David Robbins - Boston Run

“What’s going on?” Marcus asked, perplexed by the conversation.

“Use my Henry,” Hickok instructed him. He quickly rolled down his window.

“I don’t get it,” Marcus said. He grabbed the rifle and leaned between the bucket seats. “Are we taking these guys on?”

“Yep!”

“All right!”

“Remind me when we get back to the Home to have a long talk with you about your lack of enthusiasm,” Hickok said, and looked at Geronimo.

“Are you ready, pard?”

“I was born ready.”

“Good grief. Whatever Marcus has is contagious,” Hickok cracked. He poked his head out of the window. “Do you promise you’ll let us skedaddle unharmed?” he shouted.

“I promise,” Dezi responded, grinning maliciously. “Drive the van over here, but do it slowly.”

“Here we come,” Hickok said, and pressed lightly on the accelerator.

“Why are you playing along with that idiot?” Marcus inquired.

“Heavy Death Rules,” Hickok replied.

“Huh?”

The gunman glanced at Geronimo. “What’s the range on the flamethrower again?”

“The Operations Manual claimed twenty feet.”

“Let’s put it to the test,” Hickok said. He drove a few yards and braked.

“This should be about right.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Dezi yelled, waving them on. “Drive the van to me.”

The machine gunners in the pickup and the occupants of the two cars all pointed their weapons at the transport.

Hickok grinned and stuck his head out again. “Guess what! I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to trade.”

Dezi took a step forward and raised the Winchester. “Don’t mess with us, bastard! We’ll blow you to pieces if you screw around. Ask anybody.

We’re mean mothers!” he declared proudly.

“No, you’re rump roast,” Hickok corrected him, and reached to his right to flick the toggle activating the flamethrower. He heard a hissing noise, and an instant later a sheet of red and orange flame erupted from the front of the SEAL, engulfing Dezi entirely.

The Warriors listened to the raspy screams as the scrawny man was incinerated on the spot.

Hickok let up on the toggle and tromped on the accelerator, and the transport responded immediately, racing at the three vehicles blocking the highway. He swerved to the left, intending to drive on the strip of weeds between the road and the forest, and gave Geronimo a clear field of fire.

Stunned by the grisly demise of their leader, the Cruisers were sluggish in bringing their weapons to bear.

Geronimo rested the barrel of the FNC on the window, waited until the SEAL was within three yards of the first car, and squeezed the trigger. The burst riddled the windshield and the passenger side, the rounds stitching the man in the front seat and slamming him onto his back.

A beefy Cruiser in the back seat was in the act of pulling the pin on a hand grenade.

“Grenade!” Geronimo bellowed, and sent a withering spray of lead into the back seat, perforating the Cruiser’s chest and neck. The man dropped, still holding the grenade. “Move!”

Hickok kept the pedal to the floor. The SEAL sped past the pickup and the second car, and he angled onto Highway Three and shot eastward. He looked in the rear view mirror just as the grenade detonated, and he saw the lead car explode, saw the ball of fire and the shower of metal pieces intermixed with body parts. “One down,” he said under his breath, hoping the explosion also took care of the other two vehicles.

“Here they come!” Marcus exclaimed.

The brown pickup and the second car, a battered Ford, roared out of the dust in pursuit of the SEAL.

“Marcus, show them what will happen if they get too close,” Hickok directed.

Marcus squeezed over the gunfighter’s left shoulder and eased his head and arms out the window. The wind tore at his face and khaki shirt. He elevated the 44-40, snuggled the stock against his right shoulder, and tried to get a bead on the Ford, which was closing rapidly. The bouncing of the SEAL made the barrel dance wildly no matter how hard he attempted to hold it steady.

“What are you doing?” Hickok shouted. “Admiring the scenery?”

Exasperated, Marcus fired, not really expecting to hit anything, the rifle bucking against his shoulder. To his astonishment he saw the Ford abruptly careen from the road and barrel at the trees on the north side.

“Not bad,” Hickok complimented him.

But the gunman spoke too soon. The Ford corrected its course and resumed the chase, speeding recklessly in an effort to make up the ground lost.

The pickup was still coming on strong. The three machine gunners were using the top of the cab for support, their weapons aimed at the rear of the transport, holding their fire until they narrowed the range.

Marcus aimed at the pickup and squeezed off a shot.

Nothing happened.

“Get in here,” Hickok ordered.

Reluctantly, Marcus complied. He sank on his seat and frowned. “I couldn’t nail them.”

“No foolin’?” Hickok responded.

“The pickup is gaining,” Geronimo announced.

The gunfighter glanced over his right shoulder at the onrushing vehicle.

“Marcus, forget the Henry. We’ll try one of your pigstickers.”

“One of my machetes against a pickup truck?”

“Do you have any brighter ideas?” Hickok asked.

“No,” Marcus admitted, “but how—”

“Get ready!” Hickok barked, his eyes glued to the rear view mirror. He estimated the pickup to be slightly less than 15 yards from the SEAL. Both vehicles were doing in excess of 70 miles per hour.

Marcus slid his right machete from its sheath and leaned over the gunman.

“Don’t show yourself yet,” Hickok admonished. “Wait until I give the word.”

“My machete won’t make a dent in the truck,” Marcus noted.

“Go for one of the cow chips in the bed,” Hickok directed, watching the pickup. The machine gunners, evidently confident a sustained fusillade at close proximity would disable the transport, fired in unison. The rounds smacked into the impervious green shell and zinged off. They emptied their magazines and went to replace the spent clips.

Which was exactly what the gunman wanted.

Hickok swerved slightly to the right, tromped on the brake, and yelled, “Now!”

Marcus needed no encouragement. He understood the part he was to play. The instant the SEAL started to slow, he bent his torso out the window, the machete clenched in both hands, and faced the hurtling pickup.

The gunfighter’s strategy worked flawlessly.

Taken unaware by the van’s unexpected braking, the driver of the pickup couldn’t stop in time. The truck came abreast of the transport in the twinkling of an eye, passing within two feet of the SEAL. With their machine guns empty, the three Cruisers on the bed could do no more than gape in stupefaction as they passed the van.

Marcus tucked his back against the SEAL and sucked in his gut. He ignored the speeding truck, ignored the fact he would be crushed if either vehicle deviated from its course by even a few inches, and focused on the nearest man in the pickup bed.

The Cruiser endeavored to throw himself out of harm’s way.

Marcus slashed the machete in a wide arc, the blade glistening in the sunlight, the razor edge connecting, biting deep into the machine gunner’s neck. The combined force of Marcus’s swing, the reverse thrust of the braking SEAL, and the momentum of the racing pickup enabled Marcus to execute a feat he’d never before performed. He decapitated the Cruiser.

Trailed by a geyser of gushing blood, the machine gunner’s head sailed high into the air, then fell end over end to the asphalt and bounced down the center of the highway. The headless body swayed for several seconds, then toppled backwards into the bed, its arms outstretched. The driver of the truck finally applied the brakes, causing the remaining machine gunners to lose their balance and fall on top of the headless corpse.