Cincinnati Run

by David Robbins

  Forty feet to go.

  “Their confidence has been justified by his accomplishments,” General Stoljarov said. “The Hurricane and the 757 are but the tip of the iceberg.

  For his next demonstration, Leonid plans to obliterate a land target.”

  Land target? Blade didn’t like the sound of that.

  “And if the demonstration is successful, as we fully expect it to be, we can commence our campaign to eradicate any and all opposition to the expansion of Soviet domination. Within a year this country will be ours.

  Within three years the planet,” General Stoljarov asserted.

  “Don’t forger Mars and Venus,” Geronimo said.

  “Mock me while you can, but mark my words. We will not be denied our rightful destiny. Communism will ultimately prevail.”

  Thirty feet.

  “Communism will never prevail,” Blade stated. “Dictatorial regimes are their own worst enemies. When you sow hatred, you reap hatred, and the backlash of resentment will wash over you like a tidal wave.”

  “What nonsense. This world belongs to the strong, to those who reach out and take it. We are in power because we are the strongest, and we will remain in power because our strength will never fail.”

  “Dream on,” said Blade.

  “You won’t be around to witness the final outcome anyway, Warrior,” General Stoljarov commented.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Blade responded.

  Twenty feet.

  “One other thing I’m curious about,” Blade mentioned.

  “What is the Hurricane doing here? I know the VTOL was in route from Denver to Miami when it was shot down, so there was no reason for it to be over Ohio airspace. Where was the Hurricane when you fired your new toy?”

  “Near Louisville, Kentucky. The pilot was able to bring the Hurricane down in a field a mile from Louisville, and our people were on the scene within minutes. He was a fortunate man. We intended to vaporize the aircraft, but there were still a few kinks in the system then. The laser sheared off a portion of the tail and fuselage, yet the pilot landed safely.

  The Hurricane was brought here because the L.R.F. is the most secure installation we have. No one gets in or out without the proper credentials.”

  Blade looked back at the Hurricane. “Who repaired the damage to the VTOL?”

  “We did, obviously. We wanted the craft airworthy, and we’re not lacking in technical skills. The tail and fuselage were repaired a month ago. We were able to salvage a few compatible parts from old MIGs, and the rest were especially manufactured.”

  Ten feet.

  “What, exactly, is a laser?” Blade inquired.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” General Stoljarov rejoined.

  “Where is the pilot now?”

  “None of your business.”

  Blade was five feet from the door. If one of the troopers came around in front, his plan was doomed. He needed to be the first one to reach the door, so he increased his pace and gripped the doorknob with his right hand.

  “Hold it,” General Stoljarov snapped.

  Smiling innocently, Blade turned, opening the door as he did, allowing Geronimo to stride inside.

  “Stop right there!” the Butcher barked, standing six feet off.

  The nearest soldier started toward the giant, raising the barrel of his AK-47, “You heard the general!”

  “So I did,” Blade said, holding his left hand palm out. “And I wouldn’t want to disobey the general, now would I?”

  Geronimo had halted in the doorway.

  “One of my men will take the lead,” General Stoljarov said. “Let him pass.”

  Blade gave a little bow. “Be my guest.”

  “Stand aside,” the trooper directed, coming forward, the AK-47 trained on Geronimo.

  It was now or never. Blade surreptitiously scanned the soldiers, noting that only three had a clear field of fire. The rest were behind or to the side of the general, and they would not dare risk firing for fear of hitting the Butcher. His abdominal muscles tightened as he girded his body, and when the unsuspecting trooper took another pace, Blade brought his left hand down and in, snatching the AK-47 by the barrel and tugging on the gun even as he swept his right fist into the Russian’s stomach.

  The soldier gurgled and bent in half.

  Blade wrenched the AK-47 free, gripped the trooper by the shirt and tossed him into the general, then darted into the doorway as a short burst from another soldier smacked into the door. Geronimo was already racing down a well-lit corridor. Blade angled the AK-47 out the door and blasted a charging Russian, his round taking the man high in the chest and flipping the trooper to the ground.

