Cincinnati Run Page 13

  “Oh, the Browns don’t kill you, but they can make you feel like puke for a while,” Elmer said.

  “Where do they come from?” Hickok inquired, feeling groggy.

  “Folks claim they’ve been around since after the damn war,” Elmer answered.

  “Why are they called Browns?”

  “Because that’s the color they are,” Elmer explained, his tone implying the answer should have been readily apparent.

  “I’ve got to find my friends,” Hickok said, rubbing his burning forehead. “Where’s the door?”

  “Down there,” Elmer said, nodding at the end of the hall where a closed door was barely discernible in the faint illumination supplied by the lighter. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t go out that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, that door opens onto Delhi Road, and there are Commies all over the place. You wouldn’t get very far in the shape you’re in,” Elmer responded. “For another thing, you’d be wasting your time looking for your friends.”

  “Why?”

  “The Commies caught them.”

  Hickok straightened and swung toward the door, unslinging the AR-15.

  “When? How?”

  “A while ago,” Elmer said. “Your friends didn’t stand a prayer.”

  “Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

  Elmer scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, let’s see. I was on the second floor of the condemned store three doors down when I heard a crash—”

  “What were you doing there?” Hickok asked, interrupting.

  “Getting set to settle in for the night. I sleep in these buildings when I’m in the neighborhood. Some of the other bums crash out in these buildings too. The Commies don’t bother us much. But I know they’re getting set to raze all these empty buildings just so we won’t hang around here anymore.”

  “Finish your story.”

  “My story? Oh, yeah. There I was, about to bed down, when there was this racket outside and I peeked out the window and saw there’d been an accident. The next thing I know, everybody is shooting and hollering and running like crazy, and you and your two buddies ran into the alley and a whole bunch of Commies went after you.” Elmer paused to take a breath.

  “I was sort of curious, so I snuck outside and mingled with the crowd, and I saw a few of the bodies. Not much happened for a while, and then I noticed your two buddies coming out of this building. A Commie tried to take them, but they nailed the son of a bitch but proper and lit out.” He paused again and sighed. “They wasted a heap of Commies, but the head honcho himself caught them.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. High-and-Mighty General Ari Stoljarov. Everyone calls him the Butcher. I’ve seen him a few times before going in and out of the base across the street, and I saw his picture in the paper. He’s a mean one.”

  “You read the paper?” Hickok asked.

  Elmer scrunched up his nose. “What, a bum can’t be literate? I find papers in trash cans all the time. And yeah, I can read real good, thank you.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” Hickok said. “What happened to my pards after General What’s-His-Name captured them?”

  “General Stoljarov. They were taken into the base. The last I saw, they were still alive. But from what I’ve heard about the damn Butcher, they won’t be for long.”

  “I’ve got to find them,” Hickok declared, and took a stride toward the door.

  “You’re being a jerk,” Elmer stated.

  Hickok turned. “You think so?”

  “I know so. What are you planning to do? March over to the gate and ask the Commies to surrender?”

  “There’s an idea,” Hickok said, and grinned.

  “I can help you get into the base.”

  “Why are you putting your life in danger for me?”

  Elmer gazed at the lighter. “Because I hate the Commies. The bastards took my wife from me thirty years ago to use for their breeding program.

  They made her carry their rotten seed, and after the baby was born they took the child and tossed her out the door. She was the kindest person you’d ever want to meet, and they tore her soul to pieces. After they were done with her, she was never the same. She lost the will to live and died six years later.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hickok said softly.

  “Without her, my life wasn’t worth a damn. I’ve been bumming ever since. And whenever I get the chance to put the screws to the Commies, I do. I lost track of how many tires I’ve flattened by letting the air out. If I find a Commie vehicle left by itself, I like to pour dirt down the carburetor,” Elmer disclosed, and tittered. “I knew you guys weren’t Commies the minute I saw you, even though you’re wearing Commie uniforms. And when I saw your buddies come out of this building without you, I got curious about what happened to you. I snuck in when I figured nobody was looking, shut the door, and pulled out my lighter. You’re lucky I found you before the Commies. They’re still searching this block. A squad will likely come in here at any second.”

