Boston Run

by David Robbins

"Yeah. But I hope to live long enough to enjoy my grandchildren."

  "Not me," Marcus said. "I don't care if I live to be thirty. I'm not married, like you guys, and I don't have any children. All I live for is to do my duty as perfectly as possible. And I can think of no greater honor than to go out in the line of duty, to die in the service of our Family."

  Hickok glanced back at the man in brown. "Listen up, eager beaver. I didn't bring you along so you could become a martyr. You're not allowed to kick the bucket without my say-so. Savvy?"

  "I'll do my best to stay alive," Marcus said. "Don't get me wrong. I don't have a death wish."

  "Here we are," Geronimo declared, leaning over the map. "We're on Highway Three, or what's left of it, a few miles west of a tiny town called Strawberry Point."

  "The folks livin' before the war sure gave their places strange names,"

  Hickok remarked.

  "Maybe they grew a lot of strawberries," Geronimo guessed.

  Marcus sat forward and leaned on the console. "Why are we sticking to the back roads? Wouldn't we make faster time if we used the major highways?"

  Geronimo shook his head. "Blade started the practice of using only the secondary roads and avoiding all the larger towns and cities. From past experience we know that the major highways are patrolled by bands of scavengers who ambush everyone they meet, and the cities are swarming with all kinds of misfits and mutations. We're better off sticking to the back roads. Hickok knows what he's doing," he said, then placed his left hand over his mouth and mumbled, "Oops."

  "I heard that!" Hickok declared. He grinned and looked at Geronimo.

  "You finally admitted it."

  "Admitted what?"

  "Don't play innocent with me, pard. You finally admitted I know what I'm doing. And I've got a witness."

  "Would you believe it was a slip of the tongue?"

  "Nope."

  "Can I plead temporary insanity?"

  "Nope. I've got you dead to rights. You actually paid me a compliment."

  "I pay you compliments all the time."

  "Oh, yeah? Like when?"

  Geronimo winked at Marcus, then gazed at the gunman. "Like the time Sherry claimed you are the most aggravating man on the planet and she couldn't understand why she loved a dimwit like you."

  "My missus said that?"

  Geronimo nodded. "Yep. She also said you were becoming more aggravating every day."

  "So how'd you compliment me?" Hickok asked suspiciously.

  "I told her it wasn't humanly possible for you to become more aggravating than you already were."

  "Gee. Thanks," Hickok muttered. He stared at the vegetation lining both sides of the road, then gazed out the windshield as the SEAL crested a low hill. The sight he saw made him tramp on the brake, sending the transport into a slide, slewing the front end at an angle. With an abrupt jerk the vehicle lurched to a stop.

  "What the—!" Geronimo exclaimed, both his hands on the dashboard.

  "See what I mean about your driving."

  Hickok nodded straight ahead. "Looks like Marcus will get his wish."

  Geronimo faced front and scowled.

  Forty yards from the SEAL, stacked ten feet high and arranged in a pile stretching from the woods on the north side to the woods on the south, completely blocking Highway Three, was a stack of recently failed trees, the leaves still green and healthy.

  "Blast!" Hickok snapped. "There's no way around unless we cut through the forest, and that'd slow us down."

  "Is this an ambush?" Marcus inquired excitedly.

  "This is an ambush," Hickok confirmed.

  "All right!"

  "Try not to get too broken up about it," Hickok quipped, studying the layout, his right hand tapping on the steering wheel.

  "How will we handle this?" Marcus questioned.

  "I'm thinkin," Hickok said.

  Geronimo sniffed loudly. "I thought I smelled something burning."

  "Pass out the long guns," Hickok directed Marcus.

  The man in brown twisted and reached into the rear section, where two automatic weapons and a rifle lay on top of the supplies. He grabbed the rifle first, a Navy Arms Henry Carbine in 44-40 caliber, and passed the weapon to Hickok.

  "Thanks," the gunman said.

  Next Marcus gave an FNC Auto Rifle to Geronimo. Then he seized the Heckler and Koch Model KH 94 he'd selected from the many automatics available in the armory, and cradled it in his arms. Once a semiautomatic, the HK 94 had been converted to full-auto capability by the Family Gunsmiths, whose job it was to insure every weapon in the armory worked properly.

