Armageddon Run Page 4

  “What do you mean by that?” Bertha curtly cut him off.

  “Just what I said. Certain women are natural fighters, others aren’t. It’s the same with men. Some make excellent fighters, while others don’t. You’ve met Joshua. He’s a case in point. He’s too spiritual to become an effective fighter. Why do you think my Family has such an arduous selection process for the status of Warrior? Why is our screening of potential candidates so rigorous?”

  “You still haven’t told me why you left me behind today,” Bertha noted.

  “You were the logical choice.”

  “How so?”

  Blade pointed at the SEAL. “You know how important our transport is. It’s essential to the Family’s welfare. So put yourself in my shoes. There I was, about to leave the SEAL unprotected in enemy territory. I had to leave a guard. But who could I pick? Lynx or Rudabaugh or Orson? Not likely. I don’t know any of them well enough to trust them alone with something as valuable as the SEAL. Hickok or Geronimo? They’re my Triad partners. We trained together, and we’ve fought side by side for years. I needed them with me to maximize our capability. There was only one person I trusted enough to leave with the SEAL, only one person whose ability and reliability I could count on.”

  Bertha beamed. “Me?”

  “You,” Blade affirmed.

  Bertha leaned down and kissed Blade on the left cheek. “You adorable hunk, you!”

  “Uh-oh,” Hickok said.

  “Don’t worry,” Bertha said to Hickok. “I ain’t about to fall for him. Not like I did for you, before you went and got yourself married to someone else.”

  “I wasn’t talking about you,” Hickok corrected her. He pointed toward Catlow. “Look.”

  A pair of headlights was just leaving the outskirts of the town, bearing north on U.S. Highway 85.

  “Damn!” Blade cursed his carelessness. “Move it!”

  The three of them raced down the rise to the SEAL. The rise and a slight curve temporarily blocked their view of the town and the approaching vehicle.

  Blade grabbed Bertha’s right elbow and pushed her to the center of the road. “Lay down,” he ordered.

  “What?”

  “Lay down!” he directed.

  Bertha dropped to the tarmacadam, lying on her stomach, with her arms outspread.

  “Hickok!” Blade said, pointing at a cluster of boulders and rocks at the side of the highway only ten feet away.

  Hickok ran to the boulders and disappeared from sight.

  Blade quickly clambered into the SEAL, into the driver’s seat.

  “What’s going on?” Geronimo asked.

  The interior of the SEAL was spacious. There were two bucket seats in the front, one for the driver and the other for a passenger, with a console between them. A comfortable long seat ran the width of the transport right behind the bucket seats. The rear section of the SEAL was utilized as a storage space for their provisions. Two spare tires and tools were stocked in a recessed compartment under the rear storage area.

  “Company,” Blade said. Geronimo was in the other bucket seat.

  Rudabaugh and Orson sat in the wide seat behind them, and Lynx was reclining on top of the pile of supplies.

  “What kind of company?” Orson questioned.

  Blade hastily placed the key in the ignition and gunned the motor. He kept the lights off and carefully backed the vehicle from the highway, into the cover of the rise. He stopped the SEAL 20 yards from the road and switched off the engine.

  “What kind of company?” Orson impatiently repeated.

  “Don’t know yet.” Blade glanced at Geronimo. “Stay put and watch the SEAL.”

  Geronimo nodded his understanding.

  Blade climbed from the transport and sped to the boulders Hickok was hiding behind.

  The gunfighter spun at his approach.

  “I want them taken out quietly,” Blade said as he crouched near Hickok.

  “You got it. Mind if I borrow one of your knives?”

  Blade raised his right pants leg. A stiletto was strapped to his calf below the knee. Another stiletto was secured to his left leg. He gripped the hilt and handed the weapon to Hickok.

  “Thanks, pard,” Hickok whispered. “I hope you won’t fuss if I get it bloody.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Further conversation was terminated by the appearance of headlights coming around the curve.

