David Robbins - Dallas Run

Hickok’s hands swept out from under Melanie, his right arm coming up, the C.O.P. gleaming in the sunshine. His first shot caught Leather Jacket squarely in the center of the forehead and flipped the man backwards. In the space of a heartbeat his second shot boomed, and the man carrying the Ruger took a slug in the left eye. The round snapped the man’s head to the left, and he tottered sideways and toppled over.

The last of the trio, the man holding the crossbow, shocked by the abrupt demise of his comrades, tried to throw himself to the left as the gunfighter rotated in his direction. Ht stumbled in his haste, and his finger closed on the crossbow trigger.

But Hickok was still in the act of pivoting, and only his right side was exposed to the bowman. That fact saved his life. His keen eyes saw the bowman’s finger tighten, and he lunged to the right to avoid the shaft. As if in slow motion, he watched the crossbow bolt speed at him and felt a slight tugging sensation as the bolt creased the front of his buckskin shirt and kept going. He also felt his heels catch on Melanie’s prone form, and before he could prevent it, he fell over, landing hard on his shoulder blades. He angled his right arm upward, intending to snap a shot at the third Stomper.

The bowman had whipped another shaft from his quiver and was trying to reload the bow, stooping over to extend the stirrup and placing his left foot on the metal brace so he could pull the string back.

Melanie came off the ground in a rush, her right arm flicking out, swinging a two-foot length of slim, silver chain. The chain arced out and wrapped around the bowman’s neck. He released the crossbow and clutched at the chain, and Melanie heaved with all of her might, causing him to lose his balance and fall onto his left knee.

Enraged, the bowman yanked on the chain and attempted to regain his footing. At the sound of a single shot his right eye dissolved and the rear of his cranium exploded outwards. His mouth wide in stark astonishment, he pitched onto his face.

“Thanks,” Melanie said, “but I could’ve taken the jerk.” She limped to the bowman and began unwrapping her chain.

“Where the blazes did you get that thing?” Hickok asked as he stood.

Melanie glanced at him and smirked. “It was wrapped around my tummy, under my shirt.”

“But you told them you didn’t have one.”

“I lied.”

The gunfighter chuckled. “You’re one tricky lady.”

She removed her chain and straightened, grimacing with the effort.

Her left hand gripped her thigh.

“Is your leg worse?”

Melanie nodded. “It’s throbbing from all the commotion.”

“Then we’d best tend to those bites,” Hickok said, moving to retrieve his weapons. “We were lucky you passed out when you did.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it, dummy. I faked fainting to give you a chance to grab your little gun.”

Hickok paused in the act of reaching for the Henry and looked at her.

“You faked it?”

“Yep.”

“You knew I was packin’ the derringer?”

“Of course, silly.”

“How?”

“I felt it under your sleeve when I was climbing over you at the cockroach nest,” Melanie explained.

Hickok’s estimation of her rose even higher. “Well, I’ll be darned.” He proceeded to reload the rifle and his Colts.

“You’d better hurry,” Melanie urged. “I really am feeling dizzy now.”

“You’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time,” Hickok said, encouraging her. He hoped that the spiders didn’t inject poison into their victims. If she had poison in her system, her fate was sealed. He slung the Henry over his right arm.

“Hickok?” she said.

“I’m hurryin’,” the Warrior responded. “We don’t want to be caught unprepared if more Stompers or critters show up.” He quickly finished replacing the spent cartridges in his Pythons and slid the revolvers into their holsters.

“Hickok?” Melanie repeated weakly.

“I’m ready,” Hickok announced, looking up just as she swooned. He reached her in one bound and managed to get his left arm under her legs and his right about her shoulders. She sagged against his chest, her eyes closed, breathing unevenly, and the chain clattered to the blacktop.

Blast!

Hickok scanned their surroundings, discovering they were on the west side of a parking lot, probably the parking area once used by the factory workers. He spied a shoulder-high hedge to the east, and stiffened.

Pressing through the hedge were dozens of armed men and women.

“What do you think of my royal chariot?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

The Lawgiver sighed and gazed at the scenery on his side of the car.

“The heathen are pathetically ignorant.”

Blade pursed his lips and pondered his predicament. Should he make a break now or later? He shifted and looked at the occupants of the rear seat. The Lawgiver sat on the driver’s side, his white hair and beard whipping in the wind. In the middle sat Aaron, and on Aaron’s right another of the Chosen. Both men held their rifles steadily, the barrels trained on the Warrior.

“This is the only functional car in all of Dallas,” the Lawgiver commented.

“I believe it,” Blade said. He’d been mildly surprised when they’d emerged from the stadium to behold a battered, rust-rimmed, faded green convertible awaiting them.

“One of my followers found the vehicle under an overpass south of the city,” the Lawgiver elaborated. “There are plenty of old underground tanks to siphon the fuel from.”

“What about the battery? It had to be dead,” Blade noted.

“Do you realize how many abandoned warehouses there are in a city this size? And not all of them have been looted. We have a hoard of firearms, kerosene, lanterns, batteries, you name it. We also possess several generators for recharging our batteries.”

“Did you find any medicine?”

“Medicine?”

“Yeah. Bandages, splints, pills, cures for insanity,” Blade quipped, and immediately felt a sharp pain in his ribs. He looked down at the Llama semiautomatic poking him in the side, then stared at the stocky man beside him. “I hope your popgun doesn’t have a hair trigger.”

“Don’t insult the Lawgiver,” the man stated harshly.

“That’s quite all right, Brother Solomon,” the Lawgiver said. “We should expect such conduct from those who are impure.”

“Yes, Lawgiver,” said the stocky one.

The sixth man in the convertible, the young driver, glanced in the rearview mirror. “Lawgiver, how long will it be before all the impure see the light?”

“Be patient, Brother Uriah. In the fullness of time the Maker will convert the entire world.”

“Then it’s true?” Blade interjected. “You intend to conquer the whole world?”

“Not conquer, convert,” the Lawgiver said, correcting the Warrior.

“Eventually, only those who bear the Mark of the Chosen will exist on this planet.”

“No way,” Blade said.

“Where the Maker’s will is concerned, there is always a way,” the Lawgiver responded. “As the Maker’s chosen servant, I will realize the divine will.”

“When did you first notice that you suffer from delusions of grandeur?”

Blade cracked.

“Your kind is so predictable,” the Lawgiver stated. “When logic fails, you resort to insults.”

“What logic?” Blade retorted. “All I’ve heard are ravings about dominating the world. Be serious.”

“I am serious,” the Lawgiver replied. “I’ll try to explain sufficiently so you can understand. Over seven decades ago I came into this evil world, and I was the very first to be born bearing the Mark. For years I believed I was inferior because of the green spots on my skin. Not until I became a teenager did the full truth dawn.”