David Robbins - Dallas Run

Blade was in a quandary. The opportunity to grab a captive without a fight was ruined. He felt no compulsion to intervene to save the man called Gary. By all rights he should return to the alley and hold out there until Hickok returned. But he did feel obligated to Marlon because he’d confiscated the Taurus revolvers. If Marlon died now, then Blade knew he must shoulder a portion of the responsibility for disarming the Chains’ leader.

Marlon reached Gary and leaned down to help the man rise.

“Get them!” barked one of the Chosen.

Blade estimated there were 19 yards between the two Chains and the Chosen. Marlon and Gary wouldn’t be able to reach cover in time.

“Damn!” he snapped again, and jogged to the left, to the curb, wanting the angle to be just right. He raised the M60 barrel and fired, and he saw the heavy rounds tear through the pack of Chosen like buckshot through a paper target. Seven of them dropped in half as many seconds.

The Chosen retaliated. A woman swung a rifle to her shoulder and snapped off a shot, and others followed her example.

Marlon had his right arm around Gary’s shoulders and was bracing Gary as the man shuffled toward the curb.

Undaunted by the bullets striking the ground and the walls to his rear, Blade mowed down four more of the Chosen. He saw three stragglers turn and flee, leaving four to contend with.

Through the doorway came Geronimo and Lieutenant Garber, shooting as they ran.

Gary abruptly stiffened and clutched at his back, then fell forward.

Two of the four Chosen fell, and Blade, Geronimo, and Garber concentrated their fire on the remaining pair. In seconds the duo were dead.

Blade stared at the perforated bodies for a moment, at the blood oozing from the holes, exasperated at the turn of events. He glanced at the fleeing trio, who were now 30 yards distant and hauling butt. A sob drew his attention to the two Chains.

Gary lay on the asphalt on his back, his head cradled in Marlon’s hands.

He sobbed again, his features contorted in agony. Crimson drops formed at the corners of his mouth.

Holding the M60 in the crook of his left elbow, Blade walked over.

“How is he?”

The leader of the Chains shook his head sadly.

“Marlon?” Gary said, his eyes open but unfocused.

“I’m here.”

“Where?”

“Right here,” Marlon assured him, taking Gary’s hand. “Right here, old friend.”

“They jumped me when I was scrounging over by the Plaza,” Gary said, his voice weak.

“There’s no need to talk,” Marlon responded.

“Oh, God! I hurt!” Gary cried.

Marlon bowed his head.

“They made me drink it,” Gary stated.

“Drink what?”

“The Elixir.”

“The what?”

“The Elixir of Life. That’s how they do it,” Gary said.

“What do they do?” Marlon inquired.

Instead of replying, Gary blinked and inhaled deeply. “This world sucks,” he declared, and went limp.

“Gary?” Marlon said, shaking him gently. “Gary?”

“He’s gone,” Blade said.

“Gary was one of my best friends,” Marlon said. “This is one more I owe these bastards for.”

“What did he mean about the Elixir of Life?” Blade questioned.

“Beats me. I never heard about it before.”

“Uh-oh!” Geronimo suddenly interjected, staring to the south.

Blade looked at his friend, then pivoted. Seventy yards off were the three stragglers. They had halted and were conversing with another large party of the Chosen, perhaps 30 or more. Had the second party been nearby, heard the shots, and came to investigate? The Chosen seemed to be all over the city. How many had Melanie said there were? One hundred and fifty?

“Here they come,” Geronimo announced.

Sure enough, the second group of Chosen were advancing at a brisk clip.

Blade glanced at Lieutenant Garber. “Give Marlon his guns.”

The officer hesitated.

“Now,” Blade said, and faced to the north. If they retraced their steps to the alley, they’d undoubtedly be pursued by the Chosen. Even if they eluded the pack, the Chosen might linger in the area, posing a threat to Hickok when the gunman came back.

“Let’s stand and fight,” Marlon proposed, sliding his revolvers into their holsters.

“You can do whatever you want,” Blade told him. “We’re running.”

“We’re what?” Lieutenant Garber asked in disbelief.

“We’re going to lead them off to the north, then lose them and circle around,” Blade said.

“I’m not one of your men. I can do what I want,” Marlon declared.

Blade jabbed his right forefinger at the second party. “Do you want them to be nearby when Melanie and our friend show up?”

Marlon deliberated for several seconds, and finally shook his head. “No.

I don’t.”

“Then stick with us and maybe we’ll get out of this mess alive,” Blade said. “You know the city better than we do. Lead the way. Find a spot where we can lose them.”

“Fair enough,” Marlon said, and jogged northward.

Blade ran on Marlon’s heels. Pacing him on the right was Geronimo, on the left the officer.

“There’s a place I know about a mile from here,” Marlon stated. “A building that’s a real maze. We should be able to lose them in there.”

“Go for it,” Blade said.

But they had covered only 500 yards when an unanticipated obstacle to their plan materialized directly in their path. Around the corner of an intersection 90 feet away appeared another pack of the Chosen.

The bug abruptly released him.

Headfirst, Hickok dropped toward the floor of the mound, toward the ghastly collection of human bones. He automatically whipped his legs downward, his marvelously coordinated physique responding superbly, and executed a flip in midair. His moccasins came down hard on the left thigh bone of a skeleton lying at the base of the circular wall of trash, and the bone snapped with a sharp retort. Hickok’s momentum carried him to his hands and knees. He gripped the Henry firmly and stood, aiming at the rim.

All of the bugs were gone.

Hickok lowered the Carbine slowly, confounded. How in the world was he going to get out of this fix? he asked himself. The almost sheer face of the nine-foot wall would pose formidable difficulties if he attempted to scale it. If he could find something to prop against the wall for added support, he might be able to—

A crunching sound emanated from the shadowy half of the flat area.

Swiveling the rifle, Hickok’s eyes narrowed as he tried to pierce the gloom. He assumed there must be a bug in there with him, and he waited for a hint of movement so he could blast away.

“Don’t shoot! It’s me!” cried a frightened female voice.

“Who the—?” Hickok blurted.

She emerged from the darkness, her hands clasped to her chest, her face a mask of fear.

“You!” Hickok exclaimed.

Melanie Stevens gave a nervous little wave with her right hand. “Hi there.”

“How’d you get in here?” the gunman demanded.

“I thought I could lose you in the supermarket,” Melanie said haltingly, her eyes roving to the rim. “I knew it better. I knew about the cockroaches—”

“The what?” Hickok asked, interrupting her.

“The things that caught us. They’re called cockroaches.”

“Cockroaches are usually dinky, pesky bugs,” Hickok observed. “The radiation or the chemicals must’ve gotten to these.”

“I was told they’ve been in Dallas since shortly after the war,” Melanie said.

Hickok regarded her critically. “You knew the bugs were in that place?”

Melanie nodded.

“So you figured you’d sucker me in there and let the blamed cockroaches take care of me, huh?” Hickok deduced.