David Robbins: Cincinnati Run

“Three guesses,” the giant replied, then walked to the edge of the table.

“Do you want us to go?”

“The decision must be yours,” Plato said.

Blade looked at his fellow Warriors. The three of them comprised one of the six Triads into which the Warrior class was divided. Alpha Triad was their code name, and together they had journeyed far and wide to counter threats against the Family and the Freedom Federation. As the head of the Alpha Triad, and as the commander of all the Warriors, Blade would make the ultimate decision. But like him, Hickok and Geronimo both had families. He felt constrained to offer them the opportunity to decline. As the top Warrior, such a luxury was denied him. “What will it be?” he asked them. “Do you want to go?”

“We have a choice?” Hickok answered in surprise. “Well, in that case, I’ll pass. My missus will clobber me if I don’t get back on time. She hates to do the dishes by herself.”

“I’ll go,” Geronimo volunteered.

“That makes two of us,” Blade said reluctantly.

Hickok looked from one to the other. “Thanks a lot, you ding-a-lings. If you’re going, I’m going.”

“You don’t have to go,” Blade offered.

“Where you guys go, I go,” the gunman declared, then smirked.

“Besides, someone has to baby-sit you yahoos.”

“Lucky us,” Geronimo said.

“Then it’s settled,” Blade stated. “Alpha Triad will head for Cincinnati.”

He glanced at Plato. “When do you want us to leave?”

“I will remain in Denver while you are gone,” Plato said. “Time is of the essence. The Soviet weapon must be located and neutralized expeditiously.

We would waste precious time if you transported me to the Home prior to your departure. The other Elders will supervise our Family in my absence.”

He gazed at each of the Warriors fondly.

“So you want us to leave now , old-timer?” Hickok asked.

Plato grinned. “My compliments on your intellect.”

The gunfighter looked at Geronimo and beamed. “See? What did I tell you?”

“I don’t like the looks of this, pard.”

“You and me, both,” Blade agreed, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

“Do we go around them?” Geronimo asked.

“No,” Blade said. “We can use some fresh meat. If they try anything, waste them.”

Hickok chuckled. “Now you’re talkin’ my language.”

Blade removed his right foot from the brake and eased down on the accelerator. The SEAL’S engine purred as the vehicle headed toward the cluster of tents and shacks situated at the base of the low hill.

“I’m glad the Founder had his engineers make this buggy bulletproof,” Hickok said. “If the jokers down there start something, they’re in for the shock of their lives.”

Blade nodded. The Family’s Founder, as he was called, a wealthy survivalist named Kurt Carpenter, had expended millions of dollars to have the SEAL developed. The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle was a prototype, the first of its kind, and thanks to the war the only one of its kind. In appearance the SEAL resembled a van, with its boxlike body composed of a shatterproof and heat-resistant plastic, tinted green to enable those within to see out but preventing anyone outside from observing the interior. The floor was an impervious metal alloy, while four enormous, puncture-resistant tires, each two feet wide and four feet high, supported the transport.

The SEAL received its power from the sun. Sunlight was collected by a pair of solar panels attached to the roof, then converted and stored in unique, revolutionary batteries located in a lead-lined case under the vehicle. The scientists had guaranteed Carpenter the SEAL would function indefinitely provided the battery casings and the solar panels were not damaged.

While he had been pleased with the SEAL’S capabilities, Carpenter had not been satisfied; he knew his descendants would need more than an all-terrain vehicle to endure in a world ravaged by a nuclear holocaust.

Consequently, after the automotive geniuses were finished with the development stage, he took the transport to another group of experts, men and women whose stock in trade was killing. He hired mercenaries to outfit the SEAL with armaments, and he received his money’s worth.

The SEAL was a virtual arsenal on wheels. A pair of 50-caliber machine guns were mounted underneath each front headlight. A flamethrower was positioned behind the front fender. There was a rocket-launcher in the center of the front grill. And there was a miniature surface-to-air missile concealed in the roof above the driver’s seat. The weapons were activated by silver toggle switches on the dashboard. A simple flick of a toggle, and the appropriate armament would slide out from its hidden housing and commence firing.

“We shouldn’t get trigger-happy,” Geronimo cautioned. “These people might be friendly.”

“We’ll soon know,” Blade said, glancing around. “But be ready, just in case.”

The interior of the SEAL was roomy. There were two bucket seats in the front separated by a console. Hickok was sitting in the passenger seat.

Behind the bucket seats was a wide seat, in which Geronimo sat, and the rear third of the vehicle was used as a storage section for their spare ammunition, food and other provisions.

“I’m ready,” Geronimo assured the giant. He wore an Arminius .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster under his left arm, in addition to the tomahawk under his belt. Resting on his lap was a Springfield Armory SAR, converted to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths.

“So am I,” Hickok said eagerly. He held a Colt AR-15 in his right hand.

Blade looked down at the Commando Arms Carbine on the console to his right. The 45-caliber Commando, with its 90-shot magazine, resembled the ancient Thompson-style submachine gun and was his favorite firearm.

“A short stop won’t hurt us,” Geronimo commented. “We’ve been making good time.”

“We’re almost to Red Territory, aren’t we?” Hickok inquired.

Geronimo picked up a map from the seat beside him. “We’re west of Watseka, Illinois. I estimate we’re about eighty or ninety miles north of the Russian lines.”

“You estimate ?” Hickok repeated.

“It’s not like I have a map of the Soviet territory,” Geronimo responded.

“We know the Russians control most of New England, southern New York, southern Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Maryland, Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia. We also know they have sections of North and South Carolina, as well as southern Ohio, southern Indiana, and parts of Illinois under their thumb. But we don’t know the exact boundaries.”

“How far are we from the Home?” the gunman questioned.

“I haven’t calculated the miles to Lake Bronson State Park,” Geronimo replied, referring to the former scenic area in northwestern Minnesota near which the Home was located.

“Why?”

“I was just thinkin’ of Sherry and my little buckaroo, Ringo,” Hickok mentioned.

“I miss Cynthia and Cochise,” Geronimo admitted.

“What about you, pard?” Hickok questioned Blade.

“Need you ask?” the giant responded.

“Sorry. I know you miss Jenny and Gabe as much as we miss our kin,” Hickok said.

“Once, just once, I wish you’d talk like everyone else,” Geronimo declared.

“What’s wrong with the way I talk?” Hickok demanded.

“As I’ve told you a million times, you sound like an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Geromino leaned forward. “For years you’ve been talking like you think the real Wild Bill Hickok talked. I know Hickok was your childhood hero. I know you admired the man so much that you took his name at your Naming ceremony. But you’re going overboard. Do you hear me talking like the Geronimo of old?”