Capital Run

by David Robbins

  Blade shifted into drive and plastered the accelerator to the floor. The SEAL surged forward.

  “They’re comin’ straight at us!” Hickok yelled.

  The helicopter gunner fired again.

  Blade swerved to the left as the windshield was rocked by a sustained burst.

  “Are those bozos in for a surprise!” Hickok predicted, his right hand resting on the dashboard next to four silver toggle switches.

  The mercenaries Kurt Carpenter had employed were proficient at their craft. The SEAL incorporated four offensive armaments into its framework: a pair of 50-caliber machine guns mounted underneath each front headlight; a flamethrower positioned behind the front fender; a rocket launcher in the center of the front grill; and even a miniaturized surface-to-air missile secreted in the roof above the driver’s seat.

  Hickok’s hand touched the toggle switch marked S. “Ready when you are, big guy.”

  Blade had lost sight of the helicopter. Keeping the SEAL at 50 miles an hour, he leaned down and craned his neck in an effort to locate their antagonist. “I can’t see them,” he said.

  “So what?” Hickok replied. “This surface-to-air dingus is heat-seeking, isn’t it? Just say the word and it will take care of the rest.”

  “I don’t want to waste it,” Blade stated. “I want to be sure.”

  Hickok peered out his side of the transport. “I see a starling up there. Do you want me to practice on it?”

  “Find the copter!” Blade ordered.

  A minute passed without another attack.

  “Maybe they headed for the hills,” Hickok said.

  “We’ve got to be sure,” Blade told the gunfighter.

  The SEAL was heading east, toward St. Louis.

  “Where do you think it came from?” Hickok absently queried.

  “How would I know?” Blade retorted.

  Hickok grinned. “Boy! Somebody tries to kill you and you go to pieces! It doesn’t take much to put you in a bad mood, does it?”

  Blade braked the transport. “Get the binoculars.”

  Hickok climbed over the console and the wide seat into the rear section.

  “Where the blazes did we put them?” he asked.

  “They’ve got to be there somewhere,” Blade said, still searching for the helicopter.

  Hickok unexpectedly started coughing. “Oh no!” he cried in mock horror.

  “What is it?” Blade demanded, turning in his seat.

  Hickok was pinching his nose shut with his right hand while he held a pair of black socks aloft in his left. “I found your dirty socks!” He wheezed.

  “Whew! How does Jenny stand it?” he asked, referring to Blade’s wife.

  Blade glared at this friend. “Forget the socks and find those binoculars!”

  “We don’t need them,” Hickok said, dropping the smelly socks.

  “Why not?”

  “Look!” Hickok pointed out the passenger side of the SEAL.

  Blade turned.

  The helicopter was coming in from the south, angling for a broadside run.

  In the fraction of a second before Blade reacted, he spotted a bright red star painted on the tail of the copter. He buried the accelerator and slewed the SEAL to the left, off the highway and into the trees, barreling through the brush and snapping limbs and small saplings as the transport plowed onward.

  To their rear, a large portion of the road exploded skyward as a deafening blast rocked the countryside.

  “They must have rockets!” Hickok exclaimed as he climbed over the center seat and the console and reached his bucket seat.

  Blade stopped the SEAL under the spreading branches of a large maple tree. The vehicle’s green color, he reasoned, would serve as excellent camouflage in the midst of the forest.

  “Do you reckon those hombres lost us?” Hickok queried.

  “Let’s hope so,” Blade answered.

  “I still think we should have used the surface-to-air gizmo on those suckers!” Hickok said.

  “If they come back we will,” Blade pledged.

  But the helicopter didn’t return. The two Warriors waited and waited, their windows lowered, listening for the whirlybird.

  “They must have skedaddled,” Hickok speculated after a while.

  “Maybe they were low on fuel,” Blade guessed. He had left the SEAL’s engine idle while they waited, knowing there was no way the occupants of the aircraft could have heard its barely audible motor. Besides, he realized, he might need to make a hasty getaway.

  “We’d best check on Rikki, pard,” Hickok suggested.

