David Robbins - Memphis Run

The general resumed walking down the corridor.

“Does the King have a mate?” Rikki casually inquired.

Thayer snickered. “I told you how the King feels about women. He thinks they’re all inferior. I doubt he’ll ever take a wife, but he does use one of the locals from time to time.”

“Use?” Rikki said.

“Yeah. You know. Use,” General Thayer elaborated. “The Hounds bring one of the locals here, and the King, as he likes to put it, vents his biological urges. The type depends on his mood.”

“He rapes them?”

“Call it whatever you want. He gives them gold in exchange for their services.”

“Tell me,” Rikki said. “Do the men rape the women in Sparta?”

General Thayer looked at the martial artist. “Of course not. A Spartan woman would slit the throat of anyone who tried, and the Spartan men would track any offender to the ends of the earth.”

“Odd,” Rikki commented.

“What’s so odd about that?” General Thayer quizzed.

“Nothing,” Rikki responded. “I was referring to you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t tolerate anyone trying to force his way on a Spartan woman, but you stand by and do nothing while the King rapes Memphis women.”

General Thayer drew up short and glared at the Warrior. “Damn you! There you go again, trying to turn me against the King! Don’t try my patience.”

“I merely made an observation.”

“Bullshit. I won’t warn you again,” General Thayer vowed. “Stay off my case.”

Rikki said nothing.

“Move it,” Thayer said, grabbing the Warrior by the left shoulder and shoving.

As he stumbled forward, Rikki grinned. He’d struck a raw nerve in the Spartan, found an opening he might be able to capitalize on later. He stopped and straightened next to a door on the right-hand side.

General Thayer moved to the door and knocked loudly twice.

“Enter, General,” called out someone in the room beyond.

General Thayer twisted the knob and stepped within the throne room.

“You, too,” Sergeant Boynton said, prodding the martial artist with the HK-33.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi walked through the doorway, his senses fully primed, believing he was prepared for anything.

He was wrong.

“Watch out!” Chastity cried. “There’s a hole!”

Blade braked and stared at the shallow rut in the roadway.

“I doubt we’ll fall in,” he remarked sarcastically.

“I don’t want to lose my daddy if you hit another hole,” Chastity chastised him.

Sighing, Blade accelerated slowly.

“The kid has a point,” Bonnie commented. “That last hole you managed not to miss almost sent me through the roof.”

I wish it had! Blade almost replied, but he held his tongue. He glanced to his right. Chastity was beside him, then Bonnie and Clyde. The bazooka, snug in its crate, was propped between Clyde and the passenger door.

“How far until Memphis?”

“About a half-mile,” Bonnie replied. “We want to take a left up ahead and stick to the back roads all the way into downtown Memphis.”

“I hope you’re as good as your word,” Blade mentioned.

“Trust me,” Bonnie said, smiling.

Blade leaned over the steering wheel and shouted. “Anything, Hickok?”

“Nothin’ yet, pard,” the gunman responded from his post at the .50.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Blade advised.

“Aw, shucks. I thought I’d catch forty winks,” Hickok quipped.

Chastity giggled. “Isn’t my daddy funny?”

“A regular comedian,” Blade said.

“Why can’t you be funny like him?” Chastity inquired.

Blade was about to answer when he saw the cluster of long, low structures several hundred yards distant on the right side of the highway.

Former warehouses? Or another shopping mall? He never could understand the prewar mania for shopping. If all of the malls and stores he’d seen on his travels were any indicator, then Americans must have spent practically all their free time buying things. Why? Was it because Americans had grown accustomed to having their needs supplied by others? Their entertainment, their clothing, even their food had been provided by specialized industries. Had the American people grown lazy?

He recalled a speech given by one of the Family Elders on the state of the United States prior to World War Three. The Elder presented an eloquent case criticizing America’s citizens for failing to cultivate the rugged independence of their forefathers. Americans, the Elder opined, had lost track of their spiritual roots and substituted the collecting of material objects as a measure of self-worth instead of the possession of noble personal traits.

Blade’s reflection was abruptly dissolved by a yell from above.

“Something on the right!”

His grey eyes narrowing. Blade applied pressure on the brake and scrutinized the road in front of them. A second later he spotted the fender, or part of one, jutting past the corner of the second of the four low structures.

“It could be part of an old wreck,” Bonnie guessed, “I don’t recall seeing a wreck there before,” Clyde commented.

Blade stopped and put the half-track in neutral. “I’m going to investigate. Stay put.”

“I’ll come with you,” Bonnie offered.

“Read my lips.” Blade said. “Don’t get out of the cab.” He took the M-10 from the dashboard, opened his door, and dropped to the ground.

“Want some company?” Hickok asked.

“Cover me,” Blade directed, and advanced vigilantly, cradling the M-10 on his right hip. He’d feel foolish if the fender did belong to a wreck, but he’d be dead if they were driving into an ambush and he didn’t take the time to check. Better safe than sorry, as the adage went. There were more lives at stake than his.

“Be careful. Uncle Blade,” Chastity called.

So much for secrecy. He took another stride, then halted, listening. A weather-battered frame house was situated in the center of a weed-choked yard to his right. Trees filled the backyard and lined the edge of the highway. Wildlife should be in evidence. Birds. A squirrel or two. At the very least, insects.

There were none.

Blade approached the fender, estimating he had 60 or 70 yards to go.

He scanned the roofs of the structures, the broken windows and the gloomy doorways.

If the Hounds were there, they were well hidden.

Fingering the trigger of the M-10, Blade covered five yards. With his attention focused on the fender and the low structures, he missed the motion in a tree to his right.

But Hickok didn’t.

“It’s a trap!” the gunman bellowed, and the .50 boomed.

Blade dove for the asphalt, scuffing his elbows and knees in the process.

He looked to the right in time to behold the machine gun’s heavy slugs rip through the foliage of an oak tree. Leaves and limbs were torn to pieces, and surpassing the blasting of the .50 was the rising scream of a falling Hound.

The sniper slammed into the ground with a crunch, his M-16 clattering onto the road.

An engine roared to life, and the fender protruding past the second structure swept into view attached to a jeep filled with four Hounds. Three of them were armed with automatic rifles, and they cut loose at the half-track.

Blade pressed the M-10 to his right shoulder and fired, elevating the barrel to compensate for the range. He saw his rounds tear into the jeep’s grill, and the vehicle swerved as the driver briefly lost control.

The three Hounds shifted their weapons, aiming at the giant.

Blade rolled to the right, then rose to his knees, ejecting the spent magazine and inserting another. The main disadvantage to an M-10 was its high cyclic rate. At up to 1150 rounds per second, the M-10 could empty a 30-round magazine in one and a half seconds. Insuring every shot counted was imperative.