David Robbins - Cincinnati Run

“I can handle this myself,” Hickok suggested. “Give me directions and I’ll be okay.”

Elmer looked at the gunman and grinned. “I promised to help you get into the L.R.F., and I’m a man of my word.” With that, he slid his legs into the hole, twisting and grabbing the top metal rung.

“Be careful,” Hickok said.

“You’re the one who needs a nursemaid,” Elmer responded, and lowered his body from view. A flickering glow filled the access hatch when he snapped on his lighter.

Admiring the oldster’s gumption, Hickok angled his legs into the hole and clambered down the rungs. A narrow concrete walkway afforded footing at the bottom, and Hickok turned, the fetid, rancid odor almost making him gag.

Six feet high and six feet wide, the sewer tunnel was aligned from east to west. Between the walkway on which they stood, and a similar walkway on the other side, flowed a sluggish stream composed of reeking refuse, putrid garbage, and repulsive globs of indeterminate matter.

“That gunk is four feet deep,” Elmer mentioned. “Don’t fall in or you’ll regret it.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Hickok said, revolted by the brownish sludge.

“This way,” Elmer said, and headed to the east, treading carefully, the lighter held aloft in his right hand.

Hickok pinched his nose shut with his left hand and trailed after the bum.

“Keep your peepers on that crap,” Elmer stated, and pointed at the sewage.

“Why?”

“The muties swim in the shit.”

“You’re kiddin’ me.”

“I wish I was.”

How could anything exist in that sickening slime? Hickok stared at the festering muck, searching for a trace of life.

Elmer increased his pace, hastening at a rapid clip.

“What’s your big hurry?” Hickok inquired, watching their shadows shift and undulate on the tunnel walls, concerned the old-timer might slip on the slick walkway.

“The sewer gives me the creeps.”

“Wimp,” Hickok joked, giving the bum a taste of his own medicine.

Elmer glanced at the sewage and hurried on.

They covered 30 yards uneventfully and came to a junction where another tunnel forked to the south.

“We go this way,” Elmer said, and took the fork, his shoes padding on the cement. “This tunnel runs under Delhi Road. Sixty yards from here is one of the manholes on the L.R.F. grounds.”

“So I’ll come up inside the outer wall?” Hickok said.

“Wouldn’t do you much good if you came up outside, now would it?”

“If you despise the sewers so much, how come you know about the tunnels into the L.R.F.?” Hickok asked.

“A pal of mine, Gorgeous George—”

“Gorgeous George?”

“Don’t interrupt me, sonny,” Elmer stated. “Gorgeous George and I were curious about the installation, and we wanted to take a look-see for ourselves. So one night we snuck down here and found this tunnel leading under the base. We scoped out the silver toothpick and other buildings and split before we were caught.”

“Where’s your pal now?”

“Gorgeous George bit the farm two months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Was his own fault. The dummy got blitzed out of his gourd and passed out in a condemned building. He forgot to cover himself or curl into a ball and the rats got him. Chewed all the way through his throat.”

“A horrible way to go,” Hickok remarked.

“I can think of worse,” Elmer said. “George should have…” he began, and halted abruptly. “What was that?”

Hickok stopped and listened, hearing the faint gurgling of the sewage and the dripping of sludge from the walls. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear that noise?”

“Nope,” Hickok responded.

Elmer shrugged and took a stride, then froze, extending the lighter over the sewage. “Damn it! Are you deaf?”

Hickok was about to tell the bum he was imagining things, until his ears registered the peculiar sound, like an indistinct swishing. Whatever it was, the sound came from their rear. “What is it?”

“A mutie!” Elmer exclaimed, casting a terrified glance backwards.

“We’ve got to get the hell out of the sewer!” He spun and bolted as fast as his spindly legs would carry him.

Placing his right hand on his right Python, Hickok jogged on Elmer’s heels, looking repeatedly at the tunnel behind them, alarmed that the swishing was becoming louder and louder.

“Oh, God! I hope we make it!” Elmer cried.

They traversed ten yards.

Hickok peered over his right shoulder again, and he felt as if his blood changed to ice as he beheld the sewage rippling and cresting with the passage under its surface of a large, sinuous…thing.

“Run!” Elmer screamed.

The mutant was on them in seconds.

Geronimo was 30 feet from the entrance to Lenin’s Needle when he spied an open door to his left and darted through the doorway, hoping to find a stairwell, or weapons, or anything to turn the tide for the Warriors.

Instead, he found a Russian trooper standing next to a rack containing cleaning supplies. In the trooper’s hands was a broom.

“What are you doing, comrade?” the Russian inquired, his brown eyes narrowing.

“I thought this was the bathroom,” Geronimo said, smiling, pivoting toward the door.

The soldier reached out and seized Geronimo by the right shoulder.

“Wait a minute. There is something strange here.”

“Your face,” Geronimo responded, and batted the trooper’s arm away.

He lunged for the doorway, but the Russian leaped and tackled him about the ankles, bringing him down, sending him crashing into the open door and knocking it shut. Geronimo twisted onto his back, lashing his legs in an effort to dislodge the soldier.

The trooper clung to the Warrior and started to claw higher.

Eager to end the fray quickly and aid Blade, Geronimo reversed his strategy, arcing his knees up to his chest and drawing the soldier’s face within range of his hands. He jammed his thumbs into the Russian’s eyes, causing the man to cry out in pain, and slugged the trooper on the jaw.

Stunned, his eyes closed and watering, the soldier released his hold and tried to rise.

Geronimo flung his legs outward, ramming the Russian in the chest with the soles of his boots and hurling the trooper into the rack with a tremendous smash.

The soldier clutched at the rack for support, retaining his footing, and wiped at his eyes with his left sleeve.

Knowing every second was precious, Geronimo came off the floor in a rush, using his right shoulder as a battering ram and plowing into the man’s midsection. Grunting, the trooper doubled over, and Geronimo drove his head upward, catching the soldier on the tip of the chin and mashing the Russian’s teeth together. Geronimo delivered two blows to the man’s abdomen, anticipating an easy victory, but the trooper was hardier than he thought.

With a wicked snap of his body, the soldier kneed the Warrior in the groin.

Lancing agony speared through Geronimo and he backed off, his hands spread protectively over his privates.

Relentlessly the Russian closed in, boxing his foe on the right cheek, then the left.

Geronimo reeled and tottered to the right. He brought up his arms to defend himself as the trooper pounced and they both toppled to the floor, grappling and flailing.

Somewhere in the distance the sound of gunfire arose.

Blade must be in trouble!

Energized by a surge of adrenaline, Geronimo butted his forehead into the Russian’s nose, crushing the cartilage, blood spraying on his face. He held the fingers of his right hand rigid and struck the soldier in the throat.

Uttering a protracted gasp, the Russian clasped his hands to his neck and scrambled on his back away from the Warrior. He bumped into the rack of supplies and pushed to his knees.