  General Stoljarov was on his back on the asphalt, struggling to extricate himself from under the guard Blade had slugged. “Get them!” he shouted. “I want them alive or your lives are forfeit!”

  His men rushed the door.

  Blade stood to the left of the door, his back to the wall, and grasped the AK-47 by the barrel. A Russian appeared in the doorway, and Blade swung the AK-47 with all of his prodigious might, the stock connecting with the trooper’s face with a pronounced thud. The soldier fell on the spot, his visage a bloody ruin.

  That should hold them for a few seconds!

  Blade spun and raced along the hallway, his boots thumping on clean, white tiles. The walls were a pale red. Overhead fluorescent lamps provided the bright illumination. He passed a series of brown doors without encountering anyone else and came to a fork. A hasty glance in both directions confirmed two empty corridors.

  But no Geronimo.

  Which way had Geronimo taken? Blade hesitated, nervously chewing on his lower lip. Had Geronimo ducked through one of the doors he’d passed? He hoped not. A structure as immense as the silver spire would contain dozens upon dozens of passages and rooms, and if they became separated now they might stay separated.

  “There he is!” a soldier shouted to his rear.

  Damn!

  Blade took the right-hand corridor, hoping his choice was the correct one. The absence of Russian personnel bothered him. Why was this lowest level vacant? Had General Stoljarov purposely escorted them into Lenin’s Needle by way of a seldom-used entrance? The corridor curved to the right, and he sped around the corner with the AK-47 clutched in his left hand, looking to find Geronimo.

  Instead, not 12 feet away, startled by his abrupt arrival, stood a six-man Russian squad.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hickok elevated the Pythons and trained them on the bum. “Don’t even think it, old-timer,” he warned.

  Elmer gaped at the revolvers, then at the knife in his hand, and tittered.

  “What’s so blamed funny?”

  “You figured I was going to try and cut you with this dinky knife?”

  Elmer asked.

  “Looked that way,” Hickok said.

  “You must be nuts.”

  “Nope. Just real cautious,” Hickok stated.

  “Watch, sonny,” Elmer said, turning and walking to the southwest corner of the room. He knelt and inspected the floorboards. “Now where is it?”

  Hickok ambled over, the Colts leveled, unwilling to lower his guard, still distrustful. “What are you lookin’ for?”

  “Here it is!” Elmer declared, and leaned down to carefully insert the tip of the blunt knife into a crack in the floor. He grunted and strained, and a section of wood two feet square lifted from its recessed groves. Elmer took hold of the trapdoor and shoved it aside, exposing a pitch-black hole.

  “What’s that?” Hickok inquired.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a crawl space before?”

  “Not that I recollect.”

  “Repairmen and such use crawl spaces for checking pipes and wiring and whatnot.”

  “We’re going down there?”

  “Sure enough.”

  “Must we?” Hickok questioned, lowering the Pythons.

  Elmer glanced at the gunman and chuckled. “Don’t wor
ry, sonny. The Browns and the rats will leave you alone if you make a little noise. Do what I do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I fart a lot.”

  Hickok slid the Colts under his shirt, insuring the barrels were securely wedged underneath his belt.

  “I’ve been down this hole tons of times,” Elmer informed him. “I’ve never had any problem. The roaches bug me, though.”

  “Roaches?”

  “Cockroaches. The city is crawling with them, and I don’t mind telling you that they give me the creeps.”

  “A few teensy bugs won’t bother me.”

  “Teensy?” Elmer repeated, and laughed softly. “I’ll show you how teensy they are.” So saying, he extended his left arm into the hole, all the way to the shoulder, his forehead creasing as he felt here and there. “Usually there’s a couple near the opening. These buggers climb all over you when you’re in the crawl space, so don’t pay them no mind. They don’t bite.” He muttered an unintelligible word and straightened, smiling. “Take a look.”

  His left hand came out of the hole.