  Blade recognized the vehicle as a jeep, alleviating his concern it might be civilians. Traffic in this area was sparse, almost all of it comprised of military conveyances. Jeeps were exclusively used by the Army of the Civilized Zone. The garrison commander had undoubtedly sent a patrol to check on the missing work detail.

  The jeep was traveling at a sedate speed, not more than 30 miles an hour, when the lights illuminated Bertha’s prone form. The driver promptly slowed to a crawl.

  Bertha didn’t move a muscle.

  The jeep drew to a stop about eight feet from Bertha. A door on the passenger side slowly opened and a soldier cautiously stepped out, his M-16 at the ready. He carefully walked to Bertha and nudged her with his right foot.

  Bertha lay still.

  Two more soldiers emerged from the jeep, one of them the driver. They also carried M-16s.

  The first trooper, a sergeant, put the barrel of his M-16 on Bertha’s head. With his right hand on the trigger, he used his left to reach down and touch her cheek.

  “Is she dead?” one of the others asked.

  The sergeant straightened. “I don’t think so.”

  Blade hesitated in making his move, hoping the troopers would spread out a bit more or turn their bodies in another direction. As it was, the three were practically facing the boulders.

  “I think she’s faking it,” the sergeant was saying. “Look at the uniform she’s wearing.”

  Damn!

  Blade mentally lambasted his stupidity. Bertha was wearing a trooper’s uniform! Why hadn’t he thought of it before he had her lie down? Did they have female troopers in the Army?

  Damn!

  “If you don’t open your eyes right this instant,” the sergeant stated harshly, “I’m going to add another hole to your head.”

  Bertha opened her eyes and rolled over. She grinned at the sergeant.

  “Hi, there! Thanks for waking me from my nap.”

  “Cut the crap, bitch,” the sergeant rejoined. “I happen to know for a fact that women aren’t stationed at outposts like Catlow. So where did you come from? And how did you get out here in the middle of nowhere?

  Where’d you get that uniform?”

  “My, ain’t you a bundle of questions,” Bertha said.

  The sergeant jammed the barrel of the M-16 against her right breast. “I want answers, and I want them now.”

  Blade detected a motion out of his left eye.

  Hickok was moving to the right, crouched over, heading for the highway.

  What did he think he was doing?

  “I’m going to count to ten,” the sergeant told Bertha. “If you haven’t told me what I want to know by then, I’m going to ram this thing up your snatch and let you have it.”

  Bertha, incredibly, smiled. “Ohhh, how kinky! I love it!”

  “One,” the sergeant began.

  “You sure are friendly to strangers in these parts,” Bertha quipped.

  “Two.”

  Blade had lost sight of Hickok. What the hell was the gunman up to now?

  “Three.”

  Bertha went to rise, but the sergeant shoved her down.

  “Four,” he said.

  “Ain’t I gonna get a last request?” Bertha demanded.

  “Five.”

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a one-track mind?” Bertha asked.

  “Six.”

  Bertha glanced at the other soldiers. “Are you just gonna stand there and let him blow me away? Didn’t your momma ever tell you it ain’t polite to waste a lady?”

  “Seven.”r />
  “Seven always has been my lucky number,” interposed a new voice.

  The three soldiers looked up, elevating their weapons, covering the interloper.

  Hickok was nonchalantly standing in the very middle of the highway, not 15 feet from the troopers, his thumbs carelessly hooked in his gunbelt.

  He began walking casually to his left, to the far side of the road, forcing the soldiers to pivot and follow his movement, compelling them to turn their backs to the near side of the road and the boulders. “Howdy, neighbors,” he said politely. “I think the lady might have a point. You guys sure don’t know how to impress a woman, do you?”

  “Who the hell are you?” the sergeant demanded, flabbergasted at his audacity.

  “Would you believe Little Bo Peep?” Hickok responded, still moving.

  “Hold it!” the sergeant growled. “Another step and you’re history!”

  Hickok stopped, his hands dropping to his sides.

  “Are you with her?” the sergeant snapped.

  “I got better taste than that,” Bertha interjected.

