David Robbins - Cincinnati Run

Lenin’s warped political philosophy indirectly led to World War Three.”

General Stoljarov stopped in his tracks and shook his head in astonishment. “Now I’ve heard everything! To blame Comrade Lenin for World War Three is ridiculous. To be fair, you should also blame General George Washington.” He resumed walking.

“Washington didn’t leave as his legacy a government devoted to the suppression of individual liberty.”

“It is obvious we will never see eye to eye on political matters,” Stoljarov said.

“Or anything else,” Blade added.

They drew nearer to Lenin’s Needle, following the avenue as it looped around a row of deciduous trees.

“I have a surprise for you,” General Stoljarov mentioned.

“Can we pass?” Geronimo asked. “Any surprise of yours is bound to be hazardous to our health.”

“You misjudge me, Geronimo,” the general said.

“Then what’s this big surprise of yours?” Geronimo queried skeptically.

The Butcher smirked at both of them. “Would you believe a firing squad?”

Somewhere, someone was talking to him. He could hear their voice, but the words were muffled and slurred, as if they were trying to speak with a mouth full of marbles.

Why was it so blamed hot?

He became aware of a weight on his chest, and suddenly the memories returned in a rush: Cincinnati, the Russians, the vacant building, the spider, and being bitten! Another spider must be about to bite him! His eyes shot open and he grabbed at the form before him, his vision momentarily blurry.

“Mister! It’s okay!”

Hickok shook his head vigorously, clearing his mind and his eyesight simultaneously. He was on his back on the hall floor, his right hand gripping the left wrist of an elderly man attired in ragged clothing. The man held a flickering lighter aloft in his right hand, and his right knee rested on Hickok’s chest.

“Please, mister! I mean you no harm!” the elderly man blurted. “Don’t hurt me!”

“Who are you?” Hickok demanded.

“Elmer. Elmer Howard,” the man said. His black pants were ripped at the knees and covered with dirt. A brown shirt with three buttons missing and crude patches on both elbows covered his frail torso.

“What were you doing?”

“I found you out cold and I was trying to revive you.”

“How do I know you weren’t tryin’ to finish me off?” Hickok asked.

“I’m no killer, mister.”

Hickok studied the oldster’s face, noting the dozens of wrinkles, the honest green eyes, and the matted gray hair. “No, I reckon you’re not, Elmer. My name is Hickok.”

“I saw you fighting the Commies,” Elmer commented. “You and your buddies.”

“My pards!” Hickok exclaimed, and shoved to his feet. The hallway abruptly spun and tilted, and he clutched at the wall for support.

“You’d best take it easy, Hickok,” Elmer advised. “The bite of a Brown is nothing to mess with.”

“A Brown?”

“That’s what we call the kind of spider that bit you.”

“How’d you know I was bitten by a spider?” Hickok queried.

Elmer nodded at Hickok’s head. “You have bits and pieces of spider plastered to your hair.”

“I’m surprised I’m still breathin’,” Hickok remarked.

“Oh, the Browns don’t kill you, but they can make you feel like puke for a while,” Elmer said.

“Where do they come from?” Hickok inquired, feeling groggy.

“Folks claim they’ve been around since after the damn war,” Elmer answered.

“Why are they called Browns?”

“Because that’s the color they are,” Elmer explained, his tone implying the answer should have been readily apparent.

“I’ve got to find my friends,” Hickok said, rubbing his burning forehead. “Where’s the door?”

“Down there,” Elmer said, nodding at the end of the hall where a closed door was barely discernible in the faint illumination supplied by the lighter. “But if I was you, I wouldn’t go out that way.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, that door opens onto Delhi Road, and there are Commies all over the place. You wouldn’t get very far in the shape you’re in,” Elmer responded. “For another thing, you’d be wasting your time looking for your friends.”

“Why?”

“The Commies caught them.”

Hickok straightened and swung toward the door, unslinging the AR-15.

“When? How?”

“A while ago,” Elmer said. “Your friends didn’t stand a prayer.”

“Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

Elmer scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, let’s see. I was on the second floor of the condemned store three doors down when I heard a crash—”

“What were you doing there?” Hickok asked, interrupting.

“Getting set to settle in for the night. I sleep in these buildings when I’m in the neighborhood. Some of the other bums crash out in these buildings too. The Commies don’t bother us much. But I know they’re getting set to raze all these empty buildings just so we won’t hang around here anymore.”

“Finish your story.”

“My story? Oh, yeah. There I was, about to bed down, when there was this racket outside and I peeked out the window and saw there’d been an accident. The next thing I know, everybody is shooting and hollering and running like crazy, and you and your two buddies ran into the alley and a whole bunch of Commies went after you.” Elmer paused to take a breath.

“I was sort of curious, so I snuck outside and mingled with the crowd, and I saw a few of the bodies. Not much happened for a while, and then I noticed your two buddies coming out of this building. A Commie tried to take them, but they nailed the son of a bitch but proper and lit out.” He paused again and sighed. “They wasted a heap of Commies, but the head honcho himself caught them.”

“Who?”

“Mr. High-and-Mighty General Ari Stoljarov. Everyone calls him the Butcher. I’ve seen him a few times before going in and out of the base across the street, and I saw his picture in the paper. He’s a mean one.”

“You read the paper?” Hickok asked.

Elmer scrunched up his nose. “What, a bum can’t be literate? I find papers in trash cans all the time. And yeah, I can read real good, thank you.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Hickok said. “What happened to my pards after General What’s-His-Name captured them?”

“General Stoljarov. They were taken into the base. The last I saw, they were still alive. But from what I’ve heard about the damn Butcher, they won’t be for long.”

“I’ve got to find them,” Hickok declared, and took a stride toward the door.

“You’re being a jerk,” Elmer stated.

Hickok turned. “You think so?”

“I know so. What are you planning to do? March over to the gate and ask the Commies to surrender?”

“There’s an idea,” Hickok said, and grinned.

“I can help you get into the base.”

“Why are you putting your life in danger for me?”

Elmer gazed at the lighter. “Because I hate the Commies. The bastards took my wife from me thirty years ago to use for their breeding program.

They made her carry their rotten seed, and after the baby was born they took the child and tossed her out the door. She was the kindest person you’d ever want to meet, and they tore her soul to pieces. After they were done with her, she was never the same. She lost the will to live and died six years later.”

“I’m sorry,” Hickok said softly.

“Without her, my life wasn’t worth a damn. I’ve been bumming ever since. And whenever I get the chance to put the screws to the Commies, I do. I lost track of how many tires I’ve flattened by letting the air out. If I find a Commie vehicle left by itself, I like to pour dirt down the carburetor,” Elmer disclosed, and tittered. “I knew you guys weren’t Commies the minute I saw you, even though you’re wearing Commie uniforms. And when I saw your buddies come out of this building without you, I got curious about what happened to you. I snuck in when I figured nobody was looking, shut the door, and pulled out my lighter. You’re lucky I found you before the Commies. They’re still searching this block. A squad will likely come in here at any second.”