  Hickok felt goose bumps erupt all over his skin, and his eyes widened at the sight of the four-inch insect, with its flat, brown, oval body, its long, swept-back antennae, overlapping wings, and six writhing legs.

  “This is a medium-sized roach,” Elmer said. “Some of these suckers grow over six inches long.”

  “And there are a passel of them down there?”

  “A what?”

  “A lot of those bugs?”

  “Yep. But don’t let them rattle you. They don’t bite,” Elmer told the gunman, then pressed the cockroach onto the floor and crushed the insect with the palm of his hand. “Want me to tell you a secret?”

  Hickok stared at the mushy pieces of cockroach oozing between the bum’s fingers. “What?”

  Elmer looked up and grinned. “The roaches make great eating.”

  “You eat them?”

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. When you’re down on your luck and can’t find a square anywhere, you take what you can get. A few of these will fill you right up,” Elmer divulged. “You should eat one sometime and see for yourself.”

  Hickok’s stomach flip-flopped. “Not on your life.”

  “Suit yourself, sonny,” Elmer said, and shrugged. He wiped his hand off on the floor, then bent toward the crawl space. “Let’s go.”

  “Hold it.”

  Elmer paused and gazed at the gunfighter. “Something wrong?”

  “What was that business about your help costing me?”

  “I want you to do me a favor. If you bump into General Stoljarov, I want you to kill him.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Do I need one? He didn’t get the nickname the Butcher because he’s a nice guy,” Elmer said, and frowned. “A lot of decent folks have died at his hands, and several of them were friends of mine. The Butcher is the most hated Commie in Cincinnati, probably in all of Ohio.”

  “How would I know him if I saw him?”

  “That’s easy. Just look for the crap seeping out his ears.”

  Hickok grinned and nodded. “If I run into the vermin, I’ll plug him for you.”

  “Thanks,” Elmer said. He lowered his torso into the crawl space, dropping headfirst into the Stygian hole, disappearing slowly. “Keep your head low,” he advised, his voice muted.

  Frowning, Hickok advanced to the crawl space and knelt for a better view, disconcerted by the fact that the darkness obscured everything, bothered by a nagging, lingering mistrust of the bug-eater. What if Elmer was setting him up? He’d be a sitting duck down there.

  “Are you coming or what?” Elmer called back.

  “I’m comin’,” Hickok said.

  “Sometime this year would be nice,” Elmer declared. “If you want to save your buddies, that is.”

  The reference to Blade and Geronimo galvanized Hickok into action, and he gingerly stretched his arms downward until his hands made contact with bare earth.

  “Are you part turtle?” Elmer queried, and snickered.

  Hickok ignored the crack and eased lower until he was flat on his stomach. The air was musty, the dirt dank. “Why is it moist down here?” he whispered.

  “Probably all that cockroach piss,” Elmer replied, and sounded like he was gagging on his own laughter.

  “A regular comedian,” Hickok muttered, scanning in all directions, waiting for his eyes to adjust. A trickle of light seeping through cracks on the south side scarcely relieved the oppressive gloom, although he was able to discern that the crawl space extended under the entire building.

  “Which way?”

  “Follow me,” Elmer replied softly. “Just be careful you don’t accidentally get your nose in any rat shit.” He wheezed and snorted.

  Hickok could perceive a vague shadow where Elmer must be, and he crawled toward the bum. The shadow moved, bearing to the east, and he stayed within half a yard of Elmer’s shoes. A pungent odor crinkled his nostrils. “Don’t you ever wash your feet?”

  Elmer sniggered. “Excuse me for living. If I’d known someone was going to get intimate with my tootsies, I would have taken my annual bath early.”

  Something skittered across the gunman’s left hand.

  “What the dickens was that?” Hickok blurted.

  “What happened?”

  “Something ran over my hand.”

  “A cockroach, most likely.”

  “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  “Wimp.”

  They continued to crawl across the clammy, acrid earth, attended by squeaks, vague rustlings, and scratching noises from every direction.