  “Do you know this area well?”

  “Like the back of my hand,” Elmer said. “I know every nook and cranny in these abandoned buildings, every manhole and sewer-tunnel for miles around.”

  “Then we’d best skedaddle,” Hickok stated.

  “Ske-what?”

  “Vamose.”

  “Va-who?”

  “We’d best get the blazes out of here.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Elmer asked, and started to turn, flicking off the lighter. “Follow me.”

  With a resounding crash the front door was forcefully kicked open, slamming against the wall, and framed in the doorway stood a strapping Russian soldier with an AK-47. “You there!” he bellowed, stepping forward, striving to see them clearly. “What are you doing?”

  “Twiddlin’ our thumbs,” Hickok responded, and fired from the hip.

  The impact hurled the Russian backwards, his arms flung wide, the AK-47 clattering to the floor. He hurtled through the doorway and dropped from sight, and was promptly replaced by a second trooper materializing at the door.

  “Go!” Hickok goaded Elmer, and squeezed off four rounds.

  The second soldier fell.

  “Stay close to me,” Elmer advised, hastening down the hall to the junction.

  “Just go!” Hickok prompted, his eyes on the doorway, firing as yet another Russian appeared.

  Elmer took a left at the junction.

  Backpedaling rapidly, Hickok saw several dark forms dart into the hall.

  He was almost to the junction, and he cut loose, swiveling the barrel from right to left.

  A trooper screamed, and then the Russians were returning the Warrior’s fire, their AK-47’s thundering, bright flashes of orange marking their muzzles.

  Hickok ducked around the corner and heard dozens of rounds thud into the wall. He stuck the AR-15 out, intending to send a parting burst at the Soviets, but an AK-47 chattered and the AR-15 was torn from his hands and cast against the wall.

  Blast!

  Hickok whirled and raced along the hall, unbuttoning his shirt as he ran, wondering how far ahead Elmer was, knowing the Russians would catch them easily. Elmer obviously did not have the stamina for a sustained chase. His hands closed on the Pythons’ pearl grips and he smiled.

  Let the Commies come!

  He slid the Colts out. They weren’t going to nail him without a fight.

  His pockets were crammed with ammunition, enough to account for a couple of dozen troopers. He glanced over his right shoulder, attempting to distinguish shapes in the gloom.

  A hand shot out of the darkness, seized the gunman by the left arm, and hauled him from the corridor.

  “What—!” Hickok exclaimed.

  “Quiet, you idiot!” Elmer hissed. “It’s just me.”

  “Where are we?” Hickok whispered. Wherever they were, the darkness was absolute, engendering an unpleasant sensation of claustrophobia.
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  “I think it was a closet once. Now hush,” Elmer said.

  There was a muted click as a door was closed.

  “This way, comrades!” shouted a voice in the corridor.

  Hickok tensed as heavy boots thumped past the closet. He waited with bated breath for their hiding place to be discovered. At least a minute elapsed, and all the while Russian soldiers streamed down the hallway.

  The tramping of the Soviet troopers gradually faded into the distance.

  “Here we go,” Elmer declared. “And try to keep up with me this time.”

  “It’s hard to see you, let alone follow you,” Hickok said.

  “Crybaby.”

  Hickok felt fingers grasp his left forearm. “Is that you?”

  “If it isn’t, you’re in serious dog shit. Keep quiet and I’ll lead you out.”

  “How can you see?” Hickok queried. “There’s no light.”

  “I’m used to this,” Elmer said. “Most of my life is spent in the dark.”

  “Then lead the way,” Hickok said. “But if we run into more Russians, drop flat and let me take care of them.”

  “They’re all yours. Like I said, I’m not a killer,” Elmer stated, and sighed. “Too bad. I owe these pricks plenty for what they did to Joyce.”