  "We could use a rocket or the flamethrower on the barricade,"

  Geronimo suggested.

  "I want to save the rockets and the incendiary fuel for later. We might need 'em," Hickok said.

  "How about if we ram it?" Marcus proposed.

  Both Hickok and Geronimo glanced at the man in brown and slowly shook their heads.

  "Why not?" Marcus asked.

  "For all we know, there could be explosives planted in there," Hickok noted. "If we ram it, we might be blown to kingdom come. It's not likely, I'll admit, but we can't take the chance. The SEAL is tough, but dynamite or a grenade would damage it."

  "We have to push those trees aside," Geronimo stated.

  Hickok nodded. "The SEAL could do it. Someone has to go out there and check those trees before we try, though." He frowned. "I'll go."

  "You can't go," Geronimo said. "We can't risk anything happening to you. You've had the most experience driving the SEAL. I'll go."

  "Let me go," Marcus interjected, but neither of his fellow Warriors paid attention.

  Hickok looked at Geronimo. "You know they'll be waiting for you."

  "I know," Geronimo said.

  "Let me go check," Marcus said.

  "I want you to stay here," the gunman told Marcus.

  "Give me one good reason."

  "I said so."

  "That's not good enough," Marcus stated testily. "I have just as much right as Geronimo does to go out there."

  "Geronimo has more experience," Hickok said.

  "So? Didn't you bring me along on this run so I could get experience for myself?"

  "I reckon I did."

  "How am I supposed to get the experience I need if you keep me cooped up in the SEAL?"

  "You can watch us."

  "Come on, Hickok," Marcus urged. "I don't need a babysitter. Let me prove I'm reliable."

  Annoyed, Hickok gazed at the barricade. Marcus had a point. The man deserved a chance to show how good he was. "Okay. I'll compromise. Both of you will go. I'll cover you with the SEAL."

  "Try not to run us over," Geronimo said, and opened his door.

  "Try not to get your butt shot off," Hickok said.

  Geronimo grinned. "I didn't know you cared."

  "I don't. I just don't want you to lose whatever it is you use for brains."

  With the utmost caution Geronimo slid to the pitted, cracked asphalt.

  He crouched below the door, scanning the barricade and the woods, his entire body tense.

  Marcus climbed between the bucket seats and went to follow Geronimo.

  "Be careful," Hickok said.

  "I won't let you down," Marcus replied. "I'm not a kid, .Hickok. I don't need a mother hen watching over me all the time."

  "I know that or I wouldn't have brought you along," the gunman stated.

  "And if you ever call me a mother hen again, I'll shoot your toes off." He smiled sweetly.

  Marcus gripped the HK 94 and jumped to the ground beside Geronimo, who promptly swung the door shut. The muted whine of the SEAL'S engine seemed extraordinarily loud to Marcus.

  "You take the left side. I'll take the right," Geronimo instructed him.

  Together they straightened and stepped around the front of the transport, then advanced slowly toward the barricade, their automatic rifles leveled, their eyes alertly probing the vegetation.

  An unnat
ural stillness pervaded the forest. Nothing moved, not even an insect. The birds were hushed.

  Marcus walked along the left side of the highway, his body tingling with expectation. He licked his dry lips and willed himself to stay calm. If his excitement got the better of him, he'd become careless. He prided himself on his ability to remain cool and collected at all times, even in the direst crisis, and here was a golden opportunity to put his self-control to the ultimate test. Hickok would stop treating him as a brainless novice if he proved his dependability.

  Wait!

  What was he doing?

  Marcus almost stopped, startled by the realization he was thinking. He was letting his mind be distracted by internal musing when he should be totally focused on the external situation. Peeved at his lack of discipline, he made his mind a blank, sublimating his conscious thought, concentrating on the road, the barricade, and the woods. The road, the barricade, and the woods. The road, the barricade, and—

  Something moved in the woods.

  Marcus continued to advance, pretending he hadn't noticed the movement, his finger caressing the trigger of the HK 94. He glanced at Geronimo, who appeared to be unaware of the movement in the trees.

