David Robbins: Memphis Run

On the far side of the field over a dozen forms in black were waiting, with an exceptionally tall figure standing in the center. Halfway across were the pair with Hickok, at the spot where he fell, likewise awaiting the squad and the half-track.

One of the Hounds took the giant’s knives.

“Don’t lose them,” Blade said. “I may want them back soon.”

Captain Ludvin snorted. “Fat chance. Now move your ass.”

Blade walked between Ludvin and the man carrying the Bowies. He gazed at Hickok, his mouth turned down.

Chastity weeped softly on his left shoulder.

“The one in the buckskins was a moron,” Captain Ludwin remarked.

“What was he trying to prove?”

“Don’t talk that way about my daddy!” Chastity said.

“Shut your mouth, brat,” Captain Ludvin responded.

Tears streaming down her cheeks. Chastity bunched her fists and glared at the officer. “If I was bigger, I’d show you! You’re a mean man!”

Ludvin raised his right arm, about to smack the girl, but a glance at the giant’s expression deterred him. “You’re not worth the bother,” he muttered angrily, and lowered his arm.

“You—you—” Chastity said, apparently unable to find the word she wanted. “You cow chip!”

Captain Ludvin laughed.

“Where’s my other friend?” Blade inquired, restraining his temper with a monumental effort.

“You mean the one in the fancy pajamas?” Captain Ludvin replied.

“Those clothes were tailor-made by our Weavers,” Blade remarked.

“The style is patterned after the type of uniform worn by Chinese martial artists before the Big Blast.”

“Before World War Three?” Ludvin queried. “How would you know what the clothes back then were like?”

“From photographs in books in our library.”

Captain Ludvin paused and his men halted. “Your people have a library?”

Blade nodded.

“The King will be very interested in this,” Ludvin said. “He’s a real book nut.”

“Who is this King?” Blade asked.

“You’ll meet him soon enough. Keep moving,” Ludvin directed, and walked forward.

“You still haven’t told me what happened to my other friend,” Blade noted.

“He’s in our custody,” Captain Ludvin disclosed. “Just like you.”

“Do the Hounds of Hades capture everyone who enters their so-called territory?” Blade probed.

“Everyone entering our territory is taken to the King for interrogation,” the officer said. “And for your information, anything within fifty miles of Memphis is ours.” He grinned. “One day we’ll have much more.”

“Big plans, huh?” Blade quipped sarcastically.

“If you only knew.”

They were within 20 feet of the duo supporting Hickok.

“We’ll leave the moron for the vultures and the mutants,” Captain Ludvin mentioned. He stared at the revolvers in the gunman’s holsters.

“And I think I’ll ask the general if I can have one of those. Colts, are they?”

“Yes,” Blade answered softly.

Chastity was sniffling again.

The squad stopped five feet away. Behind them, the halftrack braked.

The machine gunner was resting his elbows on the .50-caliber in the open rear bed.

“Is he dead?” Captain Ludvin inquired of the duo.

They looked at one another.

“We didn’t check him, sir,” replied the Hound on the right.

“Didn’t check him?” Ludvin declared. “You didn’t even feel his pulse?”

“It didn’t seem like he was breathing,” the Hound on the left said. “So we didn’t bother.”

“You incompetent jackasses!” Captain Ludvin stated. “You’ll receive thirty lashes for this!”

“How about some lead instead?” interjected the object of their controversy, startling the duo by wrenching his arms from their grasp and taking several strides backwards. “You mangy varmints.”

For the span of a second no one moved. The Hounds were caught napping, with most holding their weapons pointed carelessly at the ground. On the half-track the machine gunner gaped at the man he’d killed.”

Chastity precipitated the inevitable blood bath. “Daddy!” she cried happily, and her voice galvanized the men around her to action.

The Hounds endeavored to bring their rifles and machine guns into play as Captain Ludvin bellowed, “Get him!”

Hickok’s hands were a blur as the Pythons cleared leather. His first two shots took out the stunned duo, a slug penetrating each Hound’s forehead and exploding from the top of their craniums, showering hair, flesh, and fluid every which way. He shifted, his hands held at waist height, the Colt barrels angled upwards, and fired twice.

The machine gunner, about to swing the .50 to slay the Warrior, was hit in the face, a slug to each eye. His head snapped back and he toppled over the tailgate.

With ambidextrous, lethal precision, and with a smile on his lips, Hickok squeezed off round after round. His next shot smashed the half-track’s windshield, the driver stiffening and slumping over the steering wheel, and without any pressure on the brake, the half-track lurched ahead. Preoccupied with the gunman, the Hounds did not notice.

Blade did. He dropped, trying to remove Chastity from the line of fire, and out of the corner of his right eye, as he landed on his left side, he saw the half-track creep forward and bump into one of the Hounds.

Five of the men in black were already down. Another snapped off a shot from his rifle and received a slug in the brain for his trouble.

Releasing Chastity, Blade swept his legs around, slamming them into the Hound carrying his Bowies and upending the man.

Hickok shot Captain Ludvin, the slug perforating the officer’s nostrils and flinging him to the grass.

Blade elbowed the Hound with the Bowies in the mouth, dazing his foe, and yanked the Bowies from the Hound’s hand. Even as his palms caressed the hilts, Blade speared them up and in, burying the keen blades in the Hound’s throat. He rolled onto his broad back, tugging the Bowies out, assessing the situation in the blink of an eye.

Three of the squad were still standing. A man with a scar on his chin elevated an M-16, but a slug in his right eye spun him completely around and felled him in his tracks.

Leaving only two. Both were within six feet of Blade, one to his left, the other his right. With the consummate skill of someone who had practiced the technique countless times over the years, Blade raised the knives overhead and threw them. Their blades glistened in the sunlight as they flew into the chests of their respective targets. Twelve inches of cold steel were imbedded to the hilt in each Hound. Both men looked astonished; both dropped their machine guns and clutched at the Bowies; both gawked at Blade in amazement for a moment; and both sank into eternity without uttering a sound.

No sooner were the last of the squad dispatched than two more dangers loomed.

Blade, flat on his back, saw the massive wheels of the halftrack coming at him, ten feet away.

“Blade!” Chastity shouted, lying four feet to the giant’s left.

The Warrior threw himself to the left, grabbing the girl and rolling until he was certain he was well beyond the path of the armored vehicle.

He rose to his knees in time to see Hickok, the Colts in their holsters, climb onto the cab of the half-track and clamber higher.

What the—!

A yell from the end of the field drew Blade’s gaze, and there were over a dozen men in black charging toward the Warriors, the tall figure leading them.

Hickok leaped into the bed and stepped behind the big .50. He smirked as he swung the machine gun to cover the attacking Hounds. “Let’s see how you coyotes like a taste of your own medicine,” he said, and fired. The half-track was moving at a snail’s pace, enabling him to aim with his customary deadly efficiency.