  “Shut up!” the sergeant shouted at her. “You!” he bellowed at the gunman. “Unbuckle that belt!”

  “What? My pants will fall down. Do you want me to expose my knobby knees to the world?” Hickok asked.

  “I’m not fooling!” the sergeant warned. “Do it right now or else!”

  Hickok’s left hand drifted to his belt buckle. “I don’t reckon I could prevail upon you to surrender peaceably?”

  “What? Are you nuts?”

  “Nope. I’m alive,” Hickok stated, “which is more than I can say for you.”

  The sergeant never saw the massive arm encircling his neck, nor did he feel more than a twinge of pain as the razor point of a Bowie knife ripped up and into his neck, piercing his jugular, driving past his jawbone, and imbedding itself in the base of his skull. He gurgled once, blood erupting from the wound and cascading down his chest.

  The remaining pair of soldiers, intent on keeping an eye on the man in the buckskins, glanced at their sergeant, astonished to see a steely giant looming behind him. One of them tried to bring his M-16 to bear, but the woman on the ground suddenly swung her legs in an arc, clipping him behind the knees and sending him sprawling to the highway.

  Frantic, the third trooper swung toward the giant in the black vest.

  Before he could fire, the gunman was there.

  Hickok charged in a rush, grabbing the stiletto from behind his back and lunging, the narrow blade penetrating the third trooper’s left eye.

  The trooper screamed and fell to his knees, futilely striving to extract the stiletto from his eye.

  He quivered for a moment, then toppled over, dead.

  Bertha was on top of her foe, pinning him to the road with the M-16 pressed against his neck. He was gaping at her in sheer horror.

  “Please don’t kill me!” he wailed.

  Blade and Hickok joined her.

  “What should I do with him?” Bertha asked.

  “Watch him for a moment,” Blade instructed her. He turned and strode into the darkness.

  Bertha stood, the M-16 in her hands. “Don’t move!” she told her prisoner. “And keep quiet!”

  The young soldier froze, his eyes wide.

  Bertha looked at Hickok. “Thanks for the assist, White Meat.”

  “Any time.”

  “Too bad you had to go and marry Sherry,” Bertha stated. “We would of made a great combo.”

  Hickok nodded at the captive. “Now’s not the time nor the place.

  Besides, I thought we had this all settled.”

  “I never made any promises,” Bertha mentioned.

  Hickok, desperate to change the subject, leaned over the soldier. “Did I just see your eyelid twitch?”

  “No, sir!” the trooper timorously replied.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Well, don’t let it happen again!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Leave the poor boy alone,” Bertha said. “He might pee his pants if you keep it up.”

  They clearly heard the sound of the SEAL starting, and a few seconds later Blade drove the transport onto the roadway. He braked, turned it off, and jumped outside to the ground. Geronimo and the others followed his example.

  “What do we have here?” Orson demanded. He walked up to the soldier and, without warning or explanation, kicked him in the side.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doin’, big belly?” Bertha angrily inquired. “There was no need for that!”

  “Just giving him some of his own medicine,” Orson answered, surprised by her attitude. “What’s the big deal.”

  “Leave him alone,” Blade commanded, stepping up to Orson.

  The bearded grumbler started to say something, decided it wouldn’t be wise, shrugged instead, and walked away.

  “What are we going to do with him?” Geronimo asked.

  “First things first,” Blade said. He looked at Rudabaugh. “Take the binoculars up that rise and keep your eyes peeled. If you see anything heading our way, come running.”

  Rudabaugh nodded and left.

  Blade squatted next to the soldier. “I’m going to ask you some questions. I want honest answers.” He drew his right Bowie, the one he’d used to kill the sergeant. “If I suspect you’re lying, you know what I’ll do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. How many soldiers are left in Catlow?” Blade inquired as a test question.

  “Let me think,” the trooper said hastily, calculating. “About twenty-five,” he concluded.

  Blade nodded. The number fit. He’d already known there were originally 40 in Catlow. They had wiped out the 12 guarding the Flatheads. The 3 here made it 15. Subtract 15 from 40, and the result was 25. The trooper was telling the truth.

