David Robbins - Boston Run

Having an identity, an awareness of self, an appreciation of his place in the cosmic scheme of things, anchored him to the here and now and gave him a purpose for living. His elation, however, was rudely shattered.

The door at the end of the hall unexpectedly opened, disgorging three Russian soldiers with AK-47’s.

“What’s the name of this town again, pard?”

“Strawberry Point,” Geronimo answered.

“And how many folks lived there before the Big Blast?”

“According to the Atlas there were two thousand one hundred and twenty-nine.”

“I doubt anyone lives there now,” Marcus interjected.

“Cockroaches and rats, maybe,” Hickok said, staring at the ghost town 200 yards from the idling SEAL. The buildings were in various stages of collapse. Roofs were partly gone or sagging. Walls were cracked and blistered. Windows were shattered, doors missing. Vegetation had reclaimed the yards; brush and trees grew where once tidy lawns had been meticulously cultivated.

“Where’d everybody go?” Marcus wondered aloud.

“We know the U.S. government evacuated hundreds of thousands of citizens during the war into the area now under the jurisdiction of the Civilized Zone,” Geronimo mentioned. “Perhaps the people living in Strawberry Point were among those forced to relocate.”

“Will we go around the town or straight through it?” Marcus asked.

Hickok pondered for a few seconds, then accelerated. “We’ve wasted too much blamed time as it is. We’ll cut straight through.”

Geronimo gazed to the right at a verdant field, then at the blue sky. In the distance, seemingly on the very horizon, hovered a dark speck, a large bird of some kind. He looked out the windshield at Strawberry Point, his brow knitting. Since when did birds hover? Few birds could hang stationary in the air. He glanced at the south again, studying the speck.

“What’s that?” Marcus asked, pointing straight ahead.

Geronimo stared at the spot Marcus indicated, a spot well past Strawberry Point and several hundred feet above the ground, and he tensed when he spied another speck, only this one was slightly larger. He estimated the distance at over a mile, possibly two. Troubled by the fact there were two of the things, he twisted and checked the sky to their rear.

And there, hovering far away, was a third speck. “Uh-oh,” he said.

“What is it?” Hickok inquired.

“We’ve got trouble.”

The gunman slowed the transport while scanning the town. “Where?

What kind?”

“Look out your window and tell me if you see a big speck to the north,” Geronimo suggested.

“A speck?” Hickok repeated quizzically. He searched the sky, then suddenly braked. “Yep. I see one.”

“There’s one on every side,” Geronimo revealed.

“What are they?” Marcus queried, gazing from one dot to the next.

“They sure ain’t gigantic hummingbirds,” Hickok quipped.

“I wonder how long they’ve had us under surveillance,” Geronimo commented.

“Who?” Marcus questioned.

“If they’ve been on our tail for a spell, it means we were set up,” Hickok said.

“Who set us up?” Marcus asked.

“Maybe they found us by sheer luck,” Geronimo stated. “Maybe they were on patrol and spotted the smoke from the barricade we destroyed or that car the grenade took out.”

“Maybe,” Hickok said, but his tone lacked conviction.

“Who found us? Will one of you tell me what’s going on?” Marcus requested.

Hickok pointed at the speck to the east. “Commies.”

“The Russians? But we’re not in Russian territory,” Marcus noted.

“We’re in eastern Iowa, about fifty miles from the border,” Geronimo said. “The next state over is Illinois, which the Russians control portions of. We’re well within the patrol radius of a standard copter.”

“So those specks are Russian choppers?” Marcus responded, and grinned. “All right! More action.”

Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “Would you remind me to dunk him in the moat when we get back?”

“No problem. I’ll even help.”

“Thanks, pard.”

“Hey. what’s the big deal? We can handle a few helicopters,” Marcus declared. “We’ve got the Stinger mounted on the roof, remember?”

“Correct, rocks for brains,” Hickok replied. “We’ve got one surface-to-air missile. There are four helicopters.”

“We can take them,” Marcus predicted confidently.

“I hope so,” Geronimo said, “because here they come.”

The specks were rapidly growing larger and larger as the four helicopters converged on the SEAL, their spinning rotors and low, squat contours becoming visible within seconds.

Hickok floored it, bringing the transport up to 60 miles an hour, heading for Strawberry Point. He held off activating the Stinger, preferring to wait until the missile was really needed. Why waste his ace in the hole early on when they were about to fight tooth and nail against superior forces? He knew trying to elude the choppers in the trees would be next to impossible, and the dense vegetation would limit the SEAL’s maneuverability. Trying to outrun the helicopters would be equally ridiculous. So his sole option was to reach the town and try to reduce the approach angle the copters could employ by interposing buildings between the transport and the whirlybirds.

The Russian copters came on swiftly. Despite the distance they had to cover, they almost overtook the van before it could enter Strawberry Point.

Almost.

But not quite.

The Russian chopper speeding in from the east was only 100 yards off when Hickok steered the SEAL into the deserted town. He looked for a turnoff, a driveway, anything, uncomfortably conscious of the helicopter bearing down on them, expecting the brown craft to fire its rockets at any instant. To his astonishment, nothing happened.

With a loud whump-whump-whump the military craft shot over the SEAL and continued to the west.

“They didn’t try to nail us,” Marcus remarked in bewilderment.

Hickok spied an alley a block off on the right side of the highway, and he made for it without delay.

“Why didn’t they open fire?” Marcus asked.

“Maybe they want to take the SEAL intact,” Geronimo conjected, “or else they want us alive.”

“They’ll get us over my dead body,” Hickok snapped, and jerked on the steering wheel as the transport arrived at the alley. The SEAL narrowly missed the building on the left and was 15 feet inside the alley before he slammed on the brakes. “Wait here,” he directed them, shifting into Park.

He grabbed the Henry from the console and quickly climbed from the van.

Where were the Commies? he wondered. He anticipated the choppers would materialize over the alley in force, but ten seconds elapsed and they failed to appear although he could hear the sound of their rotors.

What the blazes was going on?

The gunman ran to the mouth of the alley and peered out. To the north, hovering several hundred yards from Strawberry Point, was one of the helicopters. He glanced over his right shoulder and found a second craft positioned to the south, likewise holding back. Why were the vermin waiting to attack?

Seconds later a third chopper appeared, this time off to the east at the far edge of town. The copter alighted in the center of the highway and sat there, its blades still spinning, apparently waiting.

For what? Hickok speculated.

The fourth helicopter suddenly swooped down to the west and landed just outside of Strawberry Point, its fuselage across the highway, not more than 60 yards away.

Hickok hefted the Henry, feeling frustrated. They were boxed in. He turned and motioned with his right arm at the transport, and moments later Geronimo and Marcus joined him.