David Robbins: Memphis Run

“Are there any Healers in Memphis? I’ll go fetch one,” Hickok proposed.

“Too late,” Bonnie mumbled.

A firm hand fell on the gunman’s left shoulder and Blade squatted alongside him. “How is she?”

Hickok gazed at his friend, frowned, and shook his head.

Chastity began crying softly.

Bonnie gazed at the Warriors, grinning, blood dribbling from the corners of her mouth. “Did we kick butt or what?”

“We kicked butt,” Blade said.

“The King?” she inquired.

“I’ll get him,” Blade vowed.

“You’ll have to beat me to him.” Hickok said.

Bonnie coughed and shivered. “Would one of you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” Blade said.

“Hold me. Please.”

Blade knelt and cradled her shoulders tenderly in his arms. “I’m sorry. I never intended for you to be hurt.”

“My own fault,” Bonnie responded. “I never did know when to leave well enough alone.” She coughed once more. “I’m glad I met you two. I was beginning to think that all men were only after one thing.”

“Bonnie…” Chastity said.

“You be strong for your daddy,” Bonnie stated. She quivered and stared at the ceiling, her eyes glistening. “Oh, God. I’m sorry I wasted it.” And with that, she took a deep breath and went limp.

“Bonnie!” Chastity screamed.

Blade lowered her body to the floor, then rose, simmering with rage. He turned toward the red door.

Which abruptly opened.

Aloysius the First cackled as he closed the red door and secured a dead bolt located at shoulder level. He could hear the strident sounds of the battle, the cursing and clanging of blades and shrieks of agony. “Kill the bastards!” he muttered. “Kill them!”

How dare they defy his rule!

He backed away from the door in the darkness, absently running his fingers over the medals on his chest. “I’m the King. My will is law.”

Shots thundered in the throne room.

“I ordered you not to fire!” Aloysius shouted at the closed door. “I don’t want holes in my pretty posters.”

“Aloysius!”

He spun, shocked to behold the fiery red eyes and the spheres of arcing light he knew so well.

“I’ve come for you, Aloysius!”

“This can’t be!” he cried.

“ Your reign is over .”

“This is impossible,” Aloysius declared. “You can’t talk without me.”

“Aren’t I the Dark Lord?”

The King took several strides forward, staring at the red orbs. “You’re nothing without me! I created you to keep my followers in line. I discovered the equipment in this room. I’m your master.”

“ The Dark Lord has no master .”

Aloysius pressed his hands to his temples. “This isn’t happening. I’m hallucinating. That’s it. I’m imagining the whole thing.”

“ This is real .”

“No!” Aloysius responded, racked by a feeling of disorientation. “I’m your creator. You don’t exist without me.”

“You used me. You destroyed others in my name.”

Aloysius clenched his fists and glared at the eyes. “Who the hell do you think you are? I made you. I can use you any way I want. So what if those imbeciles can’t tell the difference between a real mutant and a special-effects show? So what if I convinced them I was being aided by an indestructible mutant? I needed a method to force them to toe the line, to obey me implicitly. You were perfect for the role. An illusion can be as effective as reality if no one knows the difference.”

“You killed.”

“Of course I killed! I had to perpetuate the illusion. Don’t you see?”

“They will discern the truth eventually.”

Aloysius tittered. “Those fools couldn’t discern the truth if they were sitting on it.”

“You were very clever.”

“Damn straight I was!” Aloysius responded. He reached into his right front pocket and withdrew the palm-sized, metallic, tubular gun. “Do you see this? This is my ace in the hole. No one knows I found this in the rubble of a veterinary hospital. Do you know what it does? This fires little needles. Thin, little needles. Coated with cyanide and shot into the brain from close range, they kill within a minute. No one knows that cyanide can be produced from common items. But I do! I’ve read all about the process.

There is a book in a library in the suburbs…” He stopped and tilted his head.

“So you used your needles to kill and spread fear among your followers?”

“You should know that.”

“Did you use a key to enter locked rooms?”

“You should know that too.”

“And the one who was killed ten miles away? You tailed him in another vehicle, wearing a disguise?”

Aloysius touched his left hand to his forehead. “This can’t be happening. You should know all of this. You’re me. I mean, I’m you. I mean, we’re both the same. So how can I be talking to you when we’re each other?”

“ It is time, Aloysius .”

“For what?”

“ For you to pay for your deeds .”

“I’m the master here!” the King yelled, and fired at the blazing orbs.

Nothing happened.

“ I’m coming for you .”

“Stay where you are!” He fired again wildly.

“Reality has a way of catching up with you.”

Aloysius sent another needle into the gloom. “I’m the King! You will obey me.”

The red eyes and the glowing spheres suddenly went black.

“What are you doing?” Aloysius demanded, looking from side to side.

“Where are you?”

The Dark Lord did not respond.

“Answer me!”

“I do this to protect my Family and all families everywhere,” said a low voice from directly ahead.

“Who’s there?” Aloysius snapped. “Who is it?”

“You can not be permitted to force your perversion on others,” stated the voice, only now the words emanated from the left.

Aloysius swung in that direction. “I should know your voice. I’ve heard it before.”

“The spiritual must defend themselves from the bestial. The sane must eliminate the psychopathically insane.” This time the voice came from the right.

“Where are you?” Aloysius roared. “It’s you, isn’t it? The little man? Rikki?”

“Yes,” was the response, spoken softly, seemingly arising from immediately behind the King.

Aloysius whirled, his finger on the trigger.

There was a sharp swish, a muffled grunt, and seconds later the thud of a body striking the floor.

They were walking hand in hand in the pristine eastern section of the Home, near the moat flowing at the inner base of the 20-foot-high brick walls enclosing the compound.

“Will Daddy be back soon, Mommy?” the boy asked. He was four months shy of his fourth birthday, and everyone in the Family agreed that he was the spitting image of his father: the same blond hair, the same blue eyes, and the same lean frame. He even wore a replica of his father’s attire, buckskin pants and a buckskin shirt.

The woman looked away so he would not notice the sorrow lining her features. “I hope so, Ringo. I miss the big dummy.”

“Daddy’s not a dummy.”

She glanced down at his earnest face and mustered a grin. “I know. I only call him a dummy because I love him.”

“Does that mean I can call you a dummy?”

“Not unless you plan to cook your own food from now on.”

“Does that mean no?”

“You’re as bright as your old man.”

“Are you sad, Mommy?” Ringo asked unexpectedly.

She did a double take. “Why do you say that?”