David Robbins - Boston Run

“Pack a couple of changes of clothes. Go to the armory and grab as much ammo as you can carry. And you’ll need an automatic rifle or a machine gun.”

“I prefer my machetes.”

Hickok glanced at the machete handles protruding above Marcus’s shoulders. “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you. Why’d you choose those pigstickers as your favorite weapons, anyway?”

“I know all about your interest in the American Old West,” Marcus mentioned. “That’s why you carry the Pythons, dress in buckskins, and talk weird.”

“Who the blazes claims I talk weird?” Hickok demanded.

“Everybody.”

“Oh. Just so it’s unanimous.”

Marcus grinned. “With your interest in the Old West, I know you can appreciate my interest in the ancient gladiators. I’ve read every book in our library on the customs of the Romans. I know all about the contests they staged in huge arenas, pitting the gladiators against other fighters or wild beasts.”

“Yeah. I know. I read about ’em in school,” Hickok said. “But takin’ on a hungry, slobberin’ lion armed with just a dinky fishnet and an oversized fork seemed like a dumb way to make a living. I know Spartacus is partial to that era.”

“He is,” Marcus stated. “And since he became a Warrior before I did, he had first dibs on the only broadsword the Founder stocked in our armory. The same with Ares. He took the only short sword. The Founder collected an extensive sword and knife collection, but he rarely included more than one of each type of sword. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi got the only katana.”

“Leavin’ you with the machetes.”

“Exactly. Oh, there are a few different swords left, but I like the machetes the best. They’re lightweight and razor sharp.”

“Give me a one-hundred-and-fifty-eight-grain hollow point over a flimsy piece of metal any day,” the gunman quipped.

“Who will be in charge of the Warriors while you’re gone?”

“Rikki will hold down the fort.”

“And who will fill in for me? My Triad will be one short,” Marcus observed.

“Don’t worry. You’re covered. I’ve already made the arrangements. The other Warriors will take turns filling in for you.”

Marcus stared at the field to the west of the compound. “I can hardly wait.”

“Then get your tail in gear. Pack your clothes, grab an automatic from the armory, and meet me at the SEAL in twenty minutes,” Hickok directed.

“On my way,” Marcus said, and took a step. He paused and glanced at the gunman. “Wait a minute. You haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“Beantown.”

“Where?”

“Didn’t you pay attention in history class?”

Marcus shook his head. “Except for the Greek and Roman periods, history bored me to tears.”

“I spent the past half hour in the library readin’ up on the city we’re headin’ to. Beantown is another name for Boston, Massachusetts. The nickname has something to do with Boston baked beans, whatever the blazes they are.”

“Blade is in Boston?”

“That’s that we figure,” Hickok said. He reached into his right front pocket. “The hybrids found this late yesterday afternoon. The Elders spent all night in a conference, and they voted to send a rescue team to Boston.

Plato agreed with them.”

Marcus knit his brows in contemplation. If Plato, the wise Family Leader, believed the evidence warranted a trip to Boston, warranted traveling half the distance of the continental United States through the Outlands, then the clue the mutants found must be important and clear-cut.

“Here it is,” Hickok said, and held out his right hand.

Marcus stared at the object in the gunman’s palm for several seconds, perplexed. “That’s it? A pack of matches?”

“Read the matchbook cover.”

Marcus used his left hand to raise the matchbook to eye level so he could read the red lettering on the cover, part of which had been torn off.

Several letters in the first word were missing.

-ERS. SAM’S BAR. NOW AND FOREVER. BOSTON, MASS.

“Why do you look as if you just swallowed a frog?” Hickok asked.

Marcus wagged the matchbook. “This is the big clue? How do we know there’s a connection between this and Blade?”

“Several reasons. First, the matchbook is in tiptop shape, except for the teensy tear, which means it wasn’t lyin’ around exposed to the elements for very long. Second, the furballs and Gremlin found it on the trail they were following between the field where the helicopter landed and the spot where Blade was jumped. Third, there ain’t too many folks from Boston waltzin’ around the countryside.”

“So the Elders think that one of those who captured Blade must have dropped the matchbook?”

“You’re a regular Pinkerton detective.”

“A what?”

“Never mind.”

“I take it that Boston wasn’t hit by a nuclear weapon during the war?”

Marcus inquired.

“Not as far as we know. Boston is in Commie territory,” Hickok said.

“The Russians took Blade?”

“Looks that way,” Hickok answered harshly. “We have a score to settle with those vermin. So get packin’.”

Marcus nodded and hurried off.

“Hold it,” Hickok said.

“What?” Marcus replied, halting in midstride to look back.

“Aren’t you forgettin’ something?”

“Like what?”

Hickok pointed at the dead deer. “You’ll look sort of silly waltzin’ around the Home with a buck on your shoulders. You might want to ditch it before you start packin’.”

Marcus glanced at the deer and grinned sheepishly. “Damn, I was so excited, I almost forgot about it.” He hastened off.

The gunfighter waited until Marcus was beyond hearing range, then threw back his head and laughed. Terrific! he told himself. Just what he needed on the run. A wet-nosed whipper-snapper. He ought to have his head examined for deciding to take an inexperienced Warrior along. Even with the best of intentions, Marcus could well get them all killed.

Berwin was eating a late breakfast consisting of oatmeal and toast when Doctor Milton entered his room.

“Good morning,” the physician declared. “How are you feeling today?”

“Better. I had a good night’s sleep,” Berwin replied. He took a bite of toast and chewed hungrily.

“I left instructions for you to be allowed to sleep as late as you liked,” Milton said, coming to the edge of the bed. In his right hand he held a small notebook and a pen.

“Thanks,” Berwin said, and took a swallow of milk. “And thanks for letting me have the oatmeal. I was afraid I’d have to eat pea soup.”

“Pea soup is for lunch,” Doctor Milton informed him.

“I can hardly wait.”

Milton grinned. “Did you have any dreams last night?”

“A few.”

“What about?”

Berwin shrugged. “Nothing important.”

“You let me be the judge of that,” the physician said.

“Then Nurse Krittenbauer was right? My dreams are important?”

“Extremely important,” Doctor Milton verified. “I want you to tell me every detail you can remember.”

“Right this minute?”

“Right now,” Milton stated. “Leave nothing out, no matter how trifling you think it might be.”

Berwin straightened and scratched his forehead. “Let’s see. I can remember two dreams. The first one was shorter.”

“What was the subject?”

“Myself as a small boy, I think,” Berwin said. “I was about five or six years old and big for my age.”

Doctor Milton began taking notes. “And what were you doing in this dream?”

“Nothing. Just standing there with the saddest expression you can possibly imagine. Strange, huh?”