responded nervously.

“Would there be another reason those vehicles are in the trees?”

Hefty licked his thick lips. “Like what?”

Blade smiled, drawing the Commando to his chest, the tip of the barrel inches from the window but concealed from the quintet. “Oh, like maybe you hid the vehicles because you don’t want anyone to see the bullet holes.”

“What bullet holes?” Hefty queried, beginning to elevate the 30-30.

“The bullet holes your buddies and you put there when you killed the people inside those vehicles,” Blade stated harshly. “So you could take all of their possessions.”

Hefty glared at the giant. “You’re too damn smart for your own good, stranger!” he snapped.

And all five men raised their rifles.