Anaheim Run

by David Robbins

  Tab didn’t appreciate the insult one bit. He brandished the carving knife menacingly. “You won’t be such a smart aleck when we’re done with you!”

  “You’ll get yours!” Hickok vowed.

  Tab motioned with the knife, and the chicken walked off to the left, to the post where the rope was secured.

  “I hope this hurts!” Tab taunted the Warrior. He looked at the second cannibal. “Go ahead!”

  The chicken raised his right arm, then arced the axe downward, slicing the rope.

  Ordinarily a fall of three feet wouldn’t have fazed the gunman. But he had been hanging from the rope for hours; his shoulders were aching terribly, and his arms were numb from his elbows to his fingernails. He landed in the dirt, dropping to his knees, his shoulders lancing with pain.

  Tab cackled. “You ain’t so high and mighty now, are you?”

  Hickok doubled over, feigning extreme anguish, forcing his fingers to clench and unclench.

  “On your feet!” Tab ordered.

  Hickok stayed put, clenching and unclenching, clenching and unclenching, feeling his forearms start to tingle.

  “On your feet!” Tab commanded angrily.

  Hickok glanced up, careful to keep his hands hidden by his body. “I can’t! You’ll have to carry me!”

  Tab laughed. “We ain’t going to carry your ass! On your feet! Now!”

  The second cannibal stepped up to the Warrior.

  Tab waved the carving knife in a small circle. “I’m not standing out in this rain all night! If you don’t get up, I’ll start cutting on you right here!”

  Hickok pretended to rise, then slumped down again, furiously working his fingers. He couldn’t go for the Colts. Too noisy.

  “Enough of this bullshit!” Tab bellowed. He looked at the duck. “Bring him!”

  The second cannibal stooped over, taking hold of the Warrior’s left arm.

  Hickok could feel sensation in his fingers again. He grinned, slowly rising, his blue eyes darting from the carving knife to the axe, assessing the probabilities, and he opted for the knife because Tab was holding it so carelessly, so loosely.

  “Now that’s more like it!” Tab declared, the last words he was ever to utter.

  Hickok lunged, his fingers closing on the top of the carving knife blade and wrenching it from Tab’s grasp even as his left leg drove up and out, catching the chicken in the midsection and sending the cannibal tumbling backwards. He slid his hands along the blade to the hilt and reversed the grip, extending the carving edge, all in a swift, smooth motion.

  Tab went for the Colts.

  Hickok slashed the carving knife in a vicious semicircle, and at the apex of his swing the cutting edge ripped the cannibal’s throat open from one side to the other.

  Tab voiced a gurgling screech, clutching his neck, blood spurting everywhere.

  There was no time to finish Tab off. Hickok whirled to confront his other opponent.

  The bird had regained his balance and was hurtling toward the Warrior with his axe upraised for a death blow.

  Hickok backpedaled, knowing his carving knife couldn’t withstand the axe, but as he retreated his moccasins slipped on the drenched, slippery ground and he fell to one knee. The movement saved his life.

  The chicken had aimed a terrific swipe of the axe at the Warrior’s head, but the gunman’s misstep dropped him below the swinging axe.

  Hickok found himself on his left knee, within arm’s reach of the chicken’s legs. He took instant advantage of the situation, stabbing the carving knife up and in, imbedding the blade in the bird’s groin.

  The Second cannibal shrieked and released the axe, bending over and grabbing for his genitals.

  Hickok yanked the knife out, then rose, bringing the carving knife up with the tip held vertically, savagely ramming the blade into the chicken’s neck.

  The chicken squawked and frantically clawed at the Warrior’s eyes.

  Hickok pulled the knife loose and sidestepped.

  The chicken stumbled, almost straightened, then pitched onto his bill on the muddy turf.

  Hickok twirled.

  Tab was still on his feet, lurching toward the barracks, weaving and tottering, not ten feet off.

  Hickok raced in pursuit and caught the cannibal by the scruff of the neck. He tugged, drawing Tab backwards, tripping the cannibal with his right leg.

