David Robbins - Chicago Run

Blade pivoted, hearing the shriek of pain that greeted the shots, and spied two women armed with bows who had been creeping toward them.

The pair had been crouched on the other side of the road, about to unload arrows. The gunfighter’s shots had cored their brains and snapped them onto their backs.

No one spoke. The echoes of the gunfire died away. Isabel began crying softly.

“Friends of yours?” Hickok asked Geronimo, and twirled the revolvers into their holsters.

Blade took several strides and gazed at the bodies. Why had it been women this time? Were all the men dead? Next it might be kids. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Why, pard?” Hickok asked.

“Because I’m not keen on the idea of getting a shaft in the back in the middle of the night,” Blade said. “We’ll take the road east about a mile or so and camp there for the night.”

The gunfighter shrugged. “If that’s what you want. But gettin’ scratched by that arrow must have rattled your brain. Since when do Warriors run from scuzzy cannibals?”

“We’re not running. We’re engaging in a strategic withdrawal,” Blade said.

“You mean there’s a difference?”

The giant ignored the gunman and moved behind the woman. He gave her a nudge and said, “Start walking.”

They headed out, Geronimo taking the point without having to be told and walking 15 feet ahead of his companions and their prisoner.

“Why the blazes are we bringin’ her along?” Hickok inquired, his contempt barely concealed. “We should do the world a favor and put her out of her misery. No one will miss one lousy cannibal.”

Blade glanced at him. “Sometimes you can be as hard as stone.”

“Sometimes a Warrior has to be as hard as stone. Otherwise the cow chips will gain the upper hand.”

“We’re not executioners, Nathan. We’re protectors of the Family and the Home. When we start setting ourselves up as the ultimate judges we’ve overstepped our bounds.”

“If you ask me we’re oversteppin’ our bounds by lettin’ a cannibal live. You know as well as I do that if she found one of the Family alone in the woods she’d likely knock them on the noggin and whip up a barbeque on the spot.”

The truth of the gunfighter’s assertion bothered Blade. “We’ll decide what to do later,” he proposed.

“Fine. But don’t expect me to sleep anywhere near her. I don’t intend to end my days as someone’s late-night snack.”

Blade fell silent, contemplating the dilemma. If he released her she’d undoubtedly go back to her revolting practice in no time. According to the Elders, many groups and individuals had reverted to cannibalism after the war.

The worst of it had occurred during the two decades immediately after Armageddon when the elevated radioactivity and the chemical toxins poisoning the environment prevented the growing of crops. With most of the stockpiled foodstuffs either having been eaten or hoarded by a few well-armed groups, a surprising number of survivors took to eating the only source of nutrition they could find: other people. Unfortunately, as had been demonstrated during the massive food riots in Third World countries in the years preceding the war, once established, cannibalism became addictive. Human flesh was the delicacy to top all delicacies.

For several minutes the hike eastward continued. The temperature dropped steadily, as it usually did after sunset in January, and a lively breeze only added to the chill factor.

“Glad I’m wearin’ buckskins,” Hickok commented.

Isabel Kaufer walked along in a subdued fashion, her posture stooped, her head bowed, detached from the world around her.

Studying the woman’s profile, Blade wondered what was going through her mind. She’d heard their conversation, yet hadn’t displayed any reaction. Given the comments Nathan had made, she should exhibit some concern for her safety. Had the death of her mate broken her spirit? Had she simply resigned herself to whatever Fate had in store?

More to the point, what was he going to do with her?

There were 32 members of the Resistance Movement seated in a semicircle in front of their leaders and the stranger, all listening attentively. Some were in chairs, most on the floor. All repeatedly glanced in wonder at the big man in the bizarre dark blue uniform bearing an ebony skull on the back.

Yama was aware of their interest. He stood with his arms crossed, listening to the top rebel, the man called Falcone, wrap up the strategy session.

“We’ll succeed if every unit does its part,” Falcone was saying. “Timing will be crucial. We’ll have one hour to complete the sabotage from the time our new ally enters the Central Core.”

One of the men raised a hand. “I don’t mean to be critical, but how do we know we can trust this guy? He hasn’t even told us his name yet.”

The Warrior unfolded his arms. “I’m called Yama.”

“An unusual name,” remarked the white-haired freedom fighter, Roy, who was standing a few feet away.

“There is something else you should know,” Yama stated. For the past hour he’d listened to them formulate their plans and been impressed by their efficiency. He’d learned that each of the people in the room was the head of a rebel cell comprised of 200 persons, on average, from all walks of life.

The Resistance Movement, as detailed by Falcone and Roy, had gained momentum daily. There were untold thousands who were morally sick of the status quo and eager to overthrow the established order. But concrete progress had been slow, positive results difficult to achieve, because the Technic elite were doing everything in their considerable power to eradicate the Movement in its infancy.

The fear the rebels inspired in the government had been demonstrated by the thousands of arrests made in recent months of anyone even remotely suspected of being connected to the Movement. Ironically, often the Technic Police Force arrested people who were innocent of any wrongdoing, but who had been anonymously turned in by someone with a grudge or by an enemy who’d seen a golden opportunity to eliminate a rival without repercussions.

Although the rebels were relatively poorly equipped and trained, they possessed a dynamic dedication that could prevail over insurmountable odds. All it would take would be the right spark to set the revolution ablaze, to have the cry of freedom spread like wildfire among the general populace.

All these thoughts ran through Yama’s mind as he spoke. If the Spirit was willing, he would be the spark. After hearing the intimate details of Technic governmental administration from Roy, he’d devised a means of exploiting a weakness the Technic elite didn’t realize existed. In fact, the government saw the weakness as a strength.

“What is it?” Falcone asked.

“I’m from the Home.”

A ripple of excitement passed around the room.

“The same place as Hickok?” Falcone asked excitedly.

“The same,” Yama confirmed.

“Everyone in the city knows of Hickok,” Roy revealed. “He shook up the entire government when he killed the last Minister and broke out of the Central Core. The media played up the story for weeks. Frankly, I was surprised the government censors let them, until I realized the story was being used as propaganda to fuel hatred of your Family and the Freedom Federation.”

Falcone nodded. “The government has done a fair job of brainwashing the average citizen into believing the Federation is out to annihilate every Technic.”

“Yet none of you believe them,” Yama noted.

“We don’t believe anything those bastards try to sell us,” Falcone said passionately. “All of us in the Movement have seen through their web of lies and deception. Most of us have had loved ones taken away by the sadistic police, never to be heard from again. We know from firsthand experience how truly monstrous our so-called leaders really are.”