The Kalispell Run Page 3

  “Ma’am?” Sherry repeated, her mouth full of jerky.

  “Are those pockets in one piece?” he demanded again.

  “These?” She glanced down. “One of them is. The one on the left has a big hole in it, but the other one is…”

  “Fine,” he interrupted, shoving the bullets at her. “You’ll need these to go with the rifle.”

  Sherry leaned the Glenfield against her right leg and took the bullets.

  Hickok turned and began walking in an easterly direction.

  “Wait a minute!” Sherry stuffed the bullets in her pocket and hastily caught up with him. “What’s the rush?”

  “While you were with those Trolls,” Hickok ignored her query, “did you see anything of a guy dressed in black, totin’ a six-shooter?”

  “A what?”

  “A revolver strapped to his right hip,” Hickok replied, a bit impatiently.

  “To be specific, an Abilene Single Action in .44 Magnum. He’s not much more than a kid, actually. Just turned sixteen.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone answering your description,” Sherry stated. “I’ve only seen one other person since the Trolls caught me, and he was a pitiful little man they tortured and killed. Kind of fitting, in a way.”

  “Why is that?” Hickok asked, still marching east. They were at the eastern edge of the town of Fox, the former Troll headquarters. The forest loomed ahead.

  “The Trolls gouged his eyes out with a spear.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. The one you shot last did all the gouging.”

  Hickok nodded. “Fits.”

  “Fits?”

  “I have a friend named Joshua,” Hickok said. “He would call it the design of cosmic justice.”

  “Sounds like your friend is the brainy type,” Sherry commented, taking another bite of the delicious venison.

  “Where you from?” Hickok inquired, glancing at her face, amused at the sight of her full cheeks and mouth chewing furiously.

  “Sundown.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Sundown,” she said again. “It’s in Canada, just across the border from Minnesota. Dinky little place. Has a few dozen still living there. The Trolls caught me when I stepped out of my cabin to enjoy an evening stroll.”

  “Didn’t the folks in Sundown evacuate to a larger city when the nuclear war broke out?” Hickok asked.

  “Some did,” she said, shrugging, “and some didn’t. We heard horrible tales from our parents and our grandparents. There was a critical shortage of the necessities, of food and clothing and the like, right after the war. Governments collapsed. Our grandparents said they even heard reports of cannibalism from Winnipeg. Cannibalism! How terrible!”

  “Winnipeg?” Hickok repeated, displaying his ignorance of Canadian geography.

  “Winnipeg is the nearest major city to Sundown. No one has ventured there in years and years,” Sherry’ explained.

  “You got a family in Sundown?” Hickok questioned her.

  “My mother and father.” She smiled at the memory.

  “No husband?”

  “No.” Sherry shook her head.

  “Really?”

  “You sound surprised,” she said, amused.

  “I am. How do you folks get by?”

  “Oh, we grow a lot. We have livestock. Except for the damn Trolls, no one has bothered us in a long time. Guess Sundown is so far out in the middle of nowhere, no one knows we’re there.”

  “You eager to get home?” Hickok asked.

  They reached the forest, the tall trees and the dense underbrush confronting them with a dark wall of vegetation.

  “It looks foreboding in there,” Sherry remarked.

  “It’s your imagination,” Hickok stated, and led the way along a worn trail. “The Trolls must have used this regularly. We’ll follow it and see where we end up.”

  “What makes you think the Trolls came this way?”

  Hickok knelt and pointed at the bare ground. “Look at all the scuff marks and heel prints. I have a friend named Geronimo, the best tracker there is, and if he were here right now he could tell you how many people had passed this way, how long ago it was, and even if they were right- or left-handed.”

  “You’re kidding,” Sherry commented.

  “I’m telling the truth,” Hickok said. “A competent tracker can determine from the depth of the imprint whether a person is right or left-handed. If a person is right-handed, the right heel digs in a bit deeper than the left. Or the other way around. Well, I’m not that good. But I am skilled enough to know a lot of Trolls passed this way some time back. I suspect the lousy varmints came this way when they moseyed out of Fox.”

