Denver Run Read online

  Brutus laughed, a peculiarly ominous sound. “Are you threatening me, Luther?”

  “What if I am?” Captain Luther countered.

  Geronimo saw the one known as Brutus reach out with his right arm.

  His huge right hand closed on the officer’s shirt, clamping down with the tremendous force of an iron vise. He raised his arm straight up, his elbow slightly bent, and lifted Captain Luther from the ground.

  “Let me go!” the officer ordered, striving to pry those stony fingers from his shirt.

  “Don’t ever threaten me,” Brutus warned, his tone low and grating, “I won’t tolerate being threatened. If you do it again,” he said, and paused, glaring into the officer’s eyes, “I’ll rip your heart from your chest and eat it raw.”

  “Let go of me!” Captain Luther cried, enraged by the humiliating treatment he was receiving.

  “As you wish,” Brutus remarked.

  The hulking psychopath grinned and released his grip.

  Captain Luther dropped to the grass, stumbling and almost going down on one knee. But he recovered his balance and stood erect, glowering up at Brutus, refusing to be cowed. “I am in command of this strike force,” he snapped, “and you will obey my orders or else! The Doktor sent you as an adviser—”

  “The Doktor sent me to keep my eyes on you,” Brutus said, correcting the officer. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. If you don’t like it, tough!”

  “You can keep an eye on me all you want,” Captain Luther stated. “Just don’t let me hear of you countermanding an order of mine again!”

  “I did what I thought was best,” Brutus said.

  “You ordered a patrol out without my approval,” Captain Luther declared, “and knowing damn well I had already said we weren’t going to send one out!”

  “We should check up on the Family,” Brutus rejoined, “and see what they’re doing.”

  “They’re waiting for us to attack,” Captain Luther mentioned crisply.

  “What else do you think they would be doing?”

  “They could be preparing a surprise for us,” Brutus commented.

  “What can they possibly do against all of us?” Captain Luther demanded.

  “You never know,” Brutus said.

  Captain Luther snickered. “We have two thousand men and a tank, not to mention the other goodies I brought along. By this time tomorrow night, the Home will be a pile of rubble and the Family will all be dead.”

  He chortled. “I can’t wait! We’ll destroy them!”

  “I hope so,” Brutus stated, “for your sake. The Doktor will be furious if we fail, and you know what he does with failures.”

  “I know,” Captain Luther said, a tinge of fright in his voice.

  “It’s strange we haven’t heard from the Doktor by now,” Brutus noted in a calmer voice.

  “He should have contacted us,” Captain Luther agreed. “He might simply be busy with other matters.”

  Geronimo was surreptitiously studying Brutus. The man’s high, sloping forehead, extremely bushy brows, and protruding lips all combined to lend a sinister aspect to his appearance. A sudden flaring of one of the nearby campfires caused Brutus to be bathed in a glow of reddish-orange light.

  For a brief moment, his face was vividly illuminated.

  Geronimo was riveted by the bizarre sight.

  Brutus was an ogre. His eyes were unnaturally large, giving him a popeyed countenance. The tip of his nose slanted at an abrupt angle, decidedly snoutish in its shape. Two of his teeth, the incisors, extended from under his upper lip. And his skin had a queer pitted quality about it, as if its texture were as rough as the trunk of a tree.

  Geronimo recognized Brutus for what he, or it, was.

  One of the Doktor’s genetic deviates.

  The infamous Doktor had refined a technique for altering a human embryo in a test-tube. He had perfected a method of restructuring the genetic code, of producing outlandish animalistic humans, monstrosities part human and part… thing. The Doktor had been one of the world’s leading genetic engineers. But instead of devoting his skills to the benefit of humankind, he had used his warped genius to create a corps of personal assassins with superhuman strength.

  Brutus was obviously one of the Doktor’s killers.

  Captain Luther and Brutus had calmed themselves considerably.

  Apparently, the officer wanted to stay on the best possible terms with Brutus despite their disagreement.

  “Do you ever wonder what this Family is like?” Captain Luther asked.

  “Who cares?” Brutus retorted.

  Brutus certainly is the intellectual type, Geronimo thought.

  “Don’t you ever think about what life would be like outside the Civilized Zone?” Captain Luther inquired.

  “Such thoughts are dangerous,” Brutus reminded the officer. “They can get you in a lot of hot water.”

  “Then you’ve never considered it?” Capture Luther pressed him.

  Brutus fidgeted uncomfortably. He unconsciously ran his left hand along his neck, stroking a thin metal collar he wore.

  “Don’t worry,” Captain Luther said, laughing. “The Doktor can’t hear you with that monitoring collar of his.”

  “What?”

  “How can he eavesdrop?” Captain Luther queried. “All of his equipment, including the satellite link, was destroyed when Cheyenne was nuked. There’s no way he can hear us.”

  “I don’t know,” Brutus said doubtfully.

  “Suit yourself,” Captain Luther stated, and shrugged. “But I can’t help but wonder what these people are like. We know a lot about them, like why they call themselves Warriors and Tillers and Healers and such, but—”

  “Why do they?” Brutus interrupted.

