New York Run

by David Robbins

  Farrow squatted beside him. Their heads were now below the rampart and invisible to anyone scaling the west wall. “I’m sorry,” she said in his right ear. “I—

  He placed his right hand over her mouth. “Not now. Later.”

  Farrow stifled a sob. She felt utterly helpless, a prisoner of her own emotions, unable to intervene, bound by her duty as a Technic soldier on one hand, and her love for Yama on the other. She couldn’t violate her Technic oath, and she wouldn’t betray Yama. There was nothing she could do but ride it out and hope for the best.

  Yama looked at her. “Thanks for letting me know about the goggles,” he whispered.

  Farrow nodded, biting her lower lip. The demolition team would use a grappling hook and come over the northwest corner, where she was scheduled to meet them. What would Sergeant Darden do when they climbed the wall and discovered she wasn’t there? Abandon the mission?

  Not very likely. Darden was dedicated. He would complete his assignment with or without her.

  Yama had his left ear pressed to the top step, listening.

  Farrow suddenly perceived the reason for the lantern. Yama was brilliant! Anyone coming over the wall would have a dilemma to resolve: what to do about the light? They could shoot out the lantern, but the Warriors would be alerted. They could circumvent the lighted portion of the rampart, but to do so would entail avoiding the stairs. And the stairs were the only means of reaching the inner bank, unless they dropped a line into the moat and swam across, a difficult proposition when carrying a backpack and field gear. No, the wisest recourse would be to leave the lantern alone, and attempt to reach the stairs undetected.

  Only Yama was waiting for them at the top of the stairs.

  Farrow tensed as a faint scuffing reached her ears. Was it Darden and the demolition team? She closed her eyes and performed an act she’d never done before; she prayed Darden would realize the lantern was a ruse and decide to abort the assignment.

  Yama angled the Wilkinson barrel upward.

  Her eyes now adjusted to the gloom, Farrow could distinguish Yama’s features. She wanted to reach out and tenderly caress his cheek, to let him know she was sorry for her stupidity. The turmoil in his tone had convinced her of his sincerity. There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the incident with the petite brunette. She would ask him about it when this was over.

  There was a muffled thump from the northwest corner of the rampart.

  Sergeant Darden and the demolition team had arrived!

  Farrow could scarcely breathe, dreading the impending conflict, waiting for Yama to make his move. She clenched her hands until her nails bit into her palms.

  Yama raised his ear from the first step.

  Farrow knew whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon.

  And she realized there was a chance Darden was aware someone was on the stairs. His ear amplifier might have detected Yama’s breathing, or hers for that matter. If Darden had, his squad would have their Dakons trained on the steps. They would shoot at anything that moved. Yama would be cut to ribbons.

  Something nearby clicked.

  Farrow suddenly reached out and grabbed Yama’s right arm. He glanced at her in surprise. “I love you,” she whispered, then, before he could move to stop her, she unexpectedly rose, facing the rampart. Facing Darden and the three members of his demolition team.

  Sergeant Darden was nearest the lantern, perhaps four feet to its right.

  Private Johnson, the loudmouth, was two feet from Darden. The one whose name she couldn’t remember came next, not six feet from the steps.

  And Rundle, the plastics expert on the squad, was only two feet away, her Dakon II leveled, her finger on the trigger. She saw a shadowy form abruptly rise in front of her, and she instantly fired, the Dakon set on automatic.

  Farrow was staggered by the impact. She felt an intense burning sensation in her chest, and she was flung across the stairs and against the opposite railing. Her left arm caught on the top rail, at the elbow, and she dangled limply with blood pouring from her wounds, her eyes riveted to the rampart, as Yama rose, his voice roaring a strangled “No!” as the Wilkinson chattered, and Private Rundle was smashed backward by the force of the slugs tearing into her body. Yama swiveled, and the unidentified trooper took several rounds in the face and was catapulted to the rampart. Sergeant Darden and Private Johnson opened up, but their target was already in motion, darting up the stairs and rolling across the rampart, coming erect near the lip, and the Wilkinson burped, slamming Private Johnson from his feet and hurling him over the edge and into the swirling moat below. Farrow saw Darden frantically pulling his Dakon’s trigger, and she recognized the gun was jammed. He dropped the Dakon and went for his automatic pistol. Farrow was amazed by what transpired next. She gaped as Yama tossed his own gun aside and rushed toward Darden, drawing his scimitar in a streaking, fluid blur. She could see the terrified expression on Darden’s face as he drew his automatic and tried to aim at the Warrior. But Yama was quicker, and he slashed the scimitar down, severing Darden’s gunhand from his arm. Darden opened his mouth to scream, and Yama flashed the scimitar crosswise, splitting Darden’s throat wide open, crimson gushing over the commando’s neck, and then Yama sliced the scimitar into Darden’s abdomen, once, twice, three times and tolled, and Darden’s intestines spilled over his pants and legs as he futilely clutched at his stomach. He slowly sank to the rampart, gurgling and spitting blood.

  Yama glared at the fallen Technic for a second, then whirled and raced to the stairs.

  Farrow tried to grin as he dashed up to her. “Nice,” she mumbled feebly. “Real… nice.”

  Yama dropped the scimitar and took her in his arms. “Don’t talk!” he cautioned her. “Help is on the way! The Healers…”

  “No,” Farrow said weakly. “Too late…”

  “Don’t say that!” Yama said, his voice raspy.

  “Need to know…” Farrow stated in a ragged whisper.

