David Robbins - Cincinnati Run

“Do you know this area well?”

“Like the back of my hand,” Elmer said. “I know every nook and cranny in these abandoned buildings, every manhole and sewer-tunnel for miles around.”

“Then we’d best skedaddle,” Hickok stated.

“Ske-what?”

“Vamose.”

“Va-who?”

“We’d best get the blazes out of here.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Elmer asked, and started to turn, flicking off the lighter. “Follow me.”

With a resounding crash the front door was forcefully kicked open, slamming against the wall, and framed in the doorway stood a strapping Russian soldier with an AK-47. “You there!” he bellowed, stepping forward, striving to see them clearly. “What are you doing?”

“Twiddlin’ our thumbs,” Hickok responded, and fired from the hip.

The impact hurled the Russian backwards, his arms flung wide, the AK-47 clattering to the floor. He hurtled through the doorway and dropped from sight, and was promptly replaced by a second trooper materializing at the door.

“Go!” Hickok goaded Elmer, and squeezed off four rounds.

The second soldier fell.

“Stay close to me,” Elmer advised, hastening down the hall to the junction.

“Just go!” Hickok prompted, his eyes on the doorway, firing as yet another Russian appeared.

Elmer took a left at the junction.

Backpedaling rapidly, Hickok saw several dark forms dart into the hall.

He was almost to the junction, and he cut loose, swiveling the barrel from right to left.

A trooper screamed, and then the Russians were returning the Warrior’s fire, their AK-47’s thundering, bright flashes of orange marking their muzzles.

Hickok ducked around the corner and heard dozens of rounds thud into the wall. He stuck the AR-15 out, intending to send a parting burst at the Soviets, but an AK-47 chattered and the AR-15 was torn from his hands and cast against the wall.

Blast!

Hickok whirled and raced along the hall, unbuttoning his shirt as he ran, wondering how far ahead Elmer was, knowing the Russians would catch them easily. Elmer obviously did not have the stamina for a sustained chase. His hands closed on the Pythons’ pearl grips and he smiled.

Let the Commies come!

He slid the Colts out. They weren’t going to nail him without a fight.

His pockets were crammed with ammunition, enough to account for a couple of dozen troopers. He glanced over his right shoulder, attempting to distinguish shapes in the gloom.

A hand shot out of the darkness, seized the gunman by the left arm, and hauled him from the corridor.

“What—!” Hickok exclaimed.

“Quiet, you idiot!” Elmer hissed. “It’s just me.”

“Where are we?” Hickok whispered. Wherever they were, the darkness was absolute, engendering an unpleasant sensation of claustrophobia.

“I think it was a closet once. Now hush,” Elmer said.

There was a muted click as a door was closed.

“This way, comrades!” shouted a voice in the corridor.

Hickok tensed as heavy boots thumped past the closet. He waited with bated breath for their hiding place to be discovered. At least a minute elapsed, and all the while Russian soldiers streamed down the hallway.

The tramping of the Soviet troopers gradually faded into the distance.

“Here we go,” Elmer declared. “And try to keep up with me this time.”

“It’s hard to see you, let alone follow you,” Hickok said.

“Crybaby.”

Hickok felt fingers grasp his left forearm. “Is that you?”

“If it isn’t, you’re in serious dog shit. Keep quiet and I’ll lead you out.”

“How can you see?” Hickok queried. “There’s no light.”

“I’m used to this,” Elmer said. “Most of my life is spent in the dark.”

“Then lead the way,” Hickok said. “But if we run into more Russians, drop flat and let me take care of them.”

“They’re all yours. Like I said, I’m not a killer,” Elmer stated, and sighed. “Too bad. I owe these pricks plenty for what they did to Joyce.”

Hickok heard another click and felt a slight gust of air touch his cheeks, and then the bum was leading him at a fast clip out of the closet and to the left. They took a second left at the next junction, and proceeded to wind through a series of inky passageways until they entered a large empty room on the south side of the building. Diffuse light from the streetlamps on Delhi Road revealed the filthy floor was littered with broken furniture and piles of trash.

Elmer released the gunman’s arm and cocked his head to one side, listening. “I think we lost the bastards.”

“This place reeks,” Hickok commented.

“It isn’t the Ritz, sonny,” Elmer said. “I crash here often. Except for the rats, no one bothers me.”

“The rats?”

“Yeah. If you curl up into a ball when you sleep, they don’t try and gnaw on your ears and nose.”

“You’re pullin’ my leg, old-timer.”

Elmer chuckled. “You’re not too bright, are you?”

“Where do we go from here?” Hickok asked.

“I figured we’d shack up here for the night.”

“No way,” Hickok stated.

“Why not?” Elmer responded, grinning. “You afraid of the rats?”

“I’m afraid of what could happen to my pards if I don’t get to them pronto,” Hickok said. “You mentioned you can help me sneak into the L.R.F.”

“That I can,” Elmer confirmed. “But it will cost you.”

“Cost me?” Hickok repeated in surprise. “What are you talkin’ about? I thought you wanted to help me because you hate the Commies.”

Elmer took two paces and crouched alongside a mound of debris. He began idly poking in the the mound, dislodging scraps of paper and the broken arm of a chair. “That’s true,” he agreed. “But I’ve been doing some thinking.”

Hickok’s eyes narrowed. He was suddenly suspicious of the bum.

Elmer’s attitude had changed drastically, and made him think that he had misplaced his trust in his erstwhile rescuer.

Apparently he had.

Because Elmer abruptly stood and turned, clutching a rusty knife in his right hand.

General Ari Stoljarov threw back his head and laughed. “If you could see your faces!” he told the Warriors.

The ten soldiers comprising the Butcher’s personal guard joined in the mirth.

Blade looked at Geronimo, who frowned and shook his head.

“Do you truly believe I would have you executed by a firing squad?”

General Stoljarov asked.

“Who knows?” Blade rejoined.

“I guarantee you that I will devise an inventive demise for the both of you,” General Stoljarov said. “A firing squad would be too routine, too mundane.”

“Not to mention messy,” Geronimo observed.

General Stoljarov nodded at the row of trees. “My surprise is on the other side.”

They bore to the left, skirting the trees. The avenue broadened, becoming an extensive parking lot situated at the base of the colossal spire. Dozens of cars and trucks filled parking spaces near the spire, but the center of the expanse of asphalt was occupied by a vehicle not normally found in a parking lot: a jet aircraft.

“The Hurricane!” Blade exclaimed, taking several strides forward. The missing VTOL appeared to be intact. A dozen troopers surrounded the craft, their AK-47’s over their shoulders.

“Do you like the latest addition to the Soviet Air force?” General Stoljarov inquired.

Blade glanced at the officer. “The Soviet Air Force?”

“There is a saying common among American youth,” General Stoljarov stated, and grinned. “Finders keepers. We shot the Hurricane down. Whether you like the idea or not, the VTOL is now ours.”