  From the rear came the sound of the SEAL'S huge tires crunching on the asphalt as Hickok followed them.

  A twig snapped off to the left.

  Marcus gazed at the barricade, now 20 yards distant. The tangled branches jutting from the downed trees formed an ideal curtain of green for any enemies who might be lying in concealment. Even as he watched, one of the limbs quivered, its leaves fluttering, as if someone had bumped it. For a second he felt exposed and vulnerable, knowing that he was the proverbial sitting duck, but he shook off the feeling and stepped forward.

  Ten more yards were covered without incident.

  Marcus glanced at Geronimo, who still seemed to be oblivious to the ambushers; he was walking along nonchalantly instead of being wary, which astounded Marcus. He knew Geronimo was rated as one of the best Warriors, and he couldn't comprehend why the Indian wasn't more concerned about the trap. Unless, he reasoned, Geronimo's attitude was a ruse, a method of lulling their adversaries into complacency, a means of allowing the Warriors to get closer to the barricade without drawing fire.

  Another limb shook for a moment, then subsided.

  Five yards separated the Warriors from the fallen trees.

  And suddenly a dozen forms rose from hiding at the barricade, while from the forest on both sides of the road poured 30 or 40 shrieking, bloodthirsty figures.

  Chapter Nine

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Berwin stepped quickly to the doorway and saw Jennings in Doctor Milton's grasp. The kindly physician's features were contorted in fury, and he was shaking the janitor violently.

  "Answer me, damn you!" Milton barked.

  Jennings's eyes were wide, his face a mask of terror. The broom had dropped to the floor. "Sweeping!" he replied fearfully. "I was just sweeping!"

  "We don't require your services today, you dolt!" Milton hissed. "Who gave you permission?" He suddenly became aware of Berwin's presence and immediately added, "Don't say a word yet. We'll get to the bottom of this shortly." With a visible effort he composed his raging emotions and released the janitor. "Pick up your broom."

  Jennings promptly obeyed.

  "Is there a problem?" Berwin asked. "The man was just cleaning my room."

  Doctor Milton cleared his throat and studied the giant's countenance.

  "Was that all?"

  "What do you mean?" Berwin responded, intentionally sounding puzzled by the question.

  "This is a special floor. When we have patients such as yourself, our nurses attend to the cleaning chores. We don't want our patients inadvertently disturbed. The janitors are only permitted on this floor when we don't have patients," Milton explained.

  Berwin shrugged. "No harm done."

  "Did he talk to you?" Milton inquired.

  "We chatted a bit," Berwin said, and he saw Jennings gulp and blanch.

  "What about?" Milton questioned gruffly.

  "Oh, about how he likes working days instead of nights, and about how he likes this job much better than whatever his last one was," Berwin answered with an air of innocence.

  "That was all?"

  "He mentioned how happy his wife is," Berwin said. He almost grinned at the relieved expression on the janitor.

  "Nothing else?" Milton pressed him.

  "That was it," Berwin responded. "I wasn't upset by the conversation at all."

  The physician glanced at Jennings, then at Berwin. "Okay. You're right, of course. No harm has been done. I apologize for flying off the handle, but you must appreciate my position. Many of my patients are undergoing delicate treatment, and the most innocuous comment could jeopardize my therapy by triggering a relapse."

  "I understand," Berwin assured him.

  "Good. Then why don't you wait in your room while I escort Mister Jennings from the ward?"

  "Fine," Berwin said, and moved to the bed. He mentally counted to ten, then darted to the doorway and peered out.

  Doctor Milton and Jennings were just going around a corner down the corridor to the right. He checked to insure the hallway was empty, then dashed after them, padding to within five feet of the junction, where he halted with his back to the wall. From past the corner came an angry voice, Milton's.

  "—in a cell and throw away the key! You stupid son of a bitch! You could have ruined all our work!"

  "I didn't do nothin'!" Jennings replied timidly. "Honest, Colonel. It wasn't my fault."

  "Then whose is it?"

  "The guard's."

  "Hey, asshole, don't blame me," a new voice interjected, evidently the guard's.