  “Yes, we’d better,” Blade agreed. He carefully wheeled the transport between the trees and other vegetation as he executed a wide circle back to the highway. “He shouldn’t be too far ahead.”

  “What if he heard the fireworks and came a-runnin’?” Hickok inquired.

  “That helicopter might have went after him.”

  “We would have heard it,” Blade said. “What I want to know,” he added thoughtfully, “is what was all that shooting we heard when we first saw the copter?”

  The SEAL broke though the final row of trees and reached the highway, coming out into the open about 20 yards from the point where they entered.

  “Did you see that red star?” Hickok asked.

  “I saw it,” Blade confirmed, driving east.

  “What’s it mean?” Hickok questioned.

  “Beats me,” Blade responded. “We’ll have to study up on insignias after we return to the Home.”

  “If we return to our Home,” Hickok mumbled.

  “Nothing’s going to prevent us from returning to our loved ones,” Blade vowed.

  As if on cue, the helicopter zipped into sight from the north. It hovered stationary for a moment directly in front of the SEAL. There was a puff of white smoke from the underbelly of the craft.

  “They’ve fired a rocket!” Hickok shouted.

  Blade could see the black rocket or missile hurtling toward the transport. There wasn’t time to reach the safety of the woods again! And they certainly couldn’t outrun it!

  What else could they do?

  Chapter Three

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi’s skills as a martial artist was renowned, the tales of his exploits matched or surpassed by only a few of the Warriors: Blade, Geronimo, Yama, and definitely Hickok. For years his deadly expertise as the consummate lethal perfectionist in hand-to-hand combat or with Oriental weaponry had been common knowledge among the Family in northwestern Minnesota. Later, when the Family and the other members of the Freedom Federation fought the demented Doktor in a battle clubbed Armageddon, and again when the Freedom Federation launched an assault on Denver, Rikki had demonstrated his prowess against human and bestial foes. True, the stories told about him had not attained the epic proportions of those told about Hickok, but in an age devoid of mass entertainment, when television and movies no longer fabricated false heroes for the populace, when the lost art of storytelling had regained its deserved prominence around countless campfires and dinner tables, the name of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was one to be reckoned with. From northwestern Minnesota south to Texas, from Denver east to Kansas City, whenever people talked about the monumental clash between the Freedom Federation and the Civilized Zone, whenever the principles in that bloody, brutal conflict were mentioned, his name was high among them. And on this day Rikki lived up to his reputation.

  Lexine drew her survival knife as the dog pack closed in. She backed against the motorcycle, hoping the bike would protect her flank while she concentrated on the dogs in front of her.

  None of them reached her.

  Rikki’s katana was an invisible blur as he waded into the ferocious mass of canines. The first dog lost its front legs, the second half of its head, and the third was gutted in the twinkling of an eye. Rikki spun and slashed, twisted and sliced, constantly moving, his sharp-edged sword cleaving a foreleg here, a stomach there, or splitting a skull as easily as an overripe melon. The bravest dog
s and the fleetest of foot were the first to die; eight went down in as many seconds, some gushing blood and howling in torment. Rikki’s custom-made black clothing, especially sewn together by the Family Weavers, was spattered with crimson splotches and chunks of furry flesh.

  The six dogs remaining hesitated, deterred by the swift demise of their leaders. They warily circled their prey, growling and snapping, searching for a weakness, any opening they could exploit. A large Doberman, overeager, crouched and sprang.

  Rikki was ready. He dropped to his right knee, below the hurtling dog, and swung his katana with all of his considerable strength.

  The Doberman yipped as it lost three of its legs.

  A shepherd attempted to reach the man while he was down on one knee, but its throat was neatly cut open before it could sink its fangs in its intended victim, and it withdrew, gurgling and whining, blood pumping everywhere.

  The last three dogs.were reluctant to engage the man. The sight of their dead or dying comrades, many writhing in sheer agony and uttering pitiable cries, was too much for them. They broke and ran, heading for the hill to the east.

