David Robbins - Memphis Run

“There is a method to your madness,” Rikki conceded.

“Genius has often been labeled insanity by the simple masses.”

“Backing up a bit,” Rikki said, “there’s something puzzling me.”

“What?”

“You say that your name, like your presence, is sacred?”

“Nobility is deserving of veneration,” Aloysius the First declared, “especially when the nobility borders on divinity.”

“You consider yourself divine?”

The King straightened. “Once my destiny is manifest, everyone will recognize the truth.”

“But if you’re divine, what does that make the Dark Lord?” Rikki asked.

“I’m the Dark Lord’s chosen disciple. I’m the anointed one,” Aloysius said.

“Do you take your orders from the Dark Lord?”

The King scowled. “I take orders from no one. You might conceive of the Dark Lord as my advisor and executioner, responsible for terminating those who would besmirch my dignity.”

“But the Dark Lord is not omnipotent,” Rikki observed. “He only kills one victim at a time.”

“One is enough,” Aloysius the First stated, and stared at the door in the right-hand wall. “I’ll tell you what. Since you’re so curious about the Dark Lord, it’s fitting that you meet him.” He stood and motioned at General Thayer. “Bring the swordmaster. I want to see if his courage is a facade.”

The madman laughed at some private joke.

And Rikki suddenly recalled another statement General Thayer had made: “The important thing to remember is that if the King takes you in to meet the Dark Lord, you’ll never come out again.”

“It’s a mistake, damn it!” Bonnie snapped.

“My decision is final,” Blade informed her.

“We need it,” Bonnie insisted.

“Do you have something against walking?” Blade asked.

“No,” Bonnie replied, “but I don’t like the idea of being ripped to pieces by dogs.”

Blade hefted the AR-15 he had confiscated from a dead Hound. “There are dog packs in Memphis?”

“There are dog packs everywhere,” Bonnie revealed. “They usually shy away from humans, probably because they’ve seen us kill other dogs. Dog stew is real popular.”

“We leave the jeep here,” Blade said, glancing over his right shoulder.

They had driven three and a half miles from the ambush site and taken an unmarked exit. The jeep was parked in a deserted garage next to a dilapidated frame house, and Hickok was lowering the wooden door.

“All tucked in, pard,” the gunman declared.

Chastity, standing to the gunfighter’s right, took his hand in hers. “Stay close to me, Daddy. I don’t like this place. It smells.”

“Where I go, you go, princess,” Hickok promised. He placed his left hand on the strap of the M-16 slung over his left shoulder.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Bonnie stated.

“You’ll get us all killed.”

Blade pivoted to his left and gazed at her angry features. “We’re not taking the jeep any farther.” He didn’t want to chance damaging the vehicle, not when the jeep was their means of returning to the Home.

“At least let’s stick to the main highways,” Bonnie suggested. “The dogs don’t go near them.”

“No.”

Bonnie glanced at her brother, who was leaning against the corner of the garage with the bazooka cradled in his arms. “Talk to this turkey. Tell him!”

“He’s the boss,” Clyde said with a shrug.

“Big help you are,” Bonnie remarked.

Blade faced to the northwest. “Lead the way,” he directed her.

Bonnie turned and tramped off, her annoyance conveyed in her posture.

An AR-15 was over her right shoulder, a pistol around her waist.

Clyde followed. His pockets were bulging with the rockets for the bazooka, and his pants swayed awkwardly as he walked.

“Have you figured out why she wants to tag along with us?” Hickok asked, stepping to Blade’s left.

“Not yet.”

The Warriors trailed the sister and brother, winding along the trash-filled streets and alleys. Many of the buildings they passed were decayed and crumbling. Rusted, derelict vehicles were everywhere.

Clyde slowed and waited for the Warriors to catch up. “Please forgive Bonnie,” he said to them. “She’s not herself.”

“She’s not very fond of the Hounds,” Blade mentioned.

“She hates their guts,” Clyde said.

“And all because one of them wanted to go to bed with her, and he rigged the Hound physical against you?” Blade commented skeptically.

“There’s more to it than that,” Clyde responded.

“Did the Hound she mentioned, Sergeant Boynton, molest her?” Blade probed.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Then what’s her real mission?” Blade queried.

“I can’t say.”

“We’ll keep our lips sealed,” Hickok chimed in.

“You’ll have to ask Bonnie. I promised her I’d never tell a soul,” Clyde divulged, and quickened his pace to reach his sister.

“Hmmmmmm,” Hickok said.

“I agree,” Blade observed.

As they progressed deeper into Memphis, the mounds of refuse became more numerous, the condition of the buildings deteriorated drastically, and the sickening stench intensified.

“How do folks live in this pigpen?” Hickok asked as they crossed a street and entered a gloomy alley.

“Is your Home like this?” Chastity inquired.

“Are you kiddin’?” Hickok rejoined. “This dump makes our Home look like Heaven. Our buildings are kept in tiptop shape, and we burn all of our garbage and trash.” He paused. “You’ll like the Home, princess. There are dozens of young’uns to play with, the Weavers will make you fine, new clothes from the fabric we’ve received in trade with the Civilized Zone, and you’ll get three squares a day.”

Chastity glanced up at the gunman. “Why would I want three squares?”

“I meant food,” Hickok explained.

“You eat square food?”

“Not square food,” Hickok said. “Three square meals a day. It’s an old saying.”

“Oh,” Chastity responded, and was quiet for 30 seconds. “Why are your meals square? What kind of food do you eat?”

Hickok sighed and looked at Blade. “Why don’t you lend me a hand?”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Blade said with a smile. “You’re doing just fine by yourself.”

“Thanks, pard.”

“So what’s a square meal?” Chastity persisted.

“I told you. A square meal is an old expression,” Hickok elaborated.

“When you eat a square meal, you eat your fill. You’ll never go hungry at the Home. Do you understand now?”

“I think so.”

“There are dozens of sayings that have been around for ages,” Hickok went on.

“Like what?” Chastity queried.

“Oh, like you can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” Hickok said.

“Why not?”

Blade chuckled.

“I suppose you could teach an old dog a new trick,” Hickok stated.

“But you just said you can’t,” Chastity responded.

“I know. But I was usin’ an example of a saying,” Hickok said. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

“But you just said you could. I’m confused,” Chastity remarked.

“That makes two of us,” Hickok declared, exasperated.

“Can you teach an old dog new tricks?” Chastity asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m sorry I ever brought the blasted thing up,” Hickok mumbled.

“Maybe we could try,” Chastity suggested.

“Try what?”

“Try to teach an old dog a new trick.”

Blade beamed at the gunman, who promptly glared back.

“What about him?” Chastity queried.

“Who?” Hickok replied, gazing at her.