  “Where is the garrison located?” Blade wanted to know.

  “There’s a large square in the center of town,” the soldier said. “Our headquarters is a concrete building to the south of the square.”

  “Were you sent to check on the road crew, on the Flatheads?”

  “How did you know?” The trooper asked, gawking.

  “Who’s in charge in Catlow?”

  “Captain Reno.”

  “When will he expect you back?” Blade queried.

  “Not before morning,” the soldier stated. “He told us he thinks they had mechanical trouble, and they wouldn’t want to leave one of the transports with a load of Indians out overnight. He said they were probably camping out and would send the jeep back in the morning for a mechanic. It’s happened before.”

  “Why wouldn’t they just send someone back at night?” Blade inquired.

  “We don’t do a lot of driving at night, not unless it’s really necessary.”

  “I don’t get it. Why not?”

  The soldier fearfully gazed skyward. “There are… things… out at night.”

  “But the captain sent you?”

  “He felt it would be safe,” the trooper responded. “The moon is not out tonight.”

  “What the blazes does the moon have to do with anything?” Hickok questioned.

  “I don’t rightly know. I’m kind of new here. I was assigned to Catlow only a month ago. I’ve heard a lot of stories— “

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be standin’ out here,” Bertha said, looking up.

  “What do we do with him?” Geronimo mentioned again.

  “We could tie him up and leave him at the side of the road,” Hickok suggested.

  “Please! No!” the soldier pleaded. “They might get me!”

  “Who might get you?” Blade asked.

  “The… things.”

  “Why not give him to me?” Lynx requested. He had been quietly leaning against the SEAL, but now he moved forward and stood near Blade. “I could use a tasty snack.”

  At the sight of the genetic mutant, the young soldier recoiled in stark fear. “Keep h
im away from me!”

  “He won’t hurt you,” Blade promised.

  “Sure, sonny,” Lynx said, grinning, his green eyes twinkling. “I was only foolin’.”

  “I know who you are,” the trooper informed Lynx.

  “Oh. you do?”

  “Yeah. I saw you on the news. You’re the one who tried to kill the Doktor! You’re the one who nuked the Citadel!” The trooper’s eyes were terrified saucers.

  Bertha glanced at Lynx. “You nuked the Citadel?”

  “What’s the big deal?” Lynx demanded defensively. “It wasn’t a big nuke! Just a little thermo, the portable missiles they used a lot during World War Three.”

  “You nuked the Citadel?” Bertha shook her head in disbelief. Her knowledge of nuclear weaponry was scanty, a result of her lack of schooling. But she had heard many tales during her gang years in the Twin Cities, and she knew from firsthand experience some of the horrifying results of the nuclear devastation caused by the Third World War.

  “You’re the one they call Lynx!” the soldier exclaimed. “You’re the reason they had to evac—” He abruptly stopped, his head cocked to one side.

  “SSSShhhhh,” Hickok said.

  “Does anybody hear anything?” Geronimo asked.

  They all listened intently. There was a faint swishing sound in the air.

  “What is that?” Hickok queried.

  “Where’s it comin’ from?” Bertha questioned.

  Blade stood. “It’s an odd noise, isn’t it?”

  “It’s coming from overhead,” Geronimo declared.

  “It sounds like a colossal canary to me,” Lynx commented.

  “It’s one of the things!” the young soldier screeched.

  “It’s what?” Blade inquired. “What are these things you keep talking about?”

  The swishing increased in volume, resembling the rhythmic beating of monstrous wings.

  “What the blazes is it?” Hickok demanded.

  “I can barely make out… something,” Geronimo mentioned.

  “It’s going to get us!” the trooper yelled. Before any of them knew what he was doing, in a surprising display of speed, he twisted, pushed himself erect, and bolted into the night, into the field on the far side of the highway.

  Geronimo attempted to grab him, but missed.

  “I’ll get the dumb kid,” Lynx volunteered, and took off in pursuit.