David Robbins - Seattle Run

The static sounded like frying bacon.

“Mayday! Mayday! Can anyone hear me?”

Apparently no one did. The static continued to issue from the speaker.

“Mayday! Mayday! Does anyone have their ears on?” Dale implored, crossing the first two fingers on his left hand. “Please! Does anyone have their ears on?”

The static was abruptly, unexpectedly replaced by a low voice laced with a touch of Western tang. “Of course I’ve got my ears on my head, you cow chip. Where the heck else would they be?”

Dale gaped at the shortwave, stunned. Someone had heard him!

“Are you still there, pardner?” asked the voice, “If you like the notion, we can shoot the breeze a bit.”

“Mayday!” Dale blurted, afraid he would lost contact. “This is a Mayday!”

“There you go again,” the man at the other end commented. “This isn’t May, you ding-a-ling. This is the month of January. Didn’t your ma ever teach you how to tell what month it is? May is the one with all the flowers.”

“No! Please! You don’t understand!” Dale exclaimed. “This is a Mayday call! It means I have an emergency!”

“An emergency? Is that what Mayday means? I don’t know radio lingo.

I’ve never talked on one before,” the man said.

“We need help!” Dale declared.

“Tell me all about it,” the man advised. “But first, I’d like to know who the dickens I’m chattin’ with.”

“Dale. My name is Captain Nathan Dale.”

“Howdy. My handle is Hickok,” the man said. “Now what’s this business about you needin’ help?”

“There are hundreds of us, men, women, and children, being held prisoner by a mutant!” Dale explained. “We need to be rescued.”

“Where are you callin’ from?” Hickok asked.

“Seattle,” Dale answered. “Where are you?”

“Minnesota,” Hickok replied. “Northern Minnesota, to be exact. Near what was once Lake Bronson State Park. From the Home.”

“From your home?” Dale repeated, wondering if this Hickok was a ham radio operator.

“Not a home,” Hickok corrected him. “ The Home. It’s the name of the compound where I live.”

“Are you a ham?” Dale queried.

There was a pause before Hickok responded. “Some folks might disagree, but no, I don’t think I am. I’m not much for showin’ off.”

“No,” Dale said impatiently. “Not that kind of ham. Are you a ham radio operator?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Hickok rejoined. “If I don’t show off in person, I’m not likely to do it on the radio, now am I?”

Dale gripped the microphone in annoyance. What was with this guy?

Was Hickok playing games, or was he really a simpleton? Dale decided to try another tack. “What kind of set do you have?”

“Set?” Hickok replied quizzically.

“Yes! The set you’re using now!” Dale prompted. “What kind is it?”

There was another pause before Hickok answered. “It’s called a radio. Haven’t you ever used one of these contraptions before?”

Dale suppressed an urge to scream. “I know what it is. But can you send as well as receive? Can you relay a message to California?”

“California?”

“Yes. I need to have word relayed to Governor Melnick. He must be told about the Cutterhawk , about Mama!” Dale said urgently.

“Governor Melnick? I know him,” Hickok stated. “I met him when I was in California last week.”

“You know—” Dale began, then froze as a penetrating whistle sounded from the direction of the stairwell. He was running out of time! “Listen, Hickok! You’ve got to help me! To help us! Get word to Governor Melnick! Tell him the Cutterhawk was taken, that we hit a mine. Tell him we’re being held by a mutant called Manta. The S.O.S. we picked up was phony, a ruse Manta uses to lure in victims.”

“Calm down,” Hickok said. “Don’t you worry none. If you need help, my pards and I will bail you out.”

“Contact Melnick!” Dale reiterated. “Warn the governor about Manta! The bastard uses humans as slaves! And if we don’t cooperate, we’re fed to—” His words caught in his throat as a footstep padded on the floor behind him.

“Fed to what?” Hickok asked.

Dale whirled, expecting one of the mutants, a gillman or gillwoman.

It was Manta, his distinct outline unmistakable, a black form against the backdrop of the room.

“Dale? Are you there?” came Hickok’s voice from the speaker.

“You!” Dale exclaimed, forgetting the mike was still on.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Hickok said. “Who were you expecting? The Lone Ranger?”

“You’re too late!” Dale declared triumphantly. “I’ve called for help!”

Manta moved closer.

“Who the blazes are you talkin’ to?” Hickok questioned.

“Your jig is up!” Dale gloated. “They’re on to you now!”

Manta spoke, his voice sibilant and raspy. “So?”

“Dale! Who’s that?” Hickok queried.

Manta suddenly reached out with his right hand, gripping Dale’s throat, his nails digging into the officer’s flesh.

“Dale?” Hickok said.

Dale thrashed and squirmed, dropping the mike, striving to break free.

The creature called Manta slowly lifted the human into the air, his shadowy figure blending with the night. “Do you think I care, foolish one?

Let them come! They can’t stop me! Nothing can stop me!”

Dale bucked and kicked, gasping for breath.

“Who’s that?” Hickok demanded. “Dale? What’s going on? Are you all right?”

Mama’s face tilted toward the shortwave. “No, Mr. Dale is not all right. He is… indisposed… at the moment.”

Dale was wheezing and gagging.

“Who are you?” Hickok inquired.

“I am Manta,” the creature stated imperiously.

“The joker Dale was tellin’ me about? The one usin’ humans as slaves?”

Hickok asked.

“What other use is there for human scum?” Manta commented.

Dale’s arms dropped to his sides and he went limp.

“Where’s Dale?” Hickok wanted to know. “What have you done to him?

He’d better be in one piece when I get there, or I’ll make you regret the day you were born!”

“Are you threatening me, human?” Manta asked.

“You bet your ass I am!” Hickok responded. “I’m comin’ after you, you mangy coyote!”

“I’ll look forward to meeting you,” Manta commented sarcastically. “In fact, on behalf of the Brethren, allow me to extend a formal invitation.

Come to Seattle, if you wish. Bring your friends, why don’t you?” He dropped the unconscious officer onto the floor.

“We’ll come, all right!” Hickok vowed. “Count on it!”

“I am,” Manta stated.

“You are?” Hickok said, puzzled.

“Of course,” Manta affirmed. “I can always use more kelp harvesters.”

“Kelp harvesters? What are they? And who’s the Brethren?” Hickok questioned.

“Come to Seattle and find out,” Manta declared arrogantly. So saying, he lifted his right foot and brought it down on top of the shortwave, his calloused heel smashing the unit in one violent, powerful blow. The set sparked and popped for a moment, then fell silent. Manta’s sable silhouette slraightened. “So you conlacted would-be rescuers?” he addressed the human at his feet, then snickered. “I must assemble the Brethren. We must insure your liberators receive the reception they deserve!”

A gust of wind howled through the Space Needle.

The VTOL arced in out of the southwest, a gleaming, streaking dagger in the azure sky, swooping low over the forest, the pilot unerringly on course. “One minute to ETA,” he announced for the benefit of his sole passenger.