  Tab fell onto his back, the blood pouring from his throat, whining plaintively.

  Hickok went to his knees, plunging the carving knife into Tab’s right eye.

  Tab’s left eye widened and he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. His arms flapping, he began convulsing uncontrollably.

  Hickok maintained his pressure on the hilt until Tab’s spasms ceased.

  He took a deep breath, then glanced at the barracks to see if more cannibals were after him.

  None were in evidence.

  Hickok quickly reversed his grip on the knife and applied the edge to the rope binding his wrists. Fifteen feet of rope trailed from his arms along the ground. He was lucky he hadn’t become entangled during the fight! And he was fortunate the howling wind and the pummeling rain had prevented the cannibals in the barracks from hearing the struggle!

  After a minute the rope parted.

  Hickok’s hands flashed to his Pythons, and he raised them aloft with a smile of exultation. The feel of the pearl grips against his palms sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through his body. He stood, the wind whipping his blond hair, the rain battering his buckskins, but he ignored the storm as he faced the barracks.

  So they were going to eat him for supper, were they?

  Gut him like a fish and fry his flesh in a skillet!

  Hickok grinned, tingling with expectation. It was time to settle accounts, to avenge the countless nameless victims of the cannibals over the years, to teach these vermin the meaning of the word justice. He bolstered his Colts and stalked toward the barracks, calculating the odds.

  Eight cannibals had jumped him at the dock, but others had been waiting at the fort when he was brought there. Fourteen all told. Four were women, four were kids. He wasn’t partial to blowing away ladyfolk and young’uns, so he’d let them live if they didn’t intervene. But the male cannibals were going to meet their Maker. Tab and the bird were dead, which left eight.

  The fight would be about even.

  The gunman stopped outside the barracks door and checked his Pythons. Both were loaded with five rounds in the cylinder. He replaced them in their holsters, squared his shoulders, and knocked on the door.

  The barracks building was a low, squat affair with a single door on the north end. The flicker of a lantern was visible through one of the two drape-covered curtains. Laughter and boisterous gab emanated from inside.

  Hickok knocked once more.

  “Who’s there?” called a gruff voice.

  Hickok recalled an ancient custom Plato had told him about when he was a small boy. In the prewar society, one night a year, the parents had sent their children out to collect as many bags of sweets as they could, simply so the parents could spend the next eleven months taking their youngsters to the dentist where the kids could have their sugar-corroded teeth repaired. A very strange custom.

  “Who the hell is it?” the gruff voice demanded. “Tab? Is that you?”

  “Trick or treat,” Hickok declared.

  “What?”

  “Trick or treat! Are you hard of hearing, you numbskull?”

  “Tab, you and your stupid tricks…” the man began as the door opened.

  “How’d you guess?” Hickok said.

  The cannibal, a stocky man with unkempt hair and greasy clothing, armed with a revolver angled under his deer-hide belt, gaped at the Warrior. “You!” he blurted, trying to draw.

  There was no contest.

  Hickok’s arms were nearly invisible blurs as he pulled his irons, and the cannibal hadn’t even touched his firearm when the right Colt boomed and a crimson cavity
blossomed in the cannibal’s forehead.

  The stocky cannibal was hurled backward by the impact, crashing over a chair and smacking onto the hardwood floor.

  Seven to go.

  Hickok calmly stepped into the barracks, looking to the left and the right, finding cannibals on both sides.

  A lean man grabbed a makeshift spear from the top of a wooden table and swept his arm back for the throw.

  Hickok fired his left Python.

  The spearman was hit in the nose, his head snapping backward as he was flung against the far wall.

  Six left.

  Pax and two other men were standing next to a row of beds aligned along the west wall. Pax’s Ruger was on the nearest bed and he made a lunge for the rifle.

  One of the women was screaming.

  Hickok sent a slug into Pax’s head and saw the chief cannibal drop like a plummeting rock. The gunfighter advanced toward the beds, his Pythons thundering twice more and the other two cannibals shared Pax’s fate.

