David Robbins - Seattle Run

“What do you feed ’em?” Hickok asked.

Manta grinned. “What do you think?”

Hickok scratched his chin, as if mulling the matter. “I don’t see where I’ve got any choice.”

“You don’t,” Manta asserted.

“Okay. Tell you what I’ll do,” Hickok said. “I’ll cough up the info you want, provided you answer one measly question of mine.”

“Don’t dictate terms to me!” Manta snapped.

“What can one question hurt?” Hickok asked.

Manta reflected for a moment. “What is your question?”

“Do you have any?” Hickok queried.

“Any what?” Manta responded, confused.

“You know,” Hickok said, grinning.

“No, I don’t know,” Manta rejoined in annoyance. “What are you talking about?”

“I was just sort of wonderin’,” Hickok mentioned, scanning the area to insure none of the Brethren were nearby or blocking his route to the corridor.

“What?” Manta spat, becoming angrier by the moment.

“About whether humans and the Brethren have similar reproductive organs?” Hickok said.

“Somewhat similar,” Manta said. “But what kind of question is that?”

“I was just curious about those briefs of yours,” Hickok commented.

As the gunman expected, Manta looked down at his briefs.

And Hickok lashed out with his right leg, kicking Manta right in the…

briefs. He didn’t wait to see the affect his kick had. The gunman took off lickety-split for the hallway. Only when he was about to disappear around the corner did he risk a hasty look over his right shoulder.

Manta was on his knees on the floor, clutching his genital region. Three of the Brethren were hurrying toward their leader.

Time to haul butt!

Hickok raced along the hallway, hoping he wouldn’t bump into one of the mutants. He tried to recall if there had been any turns between the sanitation closet and the central core of the Humarium. As far as he could remember, there hadn’t been. His moccasins squished on the tiled floor as he sprinted deeper into the corridor.

He was acting on a hunch.

Hickok had seen a lot of humans in the Humarium and the kelp factory, and he knew there were many in the housing units because they were forced to work in shifts, according to Captain Dale. But the gunman had not observed one other human in this corridor connected to the Humarium. Not one entering or exiting the hallway. Even the Brethren rarely used it.

All of which had aroused his curiosity.

If the corridor wasn’t being used frequently, then there must be an important reason. Or so Hickok speculated. And what better reason than the presence of a room the Brethren did not want the humans to see?

There was more cause for conjecture.

The Brethren had dumped the gunfighter and the Shark into a closet at the end of the seldom-used hallway. Odds were, Hickok told himself, the Brethren removed all weapons there and carried them to the storeroom.

He doubted the mutants would lug the weapons any great distance. The Brethren weren’t fond of firearms and despised anything manufactured by human hands. So logic dictated the storeroom must be in close proximity to the closet.

And there was one more factor.

Hickok knew of four passages leading from the Humarium proper. One linked the Humarium to the land to the east; another was the passage between the Humarium and the housing units to the south; the third was the one connecting the Humarium to the kelp factory to the north; and then there was this one, which seemed to angle to the west but served no functional purpose.

Or did it?

Maybe it served to house the Brethren’s collection of confiscated weapons at a prudent distance from the areas where the humans normally worked and lived.

Maybe Manta had grown complacent over the decades and had failed to guard the corridor properly.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Hickok caught sight of a series of doors ahead and increased his speed.

There were three on the left, four on the right.

The first door was the wide open door to the sanitation closet.

Hickok grabbed for the second door on the right and twisted the knob.

Another closet.

He lunged for the third door on the right.

Yet another lousy closet.

Hickok didn’t bother with the last door on the right. He crossed to the doors on the left and took hold of the first doorknob. The door was vibrating and there was a throbbing noise from the opposite side. He pulled the door open and discovered a green generator.

Which explained the lights.

Hickok darted to the next door and tried the knob.

Locked.

The gunman returned to the generator room and scrutinized the four walls. To his left was a shelf containing a toolbox. He moved to the blue metal box, opened the lid, and found a hammer on the top shelf.

The Spirit was smiling on him!

Hickok grabbed the hammer and hastened to the hallway. He stood in front of the locked door and raised the hammer.

“Down this way!” a raspy voice shouted from up the corridor.

Hickok pounded the hammer onto the doorknob once. Twice. Three times. The doorknob broke off and clattered to the floor. He wrenched the door open and entered.

Eureka!

The room was filled with weapons of every variety: revolvers, pistols, shotguns, rifles, machine guns, bows, swords, knives, explosives, and more. On a corner of the nearest table were the newest additions to the collection: a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers.

Hickok snatched up the Pythons, relief washing over him. He quickly checked, verifying they were loaded.

Footsteps pounded in the hallway.

Hickok emerged from the storeroom with the Colts held at waist height, the barrels tilted upwards.

Three of the Brethren were rushing toward him.

“Lookin’ for me?” Hickok asked, and shot each of them between the eyes, the Pythons thundering in the confines of the corridor.

The mutants died without uttering a sound.

Hickok bolstered his Colts and reentered the storeroom, seeking an equalizer. He was vastly outnumbered, and even his precious Pythons couldn’t fend off a horde of mutants. Well, 264 might not, technically speaking, qualify as a horde, but it was close enough for him. He gazed at a rack of machine guns and automatic rifles.

Just what the doctor ordered!

Hickok selected six of the automatic rifles, insured their magazines were full, then swung two over each arm. He was about to take the last two and leave, when his eyes fell on a green metal box in the far corner of the storeroom, its lid partially open. He walked to the box, knelt, and raised the lid.

Someone must have remembered his birthday.

Hickok stuffed his pockets, then retrieved the pair of rifles he’d chosen.

One in each arm, a stock pressed against each side, he exited the storeroom and headed for the Humarium.

Party time.

A mutant ran into view, took one look, and headed for the hills.

“Was it my breath?” Hickok quipped.

The Warrior calmly proceeded along the hallway until the junction appeared. He slowed, the rifles pointing straight ahead.

Where the blazes were the Brethren?

An answer was promptly forthcoming. They came at him in droves, charging around the corner en masse, most armed with only whips, the rest relying on their nails, their claws. They were no match for the gunman.

Hickok poured round after round into them, their bodies twitching and convulsing as their organs were ruptured by the heavy slugs. They toppled to the floor in rows, and those to the rear were shot as they attempted to clamber over their fellows. An acrid stench filled the corridor.

As suddenly as it began, the attack ceased.

Hickok squinted as he cautiously moved up to the pile of dead mutants.