David Robbins - Chicago Run

The Minister chuckled as he contemplated the details of his scheme.

First there would be an announcement that a strange malady was striking the men of Technic City, a curious disease that only afflicted those from their late teens to their mid or late thirties. Much would be made of the presumed selectivity of the virus.

The next step involved his panel of physicians and their alleged research. They would speculate that the disease was the work of a chemical warfare agent employed during World War Three. Perhaps the virus had been developed by the enemy in an effort to wipe out those men of prime combat-ready age in the former United States. Now, somehow, the virus had been introduced into Technic City.

There would be hysteria among the male population, no doubt. Calls would be made for massive government spending to find a cure. After a suitable interval of three or four weeks he would personally go on television and announce that a cure had been perfected, that it involved a simple inoculation, and that all those males in the high-risk group would receive cards in the mail advising them when to report for theirs.

Then huge warehouses would be converted into “health centers” where inoculations would supposedly be given. A fleet of trucks was being prepared to transport the incinerated remains out of the city. If all went well, the procedure would work just as smoothly as that employed by the Nazis when so many Jews were ushered into similar gas chambers and subsequently reduced to ashes.

In one day, from dawn until about midnight, a million and a half men would die. He’d wisely permit another 400,000 males of the same age group to live purely for future breeding purposes; killing all of them would present insurmountable difficulties later on. These men wouldn’t recieve inoculation appointment cards for the fatal day.

At midnight the day of the extermination martial law would be declared. It would be claimed that the shots administered to the men were lethal. The Resistance Movement would receive the blame. Everyone would be told the rebels had managed to poison the serum supply.

The Minister laughed at the thought. What a terrific double stroke! He would reduce the numbers of those who posed the greatest threat to a manageable level and brand the Resistance Movement with the responsibility for the atrocity.

Ramis had been correct.

He was brilliant.

Only one hitch yet remained. There were a few top-ranking officers and politicians who might be inclined to launch an investigation of their own into the affair, and he intended to silence them before the project was even launched. So far two prominent administrators and a colonel had been indicted on trumped-up charges of conspiring with the rebels.

Shortly he would go after bigger game: General Julian Schonfeld, the man who posed the greatest threat of all.

The Minister yawned and arched his spine. Soon he must turn in. Only one last item remained to be considered: what was he to make of Corporal Lyle Carson’s assertion that a lone Warrior named Yama had launched some kind of personal war against Technic City? And what about the business of Lieutenant Alicia Farrow? How the hell did she fit into the total picture?

He’d listened in barely disguised amazement to the corporal’s story.

There had been no doubting it because Carson had been under the complete influence of a potent truth drug. Unfortunately, the new information raised more questions than it answered.

Who was this Yama?

How could one man possibly hope to prevail over the combined might of the Technics?

Were there other Warriors involved?

Was Yama’s tale a fabrication to throw the Technics off, and if so, off what ?

The Minister turned and headed toward the door leading to his opulent private quarters. Tomorrow he would attempt to solve the riddle. At the moment he was too tired and needed sleep.

At least one aspect of the next day promised to be diverting. The demonstration of the Cy-Hounds should be of particular interest. He’d always been fascinated by biomechanical life forms.

An intriguing idea hit him.

If these Cy-Hounds were everything they were cracked up to be, he might keep a pair as pets. They’d be the ideal companions, less critical man a woman, more affectionate than Ramis, and able to rip the throat out of anyone who displeased him.

On second thought, perhaps he’d keep a half dozen.

Blade swept the Commando up, his finger tightening on the trigger. At the last possible instant he realized the figure wore buckskins, and he tilted the Commando at the ground and declared angrily, “Hickok!”

Geronimo had the FNC to his shoulder. He lowered the weapon, beaming happily, and then quickly adopted a mean expression. “It is him.

Darn. Here we thought we’d lucked out and some poor mutation was having a bad case of indigestion.”

Almost out of breath, Hickok covered the final few yards and halted. He placed his hands on his thighs and bent over, inhaling deeply, his face flushed, staring at Isabel Kauler in surprise.

“Have you been out jogging?” Geronimo asked with a feigned air of utmost innocence. “It’s about time you got a little exercise. You’re getting a bit flabby around the middle.”

“You wish,” Hickok declared, reaching up to adjust the strap on his Marlin.

“Where have you been?” Blade inquired.

“Forget about me for a minute,” Hickok said. “What was all that shootin’ I heard? I thought you guys were in trouble, and I bet I ran five or ten miles gettin’ here.”

“More likely one or two,” Geronimo said.

Blade nodded at the woman. “We ran into a band of cannibals. She’s one of them. Her name is Kauler, Isabel Kauler.”

The gunfighter noticed the hole in the gaint’s vest and the dried blood rimming it. “What the dickens happened to you?”

“I took an arrow,” Blade explained. “But enough about us. Where in the world have you been?”

“After our supper.”

“All this time?”

Hickok nodded and straightened, resting his palms on the butts of his Pythons. “Do you recollect all that ribbin’ I was gettin’ from Geronimo earlier about blowin’ away chipmunks and squirrels?”

“Yeah. So?” Blade responded.

“So I decided I wasn’t comin’ back with anything less than a ten-point deer or an elk.”

Geronimo snickered. “What did you do? Chase one to Canada?”

“Pretty near. I spied a small herd of elk and tried to sneak up on the critters, but they got my scent and lit out. Naturally I went after them.

Before I knew it I came out of the forest onto the edge of a cliff, and down below in a small valley were the danged elk. Beats me how they get down there. I looked for a ravine or some other way to the bottom, but couldn’t find any, so I climbed down.”

“Let me guess,” Geronimo interjected. “The elk picked up your scent again and took off.”

“Yep. The blamed wind kept changin’ direction on me each time I’d get almost close enough to use the Marlin,” Hickok detailed. “Finally it got too dark for me to bother wastin’ my time, and I figured I’d head on back. But going up that cliff without any light was next to impossible. Took me forever,” Hickok related. “Then, when I finally did get back on top, I heard all this shootin’ and came runnin’ to help. End of story.”

“Didn’t you hear us calling you and firing shots before that?” Blade asked.

“Nope. I must have been down in the valley then.”

Geronimo leaned toward Blade. “Tomorrow let me go after our supper.

At least we’ll have something to eat.”

The gunfighter stared at the Indian for a second. Suddenly both of his hands became quicksilver, drawing and extending both Colts in Geronimo’s general direction. Twin flashes flared from the barrels as twin blasts sounded simultaneously.