  Rikki slowly straightened, his alert eyes scanning his fallen foes for any capable of jumping him.

  All of them were out of commission.

  Lexine, a silent, stupefied witness to the fierce fight, shook her head in disbelief.

  Rikki glanced at her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Never been better,” Lexine responded in a daze.

  Rikki walked toward one of the crippled dogs, intending to dispatch the lot of them and put them out of their misery.

  A burst of gunfire erupted from the direction of the other side of the hill, followed by a peculiar noise from above.

  Rikki looked up, startled.

  A strange flying contraption was almost overhead, hearing to the west, powered by a spinning blade on its top and a smaller one located at its rear.

  “A red copter!” Lex shouted. “Slave hunters!”

  A what? Rikki looked at her, puzzled.

  “Did you hear those shots?” Lex inquired nervously.

  Rikki nodded. “Was it the… Red copter?”

  Lexine’s green eyes widened as she stared over Rikki’s left shoulder.

  “No,” she replied, pointing. “It was them!”

  Rikki turned and was surprised to discover the crest of the hill crammed with bikers. Where had they come from? Why hadn’t he heard them approach? The answer to both questions was self-evident: they had approached from the east while he was battling the dog pack, and he’d been so intent on dispatching the dogs he’d failed to note the bikers. Until now.

  The one called Cardew was with them.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” Lex exclaimed, starting to climb onto one of the abandoned motorcycles.

  The riders on the crest gunned their bikes and roared down toward the pair below.

  Lex, straddling the cycle, was futilely striving to start the machine.

  “What the hell is the matter with this thing!” she fumed. “Why won’t it kick over?”

  Rikki ignored her rhetorical question and faced the bikers. He noticed all of them wore black-leather apparel and all were armed. Two women were in the lead. One was a tall brunette, the other a hefty blonde.

  Lexine jumped from the useless cycle and ran to another of the bikes.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” she repeated.

  Rikki knew it was too late. Departure was out of the question. Already 20 bikers appeared, and more were rumbling over the hill every second.

  The tall brunette motioned with her right arm and the bikers fanned out, some veering to the left, others to the right, surrounding the man in black and Lexine.

  Lexine, finally realizing escape was impossible, crossed to Rikki’s side, standing to his left, her survival knife at the ready. “Looks like we blew it, handsome!” she shouted to make herself heard over the thundering cycles.

  “Sorry!”

  Over 40 bikers had encircled the pair. At a signal from the brunette all of the riders killed their engines.

  Rikki studied the brunette, the apparent leader. She wore a leather jacket and pants. A pair of revolvers were strapped around her lean waist, and Rikki recognized the handguns as Llama Super Comanche V’s. Her facial features were angular and hard, her mouth set in a tight frown. Pale blue eyes regarded him with calculating intent. Under her right eye, in a ragged line from the eye to the tip of her chin, was an old scar, as if one side of her face had once been torn apart.

  “So, Lex,” said the brunette in a mocking, strident tone, “who’s your boyfriend?” She smirked at Rikki.

  “Leave him out of this,” Lex stated. “It’s me you want, Terza.”

  The woman named Terza glared at Lexine. “I want you, all right, sweetheart. You’ll pay for trying to desert us! And so will lover boy here!”

  “Leave him go!” Lex urged.

  “No can do,” Terza said, shaking her head. She looked at the bodies of Pat and the other two women. “Cardew told me what he did. This bastard is going to pay!”

  “Listen!” one of the other bikers yelled.

  From the west, distinctly audible, came the harsh chatter of machine guns.

  “Look!” Cardew pointed westward.

  Rikki shifted his stance. The red copter was perhaps a mile off, swooping above the highway. He instantly perceived the reason for the machine-gun fire: that thing was attacking the SEAL, was going after his friends. He had to reach them! But how? He was completely hemmed in by a wall of motorcycles.

  “Do you think they’re after one of us?” Cardew queried.

  “None of our people are out that far,” Terza said. “They must be after somebody else.”

  “Should we go check?” Cardew asked her.

