David Robbins - Seattle Run

He stayed next to the right-hand wall and squeezed through between the wall and the corpses.

Manta and three dozen Brethren were waiting for the Warrior ten yards into the Humarium. The Brethren were lined up behind their leader in disciplined ranks.

“Howdy, Fish Lips,” Hickok greeted the mutant.

“Drop your weapons!” Manta commanded.

Hickok snorted. “You must be jokin’!”

“You cannot hope to slay all of us before we reach you,” Mania stated.

“Drop your weapons and I will be lenient with you.”

“Now I know you’re jokin’,” Hickok said. “And as usual, you’ve got everything all backwards. I want you and your cronies to lay down on the floor with your hands behind your backs. Pronto.”

Manta took a menacing step forward. “Don’t be absurd! We’ll do no such thing!”

Hickok knelt on his right knee, placed the rifle in his right hand on the floor, and rose.

“You are surrendering!” Manta declared happily.

“Not quite,” Hickok said. He reached into his right pocket and extracted one of his surprises, holding it aloft. “Recognize this, Fish Lips?”

“A grenade!” Manta exclaimed. “We took those from the Cutterhawk .”

“You were real lucky the sailors didn’t have a chance to use ’em,” Hickok commented. “I trust you know what these can do?”

“If you use one in here, human, you run the risk of fracturing one of the outer walls,” Manta noted. “And if you cause a rift in the exterior walls, the Humarium will be flooded. Every human inside will be killed.”

“That’s a risk I’ll have to take,” Hickok said.

“You’re bluffing,” Manta snapped. “You won’t use a grenade. Even if you do, we can breathe underwater. Most of the Brethren will survive.”

Hickok detected a hubbub of shouts and cries coming from the north, from the direction of the kelp factory. “Say, Fish Breath, I’ve got a question for you.”

“Not another one!” Manta remarked bitterly.

“Yep. Did you happen to pull some of your overseers from the kelp factory to deal with me?” Hickok inquired.

“Yes. Why do you ask?” Manta responded.