  “Has anyone ever told you,” Sherry noted, “that you talk funny sometimes?”

  “You’re kidding!” Hickok smiled.

  “Why?” Sherry asked him.

  Hickok rose and continued deeper into the woods. “I reckon it’s because I like the Old West so much.”

  “The what?”

  “The western frontier of America in the days of the gunfighters, the sheriffs, and the outlaws,” Hickok answered.

  “Never heard of it,” Sherry admitted.

  “You have a good vocabulary,” Hickok observed. “You must be able to read.”

  “My parents taught me,” she confided. “We have several hundred books, but none on this Old West.”

  “Too bad,” Hickok stated. “We have a library where I come from, and it’s filled with hundreds of thousands of books. Books on every conceivable subject. My favorites were always the westerns, and in particular any book on the life of James Butler Hickok.”

  “Who was he?” Sherry pushed a slim branch out of her path.

  “One of the greatest Americans who ever lived. As a tribute to him, I took his name at my Naming.”

  “Your what?”

  “My Naming. When we turn sixteen we’re permitted to pick the name we want to be known by,” Hickok told her.

  “You’re kidding!”

  Hickok glanced over his left shoulder, frowning. “No. The man who built the place where I’m from wanted us to remember the past, to keep in touch with our historical roots, as he put it in his diary. So we’re told to go through the history books, or any of the others for that matter, and select whatever name we like. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Where are you from?” Sherry inquired.

  “Somewhere,” was his cryptic response.

  “I told you where I’m from,” she pointed out.

  “Thank you.”

  “And you’re not going to let me know where you’re from?”

  “I reckon not.”

  “Why?” Sherry asked, an edge to her tone. “Don’t you trust me.”

  “Nope,” he replied frankly.

  “Why not?”

  Hickok paused and stared into her eyes. “Trust is like love. You must earn it. Only an idiot trusts blindly.”

  Sherry followed on his heels as he resumed their trek. He certainly was a strange one. But then, all men were a bit on the weird side. Must be a quirk in their genes. She gazed at the trees overhead, watching a squirrel scamper from limb to limb. Funny, how she sensed she could trust this one right off the bat. There was something about him, a quality of confidence he tended to inspire in others. What was this “score” business?

  The chip on his shoulder must weigh tons!

  The squirrel suddenly chattered like crazy and darted to the north.

  Sherry detected a movement in the branches of a large tree ahead. The branches hung directly above the trail they were on. Was it the wind?

  Hickok was strolling nonchalantly along the dirt trail, his Henry cradled in his arms.

  Why should she worry? If Hickok wasn’t concerned, if he didn’t see anything wrong, then there probably wasn’t. He gave the impression of being a proficient fighter. Surely his senses would alert him if anything were amiss?

  Those branches moved again, sagging unnaturally, as i
f a great weight were on them, concealed by the leaves.

  Should she say something? Sherry tensed as they neared the tree, her eyes focused on those lower branches. Maybe she should tell…

  The leaves abruptly parted, and a hulking form hurtled from concealment, leaping at the gunman seven feet away.

  “Hickok!” Sherry shouted, frozen in her tracks. “Lookout!”

  Chapter Four

  “Scavengers!” Geronimo yelled.

  There were at least thirty, attired in filthy rags and armed with a variety of weapons.

  Blade knew their type well. They traveled in groups, preying on anyone they found, stealing food and guns and lives with indiscriminate abandon.

  Thanks to the high walls encircling the Home, and the prowess of the Warriors, the Family was spared being ravaged by the bands of scavengers roaming the countryside.

  “They’re all around us!” Star screamed, awake and terrified, gripping her mother, the knuckles on her hands white.

  Blade destested these human vultures. He saw one of them runnng up to his side of the SEAL, carrying a knife, apparently intending to thrust it through Blade’s open window.

  “Blade!” Rainbow needlessly cried a warning.