  “It has something to do with the man who started the Home,” Captain Luther revealed. “He was a believer in ‘social equality,’ so he began this nonsense about having every member of the Family receive a title. He thought it would make everyone socially acceptable. You wouldn’t have anyone looking down their nose at someone else just because of the job they did.”

  “Sounds pretty weird to me,” Brutus said.

  “They’re a weird bunch,” Captain Luther concurred. “When I learned I was coming here,” he elaborated, “I consulted the records on this Family. I wanted to learn their strengths and their weaknesses.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “You’d be surprised how much data we’ve accumulated over the years with out listening posts,” Captain Luther remarked. “Samuel had a great idea there. By periodically setting up our sensitive microphones outside isolated communities, we’ve been able to keep taps on them.” He paused, staring at the encampment. “This Family isn’t all that strong. They have a dozen or so warriors who are responsible for protecting their Home. They also have a well-stocked armory. But that’s about it. Nothing we can’t handle.”

  “We’ll crush them like bugs!” Brutus predicted.

  “We haven’t spied on them in months, though,” Captain Luther went on, “so we don’t know what they’ve been up to lately.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Brutus opined.

  “The Doktor gave me the impression he thought they might have had something to do with the nuking of Cheyenne,” Captain Luther said.

  “The Family?”

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” Captain Luther stated, “but that’s the impression I received.”

  “Do we leave at first light?”

  Captain Luther gazed at the stars. “At first light,” he confirmed. He looked at the camp again. “I still can’t believe the Doktor gave command of this assignment to me.”

  “Most of the senior officers were killed when the headquarters in Cheyenne went up in smoke,” Brutus pointed out. “Besides, the Doktor trusts you.”

  Captain Luther smiled slyly, as if the unsuspecting canary had swooped within range of the cat’s claws. “Then why don’t you?”

  “It isn
’t that I don’t trust you,” Brutus began lamely.

  “Then why do you keep butting in?” Captain Luther demanded.

  “I need to insure we succeed.”

  “We will,” Captain Luther promised. “Don’t worry.”

  “I can’t help but worry,” Brutus declared. “If we don’t do as the Doktor wants, I could wind up being the course of instruction in one of his anatomy classes.”

  “If you’re—” Captain Luther started to say, then abruptly stopped.

  The sharp crack of gunfire erupted from the east side of the encampment.

  Captain Luther and Brutus took off at a brisk clip.

  Geronimo crawled from under the pine tree and stood.

  It had to be Hickok!

  What had the big dummy done and gone now?

  Geronimo turned and jogged to the south, moving as rapidly as feasible. The trees were giant black sentinels in the night, their limbs ready to gouge or ensnare him if he blundered into one of them.

  The shooting had ceased.

  What if the soldiers had killed Hickok?

  Geronimo increased his pace, taking senseless risks, darting between and around trunks and other obstacles at a reckless speed.

  He should never have let Hickok go off by himself!

  They should have stayed together!

  Some shouting broke out, off to the east.

  Geronimo ran between two trees and artfully skipped to his right to avoid a big bush.

  That’s when it happened.

  His left foot caught in something, an exposed root or a low limb, and before he could break free and right himself, he stumbled forward, headfirst, his arms outstretched.

  He never saw the tree trunk.

  Geronimo felt an excrucating pain lance through his head. He fell to his knees, dazed, struggling to retain his consciousness. Bright white stars exploded before his eyes, and he collapsed on the musty ground.

  In the distance there was more shooting.

  Chapter Six

  Hickok traveled in a circular pattern after leaving Geronimo. He stayed clear of the camp, swinging to the east as he searched for a weak spot.

  He had a terrific idea.

  If he could somehow sneak into the enemy camp and find the head honchos, he’d up and blow ’em away. Maybe, if these wimps were deprived of their leaders, they’d hightail it back to the Civilized Zone and leave the Family in peace.

  He grinned at his brainstorm.

  True, it might be smart to try and overhear what the bigwings were talkin’ about, to see what they had in mind. And there was a prime drawback to his scheme to perforate their noggins; the other troopers would probably gun him down on the spot.

  But it would be worth it, he told himself, if it stopped the attack on the Home.

  The gunman was a hundred yards along the eastern perimeter of the encampment when he detected the flaw in their sentry arrangement.

  Bingo!

  There were two of the guards, posted as the others were, 20 yards apart. Behind these guards, lined up single file, was a row of troop transports. Beyond the trucks were several campfires surrounded by soldiers. But the troop transports effectively blocked off the light from the campfires. The area between the two sentries was plunged into darkness.

  Hickok smiled as he advanced through the trees for a closer look-see.

  What a bunch of cow chips! They hadn’t spotted the weakness in their perimeter and taken appropriate steps to recify it. These Civilized Zone goons sure were amateurs!

  This would be a piece of cake!

  The gunman reached the last tree before the camp. The guards were about ten yards off, one in each direction. They appeared to be bored by the sentry detail; at least they weren’t actively scanning the woods for any indication of a threat.

  That was their second mistake!

  Hickok eased onto his stomach, cradled the Henry in his left elbow, and started to crawl from cover. He hesitated. The rifle would only slow him up, and a stray streak of light from the fires might glint off the gun and give him away. He couldn’t take the risk. Reluctantly, he placed the Henry at the base of the tree.