  Hickok resisted an impulse to sneeze. He inadvertently stiffened when a thing that squealed ran over his legs. The crawl space gave him the willies!

  He preferred a straightforward, stand-up fight to all this skulking and slinking about in the dark. Having hordes of icky bugs clambering over his body was as appealing as dining on a cockroach.

  A thin… something… with lots of legs unexpectedly climbed up his collar and onto his right cheek.

  Reacting instinctively, Hickok slapped at the insect and crushed it. He used his fingers to flick the pulp away.

  “What are you doing?” Elmer asked.

  “There was a blasted bug on my face.”

  “Must of been in love.”

  “Keep going,” Hickok directed.

  “Some people have no sense of humor,” Elmer whispered.

  For the gunman, the time seemed to drag on interminably. Scores of insects scaled his moving form, scrambling and scrabbling, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was a human. Over a dozen climbed in his hair and were promptly dislodged.

  Elmer began giggling.

  “What’s so funny?” Hickok demanded.

  “I’ve got a cockroach down my shirt, and the bugger tickles.”

  “Too bad it isn’t a black widow.”

  “Boy, a little dirt and a few bugs and you go all to pieces.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Are you part Blackfoot by any chance?”

  “What’s a Blackfoot?”

  “Never mind.”

  A minute later Elmer stopped. “Hot damn!”

  “What?”

  “We’re here.”

  “You’d better not be joshin’ me.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it, sonny.”

  Hickok perceived the outline of a wall in front of them, and he heard a slight grating noise. A square of welcome light materialized, and a draft of fresh air tingled his skin.

  “Stay low,” Elmer cautioned, and squeezed through the opening.

  Hickok wasted no time in following, and found himself in a confined space between two buildings, with not more than four feet from wall to wall. He twisted and faced Delhi Road, glimpsing a truck bearing to the west.

  Elmer was crouching against the opposite
wall. “Can you lift that?” he inquired, and pointed at a manhole cover a yard to their rear.

  “Where does it lead?” Hickok asked.

  “Down into the sewers.”

  “We’re not going down there?”

  “We are if you want to find your friends,” Elmer said.

  Hickok sighed and edged to the cover. The rim was imbedded flush with the surface, but there was a single hole near the edge. He inserted his right index finger, rose to his knees, and heaved. The heavy metal lid rose a quarter of an inch.

  “What’s the matter, sonny? Are you a pansy?”

  Gritting his teeth and straining his finger, hand, and arm, Hickok succeeded in elevating the manhole cover several inches. He gripped the rim with his left hand, bracing the lid, and jerked his finger from the hole.

  “Don’t drop it or we’ll have the Commies breathing down our necks,” Elmer said.

  “Instead of flappin’ your gums, why don’t you lend me a hand?” Hickok queried.

  “Since I’m the one with the brains, you can do all the heavy work.”

  Hickok eased the manhole cover aside and gently lowered it to the ground. “Tell me something, old-timer. Do you have many friends?”

  “Very few.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “Most of them were killed by the Commies.”

  The gunman frowned, regretting he had baited the bum. “One day the Commies will get theirs,” he stated to cover his embarrassment.

  “I hope I’m around to see the day.”

  Hickok peered into the manhole nauseating stench wafted upward. “I suppose there are cockroaches and rats down here too?”

  “Tons of them.”

  “I knew it.”

  “But there are other things down there. Muties. We’ve got to stay on our toes every step of the way.”

  “Mutants, huh?”

  “Yeah. I was told that a long, long time ago, right after the war, a lot of pink rain fell on the city. Many of the people were sick as dogs and a bunch died. They swept and flushed the rain into the sewer system, and ever since then there have been the Browns, the giant roaches, and other freaks of nature to deal with.”

  Pink rain? Was that the same thing as fallout? What color was radioactive fallout, anyway? Hickok pondered for a moment, staring into the murky cavity, spying metal rungs leading downward. “Do you go into the sewers very often?”