David Robbins - Cincinnati Run

“On me,” Blade directed, sprinting to the west, surprised to discover scattered pedestrians on the sidewalk, all of whom frantically endeavored to flee out of his path. He could hear Geronimo and Hickok pounding on his heels, and then a new sound, the harsh thundering of AK-47s.

A large window in a deserted store to their rear shattered.

“They’re gettin’ our range!” Hickok exclaimed, halting and pivoting and firing from the hip.

Two Russian soldiers near the car died on their feet.

Hickok resumed his flight, looking at the L.R.F. and observing a score of soldiers rushing through the gate. “Reinforcements are comin’!” he yelled.

Blade and Geronimo slowed, covering the gunman while he caught up.

“This is gettin’ serious,” Hickok cracked.

“What was your first clue?” Geronimo asked.

Blade glanced to the west and spied an alley 15 feet distant. “Move!” he ordered, sprinting forward, scarcely noticing the rusted, decrepit trash cans littering the sidewalk as he darted into the mouth of the alley. His boots crunched on refuse and a stench assailed his nostrils. Mounds of moldy garbage lined the walls.

“P.U.!” Hickok said. “Why do you always pick places that smell like the butt end of a cow with the runs?”

“Damn!” Blade snapped.

“I knew this would happen,” Geronimo stated.

A ten-foot-high brick wall blocked their passage.

Blade slung the Commando over his right arm and cupped his hands.

“Let’s go. Hickok first.”

The gunman placed his right boot on Blade’s hands. “Don’t get carried away,” he said, slinging the AR-15 over his left shoulder.

Blade’s arms surged upward, and Hickok sailed overhead. The gunfighter cleared the top of the wall with a yard to spare and descended on the far side. A veritable din ensued, a metallic clanging and clashing intermixed with muffled exclamations. “Hickok are you all right?” Blade queried anxiously.

“Fine,” came the angry reply.

“What happened?”

“I landed in a blamed trash can.”

Geronimo smirked. “All the grace of a rhino,” he commented, and looked over his shoulder. Loud voices emanated from the mouth of the alley, but no one was in sight. The Soviets were being cautious.

“Your turn,” Blade said.

“How many points do I make if I clobber Hickok?” Geronimo asked as he slipped his left foot into Blade’s hands.

Blade hurled Geronimo toward the lip of the wall.

“Down here!” someone near the street bellowed. Time for a deterrent.

Blade faced Delhi, unslung the Commando, and let off a short burst to discourage their pursuers. He spun and vaulted upward, the Commando in his left hand, easily taking hold of the rim of the wall with his right hand and employing his left elbow as a brace. The next moment he was up and over and dropping to the sidewalk beyond, landing between his fellow Warriors.

Geronimo stood to the right, scrutinizing the deserted street before them. The gathering nightfall blanketed the structures.

Hickok was busily removing bits and pieces of revolting gunk from his clothing. At his feet was an overturned trash can dotted with rust holes.

“What’s with all the blasted garbage?” he wanted to know.

“Maybe this whole area was abandoned before the L.R.F. was built,” Blade speculated, surveying the street. “Maybe there are homeless people in Cincinnati who are using these vacant buildings for shelter.”

“I doubt the Commies would let folks wander around the city,” Hickok said, scrunching up his nose as he picked a gooey green glob from his uniform shirt.

“The Russians can’t be everywhere at once. And I doubt they rate apprehending homeless people as a very high priority.”

“Where to now?” Geronimo inquired. “Every Soviet soldier in the city will be after us.”

Blade jogged to the left, bearing to the east, reversing direction to confound the enemy.

“Do you have a plan?” Geronimo asked, staying on the giant’s right.

“Yeah. It’s called staying alive.”

“You’d best do better than that,” Hickok said, a yard to their rear. “This is terrible.”

“Since when have you ever been worried about handling several thousand Russian soldiers?” Geronimo responded.

“It’s not the Commies who worry me,” Hickok declared. “It’s our wives.”

“Our wives?”

“Yep. They’ll tan our hides for losin’ our duds.”

They covered 50 yards and reached the front of an enormous dingy building.

Blade abruptly swerved to the right and bounded up a flight of cracked and pitted cement stairs to the wooden door.

“What gives, pard?” Hickok questioned. “I don’t much like the notion of being cornered indoors.”

“We’ll cut through here. This building should front Delhi Road. If the Spirit smiles on us, we should come out behind the Russians.”

Geronimo looked at the alley. “Speaking of the Russians, where are they?”

“They probably had to regroup,” Blade said. “They’ll be coming over the wall any second.” He gripped the doorknob and pulled, and to his delight the door swung out. “Stay close to me,” he advised, and plunged into the gloomy recesses of the brownstone.

Geronimo went in next.

Hickok hesitated for a last glimpse of the alley, and he saw several soldiers jumping to the sidewalk as he eased the door shut. The inside of the building was damp and musty.

“Let’s go,” Blade stated, standing eight feet off, his immense form an indistinct inky shadow.

“I need someone to hold my hand,” Hickok joked.

“Why do you think Sherry married you?” Geromino replied sarcastically.

“The woman has excellent taste.”

“In food.”

The Warriors advanced tentatively, feeling their way in the darkness, occasionally encountering rickety furniture and dangling spider webs.

“I just had a thought,” Hickok whispered.

“There’s a first,” Geronimo said.

“I’m serious, pard. What if there are mutants in here?”

“They’ll pick up your scent and head for the hills.”

“I don’t smell that bad.”

“A horny skunk would be in seventh heaven.”

They came to a junction and Blade led them to the left, along a narrow corridor. Rustling and squeaking noises fluttered in the air.

“This dump is spooky,” Hickok commented.

In 20 yards they came to another intersection, and as they took a right they walked into a wall of sticky cobwebs.

“Yuck,” Hickok said, swiping at the invisible strands.

“I can see a faint light at the end of the hall,” Blade mentioned.

“Lead on,” Geronimo stated.

Blade moved toward the vague illumination, batting cobwebs aside with every stride. “This might be our way out.”

“None too soon,” Hickok said. He took three steps on the heels of the others, then froze when something the size of his hand, something wiggling and heavy, plummeted out of the blackness overhead and landed in his hair.

Blade sidled up to the door, the Commando in his right hand, clasped the smooth doorknob, and placed his left ear to the panel. The upper and lower edges of the door were outlined in a pale glow. Beyond were the sounds of upraised voices, honking vehicles, and the tramping of boots on the pavement. He tested the knob to verify the door was unlocked, and circumspectly eased the door open several inches.

Delhi Road was swirling with activity. The traffic jam was worse than before; evidently the officers on the scene were not permitting any of the vehicles to budge. Military uniforms were everywhere, with a heavy concentration in the proximity of the jeep. The colossal front gate hung open, and three rows of soldiers stood at attention near the entrance.