  He still had his Colt Pythons.

  Hickok slowly inched into the open. Neither of the guards paid any attention.

  Heh-heh-heh!

  The gunman almost giggled aloud at their stupidity. He moved toward the troop transports.

  One of the troopers in the camp began singing at the top of his lungs.

  Off-key, yet.

  Hickok thanked the Spirit for the noise and crawled a mite faster, confident the pair of sentries wouldn’t hear him.

  The guard to his left coughed.

  Hickok froze and peered at the sentry. The man was sniffling. Poor baby! He must have a cold!

  There was an unusual hissing sound to his right.

  Hickok glanced in that direction.

  The other sentry had unzipped his fatigue pants and was taking a leak.

  Somebody sure did a lousy job of training these nitwits!

  Hickok scrambled under the first truck and paused.

  The singer was entertaining his companions with a song about a soldier, a barmaid, and leather and lace.

  Hickok kept going, always keeping to the shadows. He could see dozens of soldiers on the other side of the truck.

  A pair of black boots unexpectedly appeared to his right, near the vehicle. The boots walked from right to left and disappeared from view behind the left rear tire.

  Hickok waited until he was certain the boots weren’t going to return, and then crawled behind the left front tire.

  So far, so good.

  Now where the blazes were the officers?

  Hickok peeked around the tire and watched the assembled troopers go about their business of eating, cleaning their weapons, and engaging in idle chatter. Some of them were playing cards.

  But there was no sign of the officers.

  The troop transports were lined up from north to south, with the cabs positioned facing due north, the direction in which they had been driving when the convoy called it quits for the night.

  Hickok decided to crawl under the next truck in line. There was a narrow space between the trucks, but no one was looking his way. He carefully moved from under the First truck.

  “What the hell are you doing?” demanded a stern voice overhead.

  Hickok, startled, glanced up.

  A soldier was perched on the fender of the troop transport. The hood of the truck was propped open, and he was leaning on the radiator, a large crescent wrench in his right fist.

  Blast!

  Why hadn’t he seen the mechanic?

  “Over here!” the man bellowed, and dived at the intruder.

  Hickok rolled, hearing the crescent wrench thud into the ground an inch from his right ear. He was forced to roll into the camp to escape the mechanic, and as he lunged to his feet there were other loud cries of alarm.

  Just great!

  Some of the troopers were going for their weapons.

  Hickok, cornered, grinned and drew his Colt Pythons, the .357 Magnums flashing from their holsters. He snapped off two shots.

  A pair of soldiers clutched at their heads and toppled to the turf.

  Hickok whirled, just in time.

  The trooper with the crescent wrench was a foot behind the gunman, the big wrench uplifted for a crushing blow.

  Hickok shot him in the right eye.

  The trooper jerked backward, a crimson spray erupting from the rear of his head. He slammed against the cab of the truck and fell to the earth.

  Several M-16’s were firing from the direction of the nearest campfire.

  Hickok spun and blasted the Pythons four times.

  Four soldiers were struck in the head, two of them screaming as they fell to the ground.

  More M-16’s opened up.

  Time for Mamma Hickok’s only son to make for the hills!

  Hickok wisely retreated, knowing he was hopelessly outnumber
ed.

  There was no way he could surprise the officers now.

  Blast!

  The dirt at his feet flew in all directions as a burst from an M-16 missed him by inches.

  Hickok ran between the two trucks behind him, making for the open stretch beyond and then the forest. If he could reach the trees, he felt confident he could escape.

  The pair of sentries he’d bypassed earlier were hastening toward the encampment.

  Hickok’s Pythons boomed.

  The guard on the right catapulted to the grass.

  The sentry on the left twisted to the left as he was hit in the face. He shrieked as he staggered to his knees, then fell forward.

  A veritable clamor rose from the camp.

  “Get the son of a bitch!”

  “He went this way!”

  “Sound the alarm!”

  Hickok raced toward the tree line.

  Three soldiers skirted the cab of one of the troop transports, spotted the gunman, and began firing.

  Hickok threw himself to the right. He landed on his right shoulder and rolled, coming up on his knees, his Pythons held at waist level.

  The trio of troopers charged.

  Hickok’s Pythons bucked, spitting lead and death.

  Almost as one, the three soldiers went down.

  The Pythons were empty!

  Hickok rose and ran into the woods.

  “There he goes!” someone bellowed.

  “After him!”

  Hickok jogged due east, wanting to draw his pursuers away from Geronimo and his injured friends in the truck.

  Dozens of soldiers crashed into the undergrowth behind him.

  Hickok stopped, getting his bearings and listening to the noisy sounds of the troopers.

  The soldiers had fanned out in a skirmish line and were advancing, coming his way.

  Time to whittle down the odds some more.

  Hickok crouched behind a towering pine and quickly reloaded the Pythons, replacing the spent cartridges with new rounds from his gunbelt.

  All set!

  “Where the hell did he go?” a soldier demanded.

  Hickok peered around the tree.

  There was a shadowy form not ten feet off.