  "You waved me on," Jennings said.

  "Like hell I did," the guard snapped.

  "Tell me what happened," Milton ordered.

  Berwin listened intently, his eyes roving up and down the corridor.

  "I got off the elevator and saw the guard talkin' to Nurse Schmidt at the desk," Jennings detailed. "I said 'Janitor,' and he gave a little wave of his hand, like I was supposed to do the cleaning today."

  "Bull!" the guard declared. "I waved you off. You were supposed to get back in the elevator and leave."

  "Didn't you notice him walk by you?" Milton asked, an edge to his tone.

  Berwin heard the guard cough.

  "No, sir."

  "Why not?" Milton inquired harshly.

  "I assumed he'd get back on the elevator and leave," the guard said.

  "You assumed?" Milton repeated.

  "Yes, sir. Jennings should've known we have a patient on the floor," the guard commented.

  Milton's voice became acidic. "And exactly how the hell was he to know that? By reading your pathetic excuse for a mind?"

  The guard said nothing.

  "Don't blame Jennings for your incompetence," Milton stated. "You were flirting with Schmidt when he arrived, and you didn't pay any attention to him whatsoever. Instead of verbally instructing him to leave, as required by regulations, you waved your hand to send him on his way.

  Am I right?"

  "I didn't just wave. I motioned with my whole arm," the guard said defensively, then added, almost as an afterthought, "sir."

  "Is that right?" Milton asked again.

  A female voice, unfamiliar to Berwin, answered.

  "I wasn't paying much attention, sir."

  "Why not. Nurse Schmidt?"

  "I was talking to Private Crane."

  Berwin heard Milton hiss.

  "Both of you can consider yourselves on report."

  "But sir—" Private Crane said, starting to object.

  "Silence!" Milton ordered. "You may mistakenly believe that just because you are temporarily assigned to the HGP, and because this is primarily a biological-research project, that you can afford to goof off at your job. You're about to learn the hard way that such is not the case. I w
ill personally report this breach of security to the general."

  "You wouldn't, sir!" the guard exclaimed, clearly horrified at the likelihood.

  "You've brought this on yourself, Crane," Milton said.

  "What about me. Doc?" Jennings threw in. "Are you going to report me too?" His voice wavered as he spoke.

  "Don't worry, Jennings. This wasn't your fault. There won't be any repercussions against you."

  "Thank you, Doc," Jennings said, the words dripping with relief.

  Berwin cocked his head, his attention aroused by a peculiar droning noise punctuated by a tickling sound similar to the ringing of a small bell.

  "What's going on here?" inquired a new voice.

  Berwin straightened, recognizing the new arrival as Nurse Krittenbauer.

  "Ahhh, Nancy. You won't believe what has happened," Milton said.

  "Try me."

  Deciding that he'd risked detection long enough, Berwin hurried to his room. Once on his bed he sat with his forehead in his hands and pondered the quagmire of deception in which he was embroiled. Nothing was as it seemed. No one was who they claimed to be. Fact and fabrication were tangled indiscriminately.

  Dear Spirit! What had he gotten into?

  Who was he?

  He tried to sort the truth from the falsehoods, beginning with the simplest deduction, counting them off in his head. One, if he really was in Boston, Massachusetts, then Boston must be controlled by the Russians.

  Two, if the Russians were in control, then the United States had lost the war. Three, he was in a special ward administered by Russian doctors and scientists who were involved in a highly classified project. Four, Milton might actually be a physician but he was also a colonel, which indicated a military connection. Five, and predicated on his observation about Milton, Nurse Krittenbauer must be more than a nurse, perhaps another officer, if the respectful tone Milton had used toward her signified she was a peer. If so, Krittenbauer must be a plant assigned to watch him closely under the guise of being a nurse. Six, and most disturbing of all, he must figure prominently in whatever project the Russians were conducting.

  Berwin frowned and closed his eyes. He still didn't know why he instinctively viewed the Russians as his enemies. Think! he wanted to shout. Think!

  And suddenly distinct memories flooded his mind in a torrent. He remembered World War Three and its aftermath.