  “What?” Yama asked, his face an inch from her.

  “The girl… this morning…” Farrow managed 10 squeak.

  “The girl? What girl?” Yama declared, perplexed, in anguish. “You mean Marian? My niece?”

  “Niece?”

  “My brother’s daughter,” Yama said. “What about her?”

  Farrow eyes widened. “Your brother’s daughter…”

  “I don’t see…” Yama began, then paused as an intuitive insight flooded his mind. “You didn’t think she and I…?”

  Farrow mustered a smile. “Never… was too bright.” She coughed, blood smearing her lips and chin. “Kiss me. Please.”

  Yama bent down and touched her lips with his own. He could taste the salty tang of her blood on his lips and tongue, and then she stiffened and gasped, expelling her dying breath into his mouth.

  Yama felt his eyes moisten, and he buried his face against her left shoulder.

  It was another minute before footsteps pounded on the stairs, and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi appeared, gleaming katana in his right hand. He reached the third step and paused, then proceeded to the rampart. Shouts and yells were mingling in the compound below. He scanned the bodies, then moved down to Yama’s side. “Yama?”

  “Go away.” The voice was muffled by the fabric of Farrow’s shirt.

  “Are you all right?”

  Yama’s response, when he finally answered, was tinged by an immeasurable melancholy. “No. I’ll never be all right again.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The day was marked by a bright sun and a clear blue sky. The drawbridge was down as a party of Hunters prepared to leave the Home. Although the Family included four Hunters in its ranks, the Warriors frequently assisted in hunting the venison so necessary for their continued survival.

  The four Hunters were hard pressed to find the quantity of game the Family required, and they gladly welcomed any help the Warriors offered.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was on duty on the west wall, watching the Hunters preparing
to depart. The Hunters and one other. Yama had volunteered to go along. Rikki suspected Yama needed the activity, needed to do anything to take his mind off Lieutenant Alicia Farrow. They had buried her four days ago with full honors.

  A muted whine arose from the west.

  Rikki looked up, elated to see the SEAL traveling toward the Home at breakneck speed. “Alpha Triad is coming!” he called out. “The SEAL is coming!”

  The word spread like wildfire. Family members were running toward the drawbridge. Rikki could see Plato in the vanguard. And there was Sherry, Hickok’s wife, carrying little Ringo. And Jenny and Cynthia, Blade’s and Geronimo’s spouses, toting their children. And all of the other Warriors except Teucer, who was on the north wall, and Ares, who had agreed to fill in for Yama on the east wall.

  The SEAL rolled from the trees and across the field, up to the lowered drawbridge. It braked and the engine was shut off.

  Blade vaulted from the transport, a beaming smile on his face. He surveyed the assembled crowd and spotted his wife. “Jenny!” He ran forward and clasped his wife and son in his arms.

  Geronimo was next to emerge. He jogged the ten feet separating the transport from the gathered welcomers, and took his wife in a tender embrace.

  Rikki saw Sherry staring apprehensively at the SEAL. He glanced at it, suddenly worried, wondering why Hickok hadn’t appeared. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey! Where’s Hickok?”

  Geronimo released the raven-haired Cynthia and crossed to the transport. He leaned in the passengerside door. “Wake up! We’re being attacked by mutants!” he yelled, and stepped back.

  A sleepy Hickok stumbled from the SEAL, his Pythons in his hands, swinging the revolvers from left to right, seeking the mutants. It took a moment for the reality of the situation to dawn on his fatigued senses.

  When the Family began laughing at his stupefied reaction, his face turned a livid scarlet and he glared at Geronimo, bolstering the Colts. “I should of known! You never can trust an Injun!”

  Geronimo, chuckling, draped his right arm around Hickok’s shoulders.

  “I wish you could have seen your face!”

  “I know what I’d like to do to yours!” Hickok groused.

  Sherry and Ringo hurried toward the gunman.

  “I want you to know,” Geronimo said as she neared them, “we had our chance and we blew it.”

  Sherry, too relieved at finding her husband returned and unharmed, paid scant attention to Geronimo. “Oh?” she replied absently.

  “Yeah,” Geronimo said as Hickok hugged his family. “We could have left him back on Highway 94, but Blade insisted we had to pick him up.

  Personally, I think the walk back might have done him some good. Get rid of that flab…” He stopped, realizing his barbs were being wasted.

  Hickok and Sherry were kissing passionately.

  Rikki grinned, delighted at the arrival of his three companions. Now Blade could assume command of the Warriors, and things would go back to normal, the way they should be. His eyes happened to alight on Yama.

  Not everything would be the way it was.

  Rikki thought of Alicia Farrow, and of his own beloved Lexine, and he thanked the Spirit she was safe, ever eager to share her love and laughter with him. He saw the Family milling about Alpha Triad, happy, engaged in lively banter.

  All except one. Yama was walking toward the forest, Wilkinson in hand, going hunting.

  Rikki sighed. He knew, given time, Yama would recover. Time, so the cliche went, healed all wounds. Which was true. But Time couldn’t erase human memory, couldn’t deliver a person from periodically experiencing pangs of heartfelt grief. What was it that religious book in the library had taught? “The supreme affliction is never to have been afflicted. You only learn wisdom by knowing affliction.” Which must make Yama, temporarily at least, the wisest man in the universe.

  Enough!

  Rikki dismissed such somber reflections from his mind, and watched a cardinal winging on the wind. Affliction might be inevitable, but life went on. Life invariably went on.

  And such was the way it would always be.