  Hickok heard another click and felt a slight gust of air touch his cheeks, and then the bum was leading him at a fast clip out of the closet and to the left. They took a second left at the next junction, and proceeded to wind through a series of inky passageways until they entered a large empty room on the south side of the building. Diffuse light from the streetlamps on Delhi Road revealed the filthy floor was littered with broken furniture and piles of trash.

  Elmer released the gunman’s arm and cocked his head to one side, listening. “I think we lost the bastards.”

  “This place reeks,” Hickok commented.

  “It isn’t the Ritz, sonny,” Elmer said. “I crash here often. Except for the rats, no one bothers me.”

  “The rats?”

  “Yeah. If you curl up into a ball when you sleep, they don’t try and gnaw on your ears and nose.”

  “You’re pullin’ my leg, old-timer.”

  Elmer chuckled. “You’re not too bright, are you?”

  “Where do we go from here?” Hickok asked.

  “I figured we’d shack up here for the night.”

  “No way,” Hickok stated.

  “Why not?” Elmer responded, grinning. “You afraid of the rats?”

  “I’m afraid of what could happen to my pards if I don’t get to them pronto,” Hickok said. “You mentioned you can help me sneak into the L.R.F.”

  “That I can,” Elmer confirmed. “But it will cost you.”

  “Cost me?” Hickok repeated in surprise. “What are you talkin’ about? I thought you wanted to help me because you hate the Commies.”

  Elmer took two paces and crouched alongside a mound of debris. He began idly poking in the the mound, dislodging scraps of paper and the broken arm of a chair. “That’s true,” he agreed. “But I’ve been doing some thinking.”

  Hickok’s eyes narrowed. He was suddenly suspicious of the bum.

  Elmer’s attitude had changed drastically, and made him think that he had misplaced his trust in his erstwhile rescuer.

  Apparently he had.

  Because Elmer abruptly stood and turned, clutching a rusty knife in his right hand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  General Ari Stoljarov threw back his head and laughed. “If you could see your faces!” he told the Warriors.

  The ten soldiers comprising the Butcher’s personal guard joined in the mirth.

  Blade looked at Geronimo, who frowned and shook his head.

  “Do you truly believe I would have you executed by a firing squad?”

  General Stoljarov asked.

  “Who knows?” Blade rejoined.

  “I guarantee you that I will devise an inventive demise for the both of you,” General Stoljarov said. “A firing squad would be too routine, too mundane.”

  “Not to mention messy,” Geronimo observed.

  General Stoljarov nodded at the row of trees. “My surprise is on the other side.”

  They bore to the left, skirting the trees. The avenue broadened, becoming an extensive parking lot situated at the base of the colossal spire. Dozens of cars and trucks filled parking spaces near the spire, but the center of the expanse of asphalt was occupied by a vehicle not normally found in a parking lot: a jet aircraft.

  “The Hurricane!” Blade exclaimed, taking several strides forward. The missing VTOL appeared to be intact. A dozen troopers surrounded the craft, their AK-47’s over their shoulders.

  “Do you like the latest addition to the Soviet Air force?” General Stoljarov inquired.

  Blade glanced at the officer. “The Soviet Air Force?”

  “There is a saying common among American youth,” General Stoljarov stated, and grinned. “Finders keepers. We shot the Hurricane down. Whether you like the idea or not, the VTOL is now ours.”

  Blade was relieved the Hurricane was in one piece. There were only two such aircraft at the Freedom Federation’s disposal, and both were essential to maintaining the shuttle service between Federation members.

  The Free State of California had worked diligently to ensure the VTOLs were airworthy, and every Federation faction appreciated the critical importance of the pair of technological marvels.