  Blade slowly reached his right hand across his broad chest and drew the Dan Wesson .44 Magnum revolver from its leather shoulder holster.

  Like Geronimo, he had lost many of the weapons he’d taken to the Twin Cities. Before departing for Kalispell, they had paid the armory a visit and selected their arms for this run. He liked the feel of this revolver. The Dan Wesson .44 Magnum was a big handgun, but in his massive hand it felt just right. In addition to the revolver, an Auto-Ordnance Model 27 A-1 was on the console beside him. It reminded him of the Commando Arms Carbine he’d used before. Like the Commando, the Auto-Ordnance was modified by the Family gunsmiths so it could function on full automatic.

  The Auto-Ordnance was a re-creation of the Thompson Model 1927 used by gangsters during the early decades of the twentieth century.

  “Blade!” Rainbow shouted.

  Blade pointed the ten-inch barrel at the scavenger and squeezed the trigger. The boom of the .44 Magnum was deafening in the confines of the transport.

  The scavenger reacted as though he’d slammed into a wall. His body was flung backward, sprawling in a heap at the side of the highway.

  Blade aimed at a scavenger with a rifle and fired, the heavy slug taking the top of the scavenger’s head off.

  Geronimo entered the fray. He still carried an Arminius .357 Magnum under his right arm, and his remaining tomahawk was tucked under his belt. The new addition to his personal arsenal was a FNC Auto Rifle, and he swung it out his window as three of the scavengers closed in. The FNC burped and the three men tumbled to the ground, one of them shrieking in agony.

  Bullets and arrows were striking the body of the SEAL, some of them whining as they were deflected by the bulletproof plastic.

  “Hang on!” Blade yelled as he accelerated, flooring the pedal.

  The SEAL surged ahead, plowing into one of the attackers and bowling him aside.

  Blade and Geronimo rolled up their windows as the transport raced down the hill. The men in front parted, firing at the vehicle in a fruitless attempt to stop it.

  “Mommy!” Star screamed, frightened by the shouting, gesticulating men and the projectiles colliding with the body of the transport.

  One of the scavengers, braver or dumber than the rest, stood his ground, a shotgun leveled at the SEAL.

  Blade deliberately mowed the shotgun-wielder over, ramming the scavenger at the same instant the man fired. Carpenter’s scientists had performed their tasks, had met his rigid specifications, with remarkable precision; even at point-blank range, the shotgun pellets were unable to penetrate the impervious plastic shell comprising the SEAL’s outer surface. The scavenger, however, was not as indestructible. The front grill of the transport caught him in the chest and caved it in, his ribs folding in upon themselves. For the fleetest moment, the scavenger was airborne, his face pressed against the windshield, his mouth gaping in silent horror at his untimely fate. Then his body slipped under the SEAL, his shoulders angling to the left, and the asphalt clutched his bouncing form and hurtled him under the front tire. His head was immediately pulverized in a spray of flesh and crimson.

  “We made it!” Rainbow voiced her relief as the transport raced away from the scavengers.

  Unexpectedly, Blade wrenched on the steering wheel, slewing the vehicle to a stop, its sleek structure positioned across the highway.

  “What are you doing?” Rainbow demanded.

  “What’s he doing?” Star echoed her mother.

  The scavengers, elated at this turn of events, charged the SEAL en masse.

  Blade glanced at Rainbow and Star. “Nobody,” he growled, “attacks us with impunity.” He looked at Geronimo and grinned.

  The scavengers were running toward the transport, giddy at the prospect of its impending capture.

  “Ready?” Blade asked Geronimo.

  Geronimo nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Too bad Hickok couldn’t be here. He’d appreciate this.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Rainbow angrily inquired.

  Blade hastily rolled down his window, scooped up the Auto-Ordnance, and pointed it at the approaching scavengers.

  The scavengers in the front rows of the pack saw what was coming and tried to slow, to stop, to get out of the way, but the ones behind them pushed forward, oblivious to the danger.

  Blade, smiling, let them have it.

