David Robbins - Dallas Run

From his post at one of the exits on the east side of the school building, which he had cracked open several inches earlier, Geronimo could see the street fronting the former elementary school. He watched as a patrol of six Chosen passed, going from south to north, apparently in a hurry. In a minute they were out of sight. “The coast is clear,” he declared.

“I didn’t think they’d be looking for us this far south,” Marlon commented as he climbed into his chair in the front row. “We’re over a mile from the Donogal Office Building.”

“I doubt they were searching for us,” Geronimo responded. “Maybe they were on their way to join the band who are doing the hunting.”

Marlon gazed at the auditorium walls and the ceiling. “I don’t like being cooped up like this. If the Chosen find us, we’re trapped.”

“We can escape before they surround us,” Geronimo said.

“You hope,” Marlon replied.

“My plan has worked so far,” Geronimo mentioned.

“Yeah, but now we’re a mile from the alley,” Marlon groused.

“You know as well as I do that the Chosen were conducting a door-to-door sweep in that area,” Geronimo said. “If we had remained, then they definitely would have found us. As it is, you left two of your best men concealed near the alley. They have a better chance of avoiding detection than all of us would have, and they’ll spot Hickok and Melanie when they return.”

“If they return,” Marlon said, amending the Warrior’s statement.

“They’ve been gone too long. They could be dead or captured, like your buddy Blade.”

Geronimo frowned at the mention of his giant friend. From the roof of an apartment building near the alley, where they had gone after fleeing from the office building, he’d seen a mounted party of the Chosen riding to the southeast with Blade as their prisoner. His friend’s capture had changed the entire focus of the mission. Taking one of the Chosen captive had become irrelevant. Geronimo’s primary concern now was saving Blade and finding Hickok, and since, thanks to information supplied by Marlon, he had a good idea where the Chosen were taking Blade and no idea where to find the idiot with the pearl-handled revolvers, his first step was to rescue the head Warrior. Besides, the Chains would not be able to execute a search for the gunman until the Chosen had given up their sweep and left the area.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” Marlon said skeptically.

“It’s time for the next step,” Geronimo said.

“What’s on your mind?”

“You found us a place to hole up for the time being,” Geronimo remarked. “And we have men watching the alley. The next step is for you to send a message to the Stompers.”

Marlon came off the chair with incredulity on his face. “What?” he exclaimed, and there was murmuring among the Chains.

“I want you to send a messenger to the leader of the Stompers,” Geronimo proposed.

“You’re out of your mind!” Marlon responded.

“Why?”

“If I send a man to the Stompers, they’ll hang him by his heels, skin him alive, slit his throat, and then ask why he’s there.”

“Who is their leader?”

“A nasty son of a bitch by the name of Reeves. I hate his guts and he hates mine.”

“And the two of you have never gotten together for a meeting?”

Geronimo inquired.

“No. Never. Why the hell should we? Until the Chosen came along, the Chains and the Stompers were always at war. The Chains controlled all the turf north of Interstate Thirty, and the Stompers had the turf to the south. The only times we saw each other was when we were fighting. They’d raid our turf, and we’d strike back. Or we’d raid theirs, and they’d come after us. That’s the way it was for years and years.”

“Didn’t you grow tired of all the killing?”

Marlon snorted. “No. It was fun, man.”

“How did the Chosen manage to defeat both gangs and take over the city?” Geronimo asked.

“I’ve wondered about the same thing a million times,” Marlon said morosely. “I mean, up until about four years ago the Chains and the Stompers were the kings of the city. There were around eighty Chains and seventy Stompers. We were pretty evenly matched. Then one day some of the Chains disappeared, and we figured the Stompers were to blame.

Later we learned that some Stompers had vanished, and they figured we were responsible.”

“But neither of you were,” Geronimo deduced.

“Nope. It turns out the damn Chosen were grabbing members from both sides and converting them.”

“How?”

“I wish to hell I knew,” Marlon said. “One day a guy would be perfectly normal, then he’d disappear and a few days later he’d be spotted running with the Chosen, almost naked and covered with those green marks.”

“Did that happen to all of the Chains who disappeared?”

“No. Some we never saw again. My guess is they were killed. Maybe they couldn’t be converted. I don’t know.”

“How do the Chosen convert others?”

“It’s a mystery to us. We’ve caught a few of the bastards and tried to make them talk. Even caught two of our own who had gone over. But none of them would spill the beans,” Marlon detailed.

“So the Chosen grew stronger and stronger and now they rule Dallas,” Geronimo commented thoughtfully. “How many Chosen are there?”

“There were about one hundred and fifty. But after the number your big buddy did on them, I don’t know. It all depends on how many he wasted after we took off.”

“And there are thirty-three Chains,” Geronimo said. “How many Stompers are there?”

“I’m not sure. About twenty-five, maybe less.”

“Which would give us about sixty, counting Lieutenant Garber and me.”

Marlon’s forehead furrowed in contemplation. “What have you got in mind?”

“I can’t take on all of the Chosen by myself. If I’m to rescue Blade, I’ll need help. By combining the two sides, we’d—”

“Combining!” Marlon blurted out, interrupting the Warrior. “Do you want the Chains and the Stompers to work together?”

“Yes.”

Marlon tilted his head and chortled, and some of the listening Chains chimed in.

“Don’t you like my idea?” Geronimo asked.

“Your idea is crazy! You’re crazy if you think the Chains and the Stompers will join forces. We’ve been at each other’s throats for too long to call a truce.”

“You’d rather continue hating one another while the Chosen slowly but surely pick you to pieces?”

Marlon frowned.

“The Chains and the Stompers have as much at stake here as I do,” Geronimo stated. “Maybe even more. I want to save a friend, and you want to save yourselves and your city from the Chosen. If the two sides had combined forces years ago, the Chosen would’ve been defeated. But no. You let your stupidity and your pride stand in the way, and the Chosen are in control.”

“If you want to look at it that way,” Marlon grumbled.

“What other way is there?” Geronimo countered.

“He’s right, and you know it,” Lieutenant Garber interjected, addressing the leader of the Chains.

“Who asked you?” Marlon snapped.

“Strategically, you don’t have a hope unless the Chains and the Stompers combine forces,” Garber stressed.

Slumping sullenly into his seat, Marlon said nothing.

“Think of your children,” Geronimo said.

The Chains all swung their startled expressions toward the Warrior.

“How’d you know about our kids?” Marlon demanded, rising again and walking over.

“Elementary,” Geronimo responded, and grinned at the pun, wishing Hickok could be there to hear his witticism. “People don’t pop full grown out of the womb. Some of your members might be drifters or scavengers you took into your gang, but you must have children somewhere. How else have you replenished your ranks over the years?”