  “No,” Terza answered. “We’re going to take these two back before that copter returns.” She paused, absently biting her lower lip, reflecting.

  “Whoever the copter is after is doing us a favor. I was sure the Reds would strafe us after we shot at them. Our rifles and handguns ain’t much use against their firepower.”

  The portly blonde, a squat woman with a perpetually mean expression, nodded at Lexine. “Climb up behind me,” she ordered.

  “Get bent, Erika!” Lex retorted.

  Terza raised her left arm and over two dozen firearms were trained on Rikki and Lexine. “What’s it gonna be?” she asked Lex. “If you and lover boy don’t mount up, right now, we’ll blow you away!”

  Rikki, despite his calm exterior, was in a profound turmoil. There was no way he could hope to prevail against so many opponents. If he resisted, they would simply kill him. But if he allowed them to take him into St.

  Louis, he would be unable to aid Blade and Hickok. He scanned the rifles, revolvers, and pistols pointed in his direction and knew he had no choice.

  He would be of no benefit to his friends dead.

  “Drop the sword!” Terza commanded.

  Rikki reluctantly obeyed.

  “And the knife!” Terza snapped at Lexine.

  Lex angrily tossed her weapon aside.

  “Now get behind Erika,” Terza told Lexine.

  The redhead glanced into Rikki’s eyes for a moment, wanting to let him know how sorry she was to have involved him in this mess.

  “Move it!” Terza barked.

  Lexine mounted Erika’s bike.

  Terza grinned and winked at Rikki. “And you, lover boy, can get behind me.”

  Rikki dutifully slid his small frame behind the brunette. He stared at his bloody katana, averse to leaving it. His katana was an extension of himself, his most prized possession, a symbol of his Warrior nature, an essential component for a true samurai. Ordinarily, he would not relinquish the weapon under any circumstances. But this was an exception, and it just might save the lives of his companions.

  Terza led the cyclists to the east.

  As they crossed the low hill, Rikki caught his first glimp
se of St. Louis.

  He saw many towering buildings miles off, the skyline of the inner city.

  What had they called those tremendous structures in the days before World War III, before the Big Blast—as the Family referred to the war?

  After a minute he remembered. Skyscrapers. He’d seen such buildings once before, in Denver, Colorado, and after his return to the Home had researched them in the Family library. Prewar architecture fascinated him, as it did a majority of the Family. Many of the photographic books contained stunning pictures of incredible buildings: edifices reaching into the heavens, bizarre spherical structures and glistening domes, individual residences of every shape and size—some too fantastic to comprehend.

  Rikki had received the impression each city was a veritable concrete and metal labyrinth. How could people have lived in such an unhealthy environment? Deprived of rejuvenating contact with the earth, denied the pleasure of experiencing the joys of nature, of strolling through a verdant forest pulsing with the vibrant rhythms of animal life? It was no wonder the cities reputedly festered with asocial, deviate, and criminal behavior.

  And here he was, heading into a sweltering city.

  The cyclists passed a small group of six bikers, parked at the side of the road. Rikki spotted a small trailer hitched to one of the bikes. On the blue trailer was a cage, and in the cage were the three dogs from the pack. Two other trailers, both empty, were connected to stout bars to other cycles. So now he knew how the Leather Knights transported their hunting dogs.

  Small buildings appeared on both sides of the highway. Frame homes, brick houses, and others, comprising the outskirts of St. Louis, the suburbs. Some were occupied, as evidenced by their well-preserved state, their clean sidings, intact windows, and neatly trimmed lawns. One man was cutting his grass with an ancient rotary mower. Other homes were obviously vacant, their windows broken, their roofs and porches sagging or collapsed. Some of the residents waved at the Leather Knights.

  “The people seem to like you,” Rikki commented in Terza’s right ear.

  Terza glanced over her right shoulder. “Why shouldn’t they, lover boy? We keep the peace, don’t we? We protect ’em from the lousy Reds. The streets are safe at night. Why shouldn’t they like us?” she demanded indignantly.