  The Auto-Ordnance bucked as the first rounds ripped into the scavengers, the slugs decimating the front rows, the scavengers tripping over one another as legs became entangled in falling bodies and limbs flew every which way.

  Geronimo flung his door open and stood, his feet on the sideboard, the FNC supported by the roof for a better aim. He fired into the rear ranks of the scavengers, venting his war whoop.

  The scavengers broke. Those still alive and able fled, disappearing into the forest. The road was covered with dead or dying scavengers, moaning and groaning and pleading for assistance.

  Blade and Geronimo ceased firing.

  “With a hundred like you two,” Rainbow commented, “my people could easily defeat the Citadel army.”

  Blade placed his Auto-Ordnance on the console and wheeled the SEAL

  on its westward course, slowly picking up speed.

  Geronimo slid into his seat and closed the door, keeping his eyes to their rear. “No sign of pursuit,” he mentioned.

  “I don’t expect any,” Blade remarked.

  “When you think about it,” Geronimo commented, “we’ve been pretty lucky so far.”

  “How so?” Blade asked.

  “That was the first time we were attacked on this trip,” Geronimo noted. “We’ve been keeping on the highway too, right out in the open.”

  “Not too surprising,” Blade said. “The wild animals shy away from the SEAL for some reason. Even the mutates, like that one we spotted yesterday afternoon, seem to sense the transport is not a living thing and avoid it. As for the Watchers, they prefer to congregate near inhabited areas and maintain their outposts in the larger towns. If we can avoid a Watcher patrol, we will probably reach Kalispell in one piece.”

  “Probably?” Rainbow questioned.

  “You never know,” Blade stated fatalistically.

  “I’m hungry,” Star announced.

  Blade glanced at Rainbow, “Why don’t you give her some jerky. Take some for yourself too. We won’t stop until it’s almost dark. I want to go as far as we can today.” Because, he reflected, the sooner we reach Kalispell, the faster I can return to my darling Jenny.

  Rainbow nodded and turned to her rear. A glass jar, filled with venison jerky, was on top of a pile of supplies in the rear section of the vehicle. She picked up the jar, unscrewed the lid, and handed a strip of meat to her daughter.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Star said,
dutifully expressing her gratitude.

  Rainbow removed another piece of jerky and bit into it. “Do either of you want some?” she inquired of Blade and Geronimo, her mouth full of venison.

  The two Warriors shook their heads.

  “But I would like to ask you some questions,” Blade said.

  “What’s on your mind?” Rainbow replaced the jar in the back of the transport.

  “What’s life been like for your people” Blade queried her. “Since the Big Blast, I mean?”

  “Since the war?” Rainbow thought a moment. “My parents told me it was real rough right after the war. There were shortages of everything. But then things changed.”

  “Changed?” Blade echoed. “How?”

  “The white man was gone,” Rainbow elaborated. “Evacuated from all the towns and cities by the Government and moved south.”

  “Why weren’t your people evacuated?” Blade interrupted.

  Rainbow shrugged. “Beats me. We were left to fend for ourselves. After the tribal leaders organized, after the initial shock passed, we discovered we could do a lot better on our own, better than we did under white rule.

  Western Montana was not hit by any of the nuclear missiles, except for Great Falls, hundreds of miles to the southeast of Kalispell and the Reservation. The prevailing winds blew the Great Falls fallout to the east, away from us. My people found themselves exactly as they had been before the white man arrived in this country: living in fertile land teeming with game and abundant water. We reverted to a simpler lifestyle, living as the Indian had for centuries before the coming of the whites. My people became hunters and tillers of the soil. We rediscovered our heritage and our dignity. Within a generation after the war, alcoholism, once a rampant problem, was almost eliminated.” She paused, then stared at the passing scenery. “My people discovered they were better off without the whites. Of course,” she stressed, “all of this happened before I was born, but my parents and grandparents told me all about it. We are a free people now, and we will never submit to the white man’s rule again!”

  “Your people have stayed on the Reservation?” Blade inquired.