  Three men remaining.

  Hickok felt a tug on his left sleeve as a gunshot sounded to his rear. He whirled, discovering a male cannibal with a derringer. His right Colt cracked and bucked, dispatching the man into eternity.

  Two.

  “Die, you bastard!” someone shouted to his right.

  The gunfighter swiveled, Pythons leveled, and there were the two men charging toward him, one armed with a short sword, the other with a knife. The left Python blasted twice.

  The pair of cannibals died side by side.

  Hickok grinned. And that was that!

  Not quite.

  There was an inarticulate scream of sheer rage from behind him.

  The gunfighter spun, finding a female cannibal in a grimy brown dress three paces away with a meat cleaver waving above her head. He shot her squarely between her green eyes and she pitched onto her face at his feet.

  A sudden hush descended on the barracks.

  Hickok surveyed the room, recounting the bodies. The four kids and the three surviving women were huddled in the southwest corner of the barracks, their features reflecting their abject fear. He took several steps in their direction. “If I were you,” he advised, “I’d stay put. Don’t leave this building. I’m going to tell tha Free State Army about you, and they’ll most likely send a squad over here to tidy up this mess. Don’t worry none. No harm will come to you. I’ll see to it, personal-like.” He paused, wondering if he was being understood. “You’ve got to stop livin’ like animals. You’ve got to stop treatin’ folks like portable munchies. The Free State people will help you. I’m sure of it. So don’t skedaddle.”

  None of them said a word.

  Hickok walked to the door, double-checking all the corpses as he went.

  Satisfied they were dead, he halted and reloaded the spent rounds in his Pythons. He chuckled, feeling happy and content and so… so alive!

  Reluctant as he was to admit the fact, the shootout had been just what he needed. Missing that sniper at the airport had rattled him, shaken his self-confidence. And subsequent events had only compounded the problem. But now he had redeemed himself in his eyes, had reaffirmed his prowess as a Warrior. Which meant he had to settle one more account, and pronto.

  With the Gild.

  The Colts reloaded, Hickok twirled them into their holsters, smiled and winked at the petrified cannibals in the corner, and ambled from the barracks into the blustering storm.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When the rain came, Boone was grateful.

  The tempest would hide him from the… thing… in the lake.

  Boone had never spent such nerve-racking hours in his entire life. After the reptillian back had appeared above the surface of the pool, he had stayed as motionless as a stone, dreading the consequences if he should move and attract the creature’s attention. Eventually the mutant had submerged, and Boone had immediately gone to work on the cord binding his wrists and ankles, striving to loosen his hands or free his feet. But Nightshade’s knots were too tight and the leather cord was stretched taut.

  Every attempt to break his bonds resulted in severe pain in his shoulders and legs. He couldn’t pull on one without hurting the other.

  Twice the broad brown back had crested the top of the water, floated or meandered about the pool for a spell, and then disappeared.

  Boone had froze each time the creature became visible, then resumed his escape efforts once the thing submerged. But now, with the storm at full fury, he threw caution to the yowling wind and strained on the cord, hoping the elements would obscure his movements from the mutant. He recalled Kraken mentioning something about feeding someone else to the thing earlier, and he speculated on whether the mutant’s full stomach had saved his life.

  So far.

  The Cavalryman was saturated to his skin by the rain. As the rainstorm continued, he realized his wrists were becoming more and more slippery.

  And was his imagination playing games, or was the leather cord developing some slack? He worked his hands back and forth, the cord digging into the skin, mixing his blood with the rain.

  What was that?

  Boone glanced at the pool, squinting, striving to pierce the murky gloom.

  There it was again.

  A deep, guttural grunt.

  Boone perceived the vague outline of a huge form in the middle of the pool, and with a start he realized the thing’s head was above the water and looking in his direction!

  The mutant grunted again.