  The Hurricanes qualified as the last operational remnants of the prewar civilization’s scientific genius. Although the Soviets possessed a fleet of helicopters, and although California and a few diverse groups or city-states could field functional planes or other craft, there were only the two VTOL’s in existence. Twelve feet in height, 47 feet in length, with a wingspan of 32 feet, the Hurricanes could attain a speed of 600 miles an hour or hover stationary as if they were gigantic hummingbirds. Each VTOL packed a tremendous wallop, consisting of cannons, cluster bombs, rockets, and four Sidewinder missiles.

  “Once our pilots have mastered this aircraft, it will become an invaluable weapon in our campaign to defeat the Freedom Federation,” General Stoljarov bragged.

  “We’ll destroy it before we’ll allow you to use it against us,” Blade vowed.

  “How? With the other Hurricane? Unfortunately, we will have long since vaporized your Hurricane by the time ours begins conducting sorties.”

  Blade craned his neck and stared up at the spire. The structure gave the illusion of reaching the starry firmament, an effect heightened by the crystal globe at the peak which was radiating a pale white glow. “With that?”

  “What else?” General Stoljarov retorted.

  “We have nothing to worry about,” Geronimo said.

  General Stoljarov swung toward him. “Why not?”

  “Because if the pilots aren’t any more intelligent than you are, they’ll never figure out how to fly the Hurricane,” Geronimo stated, and smiled.

  The Butcher’s expression hardened and he pointed at Lenin’s Needle.

  “Proceed.”

  Blade and Geronimo complied, walking toward a brown door at the bottom of the silver tower.

  “For your information, our pilots will master the VTOL easily thanks to the excellent instruction they are receiving,” General Stoljarov said.

  Blade gazed at the Hurricane. Their mission had acquired an extra dimension. Destroying the superweapon was just the first step; they must also retrieve the Hurricane or wreck it. Under no circumstances would he let the VTOL remain in Soviet hands. The combination of the superweapon and the Hurricane would render the Soviets unbeatable.

  But first things first.

  He scrutinized the door ahead, calculating. The entrance to Lenin’s Needle appeared wide enough to admit one person at a time, and promised to present a golden opportunity to make a bid for freedom. His gambit depended on the soldiers. Would one of the Russians enter first or would the troopers follow behind the Warriors? He lo
oked at Geronimo and cleared his throat.

  Geronimo glanced at his friend.

  Blade winked, grinned, and gave a barely perceptible nod. He watched as Geronimo stared at the door, and Blade was pleased to note the comprehension flitting across his features.

  “Frankly, I’m disappointed in the two of you,” General Stoljarov mentioned. “I expected more of a fight out of you. Your reputation is greatly exaggerated.”

  “How did you earn your reputation as the Butcher?” Blade queried, hoping to distract the officer with conversation.

  “Before I was assigned to head the Laser Research Facility, I was in charge of interrogations for this sector. When we needed answers, I obtained them. Regrettably, many of those who supplied the information we wanted did not survive the interrogation procedure.”

  “In other words, you tortured them to death,” Blade said.

  “Only the weaklings. Eventually, through word of mouth, the general populace came to regard me with disdain—”

  “More like hatred,” Geronimo said, correcting him.

  “In any event, their petty concerns are of no consequence to me. I have a job to do and I do it. Professionally. Competently,” General Stoljarov said.

  “Don’t forget ruthlessly,” Geronimo added.

  “I will relish interrogating you, Geronimo,” the Butcher declared, “as I have few others in recent memory. I intend to give you the deluxe treatment.”

  Blade strolled calmly forward, passing row after row of parked vehicles.

  He estimated that 50 feet separated him from the door. “I have a question,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Why wasn’t Lenin’s Needle constructed years ago? If this device is so powerful, why did you wait until now to build it?”

  “For one reason, and one reason only. His name is Leonid Grineva.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Our foremost scientist. He undoubtedly possesses the greatest mind since Albert Einstein. It was Leonid who achieved the breakthrough in cold-fusion-generated laser light. It was he who perfected the technique of controlled projection,” General Stoljarov disclosed. “He completed the designs eighteen months ago.”

  “Your leaders must have a lot of confidence in this scientist,” Blade casually commented.