David Robbins - Seattle Run

Hickok nudged a lump here, a lump there. He was sweating profusely under his buckskins; the factory was intentionally humid and muggy.

“Say, Dale?” he whispered.

“What?” Dale whispered back.

“How many sailors are in here right now?” Hickok asked. “How many from the Cutterhawk ?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Dale replied. “I’d guess about fifty.”

“Are they ready to bust out of here?” Hickok inquired.

Dale froze, a strand of kelp dangling from his right hand. “Do you mean right now !”

“No. Of course not,” Hickok said.

Dale visibly relaxed.

“I was thinkin’ more like in five minutes,” Hickok stated.

Dale glanced at the Warrior. “Five minutes? Are you insane?”

“Okay. Make it ten.”

“But you just got here!” Dale declared in a hushed tone.

“Which is why they won’t be expecting me to pull a stunt like tryin’ to escape,” Hickok pointed out. “This is my best chance.”

“What can we do now?” Dale asked, scanning the factory. “There are over forty overseers in here and they have whips. We don’t have any weapons.”

“What if I could get my hands on some weapons?” Hickok inquired.

“How do you expect to do that?” Dale wanted to know.

Hickok grinned, reached back, and tapped an exposed portion of his gun belt, his fingertips touching the cartridges in the loops on the rear of the belt.

Dale’s eyes widened. “They didn’t take your ammo?”

“Nope,” Hickok said, swiftly covering the gun belt with the lower part of his buckskin shirt. “And I wasn’t about to remind the vermin.”

“Your shirt hangs down when you stand up,” Dale observed. “They probably didn’t see the ammunition.”

“Where’s the storeroom?” Hickok questioned.

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve been here four months and you don’t know where the storeroom is?” Hickok asked in surprise.

“Not the storeroom where they keep the weapons,” Dale said. “They’re real secretive about that. No one knows except them.”

“Do they use weapons much?” Hickok asked.

“No,” Dale whispered. “They prefer to use their nails in close combat.

The overseers use whips. But I’ve never seen them use guns. I imagine they would, in a crisis. Maybe they don’t like guns because guns were a human invention.”

“What a passel of cow chips,” Hickok commented.

“Do you have a plan?” Dale inquired.

“Do birds fly?”

“That’s not much of an answer,” Dale remarked.

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Hickok detailed. “I intend to create a diversion to distract the overseers. Then I plan to slip out of the factory and go find the storeroom. Once I lay my hands on my Colts, these mangy varmints are done for.”

“There are close to three hundred of the Brethen,” Dale said. “You can’t take all of them on by yourself.”

“I might need a little help,” Hickok acknowledged. “That’s where you and the rest of the sailors come in.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“After I skedaddle for the storeroom,” Hickok instructed him, “make as much of a ruckus as you can. I don’t want the overseers to know I’m gone.”

“Why don’t some of us come with you?” Dale queried.

“It’ll be a heap easier for one hombre to reach the storeroom,” Hickok stated. “I’ll load up on guns and hurry back here. Keep your peepers peeled. When you see me, come a runnin’. By tonight, the Brethren will be twiddlin’ their gills out in the ocean—those who survive, anyway.”

“If any survive,” Dale amended. “We’re going to kill all of the bastards we can find.”

“Some of them are likely out rustlin’ up whales and such,” Hickok said.

“I doubt we’ll get all of them.”

“Just so we get Manta!” Dale stated vehemently. “I want that bastard for myself.”

“First come, first serve,” Hickok quipped.

“Look busy!” Dale abruptly warned, and worked on the kelp.

Hickok did likewise.

An overseer was walking toward them along the walkway. The mutant came abreast of their position in the kelp beds and stopped. “You!”

Some of the other workers looked up.

“You!” the overseer shouted. “The one in the funny clothes.”

“He means you!” Dale whispered to the gunman.

Hickok straightened. “Are you talkin’ to me, Fish Lips?”

“You’re the one in the funny clothes,” the mutant said.

Hickok moved toward the walkway, looking down at himself. Buckskins were typical attire in the Midwest and the Rocky Mountain region, but he hadn’t seen one person wearing them in Seattle. Apparently, when it came to high fashion, the folks in Seattle were downright ignorant. He reached the walkway and looked up at the mutant. “What’s up, gruesome?”

“Manta wants to see you.”

“I apologize for my carelessness.”

“You’ve already apologized. A dozen times.”

“I allowed myself to be tricked,” Rikki said. “I was foolish.”

Blade sighed and glanced over his right shoulder at the martial artist.

“Would you feel any better if I agreed with you? You made a mistake. We all make mistakes. Now forget about it.”

“I am not accustomed to making mistakes,” Rikki remarked.

“I wish I could say that,” Blade said.

“Shut up!” one of their escorts barked. “Both of you!”

Ten Sharks were taking the Warriors to a meeting with Tiger. They had arrived at the cell minutes ago and announced that Tiger wanted the prisoners brought before him. The Sharks had prudently bound the Warriors and removed Blade’s Bowies. Four of the Sharks were walking in front of Blade, the rest behind Rikki. Six of the ten carried rifles.

Tiger wasn’t taking any chances.

Despite his predicament, Blade marveled at the outstanding artwork they passed in the corridors.

They climbed a short flight of stairs and entered an enormous chamber.

In contrast to all of the other rooms in the museum, this chamber was devoid of artistic masterpieces. It was filled with Sharks, standing room only. They were jammed into a compact mass surrounding a cleared space in the center. At the sight of the Warriors, the conversation level rose.

“Make way!” the head of the escort bellowed.

The throng parted to permit the escort to pass.

Tiger was awaiting them in the middle of the chamber.

his hands on his hips, a smile on his lips. To his right was Gar, to his left Fab, both bearing their shotguns. Fab also wore Rikki’s katana, the scabbard angled under her belt above her left hip.

“Welcome, contestants!” Tiger called out.

As they emerged from the crowd, Blade spied the arrangement behind Tiger and the twins. A long, narrow wooden rail had been positioned horizontally on stout upright posts. Under the 20-foot rail, and on all sides, projecting upward from the tiled floor, were dozens and dozens of sharp metal spikes.

Tiger scanned the Sharks. “Are you ready for a little excitement?”

“Yes!” they chorused back.

Tiger grinned at Blade. “I trust you will not disappoint them. Try to put on a good show.”

Blade nodded at the rail and the spikes. “What is this?”

Tiger chuckled. “I told you I need a workout. This is how I exercise, how I keep my reflexes at their peak.”

“What does all of this have to do with us?” Blade asked.

“Everything,” Tiger said. “You or your friend will be the featured attraction.”

“Doing what?” Blade inquired.

Tiger smirked. “Staying alive, I’d imagine.” He pointed at the rail. “Do you know what that is?”