  Could it see him? Would it come after him? The thought of gleaming fangs sinking into his body goaded him to action. If he could put some distance between the pool and himself! Boone dug his chin into the ground, tensed his shoulders, arched his back, and drew his knees upward, then straightened as far as the cord would allow. Resembling a buckskin clad snail, he slowly, painstakingly inched his way up the gradually curving bank. Once he slipped and his face plowed into a puddle, mud splattering his lips and cheeks. He girded his strength and kept crawling.

  A tremendous splash sounded from the pool.

  Boone refused to admit defeat. Expecting to feel a heavy weight crash onto his back at any moment, he snaked onward, ever upward, continuing to try to stretch the cord around his wrists even as he proceeded inch by muddy, soaked inch. He tasted the muck in his mouth and swallowed. To his astonishment, he reached the rim of the bank unmolested. His exertion was taking its toll; every muscle ached and his wrists were throbbing. But he could move his hands a bit, and thus encouraged, he struggled anew. The rain was softening the leather cord, rendering the leather more pliable.

  There was a thump and a hiss from behind him.

  The mutant was emerging from the pool!

  Boone twisted, rolling onto his left side, desperately wrenching on the cord.

  A gargantuan bulk loomed at the edge of the water.

  No!

  Not when he was this close!

  Boone gritted his teeth, frantically rubbing his hands front and back, front and back, disregarding the throbbing anguish in his wrists. The cord was loosening more and more with every second.

  But the mutant was shuffling toward him!

  Boone felt the cord give way, sliding over his knuckles. He desperately tried to unravel his fingers from the entwining cord.

  And then the mutant was there, a colossal reptilian monstrosity rearing skyward in the storm, the heavy downpour veiling its hideous face. The creature roared.

  Boone saw the mutant’s head lowering, and he caught a glimpse of a lengthy tapered snout, a mouth filled with wicked teeth, and a pair of bulging eyes. Fetid breath was on his face, almost gagging him, and he knew his doom was imminent. “No!” he shouted in defiance, wrenching on his arms one final time, and then his hands were free, and with the accomplishment came instantaneous action. He slid onto his back, drawing the Hombres faster than he had ever drawn them before, and he fired both revolvers when the mutant’s mouth was widening for a bite.

  A rumbling
bellow greeted the gunshots.

  Boone fired again as the mutant reared upright, the 44 Magnums belching their deadly lead. He blasted both guns a third time as the creature snarled and seemed to crouch at his feet, and he kept squeezing the triggers, firing as the mutant shambled toward the pool and yet again as the creature plunged into the water. Was it gone? Was it really gone?

  He trained the barrels on the pond, waiting for the thing to reappear.

  The storm was still in full swing.

  Boone sat up, grinning, scarcely able to believe he was alive. He placed the Hombres next to his feet and hurriedly freed his ankles. As he scooped the Magnums up, he stood, but a wave of dizziness almost toppled him to his knees. He shook his head, stumbling away from the pool. Shelter! He needed shelter! Somewhere he could rest and recover his strength.

  The building 40 yards off was promising.

  The Cavalryman recollected Kraken saying the assassins were going to move to another part of the park. The nearby buildings should be safe. But what if the Gild members hadn’t moved yet? What if they had overheard the shots? He stopped and squatted, carefully reloading his Hombres, watching the building. Should he rest or head for the hotel? His wobbly legs served as his answer when he straightened. Rest was his first priority.

  He moved in the dirction of the building, his Magnums cocked, his feet squishing with every step.

  A shadowy figure materialized ahead, lurking near the structure.

  Boone crouched, watching the figure.

  Whoever it was walked from the east to the west, an indistinct profile blurred by the torrential rain. The shape went out of sight around the west end of the building.

  Boone compelled his legs to function as he hastened after the figure. A captured Gild member would be an invaluable source of information! If he could get the drop on the assassin, he’d take the S.O.B. back to Blade.

  Finding Hickok would have to wait. He cautiously approached the building and peeked past the northwest corner.

  The figure was heading for the first structure, the one farthest south.

  Hunched over, Boone crept after his quarry.

  The man halted at a porch on the west side of the first building, hesitated for several moments, then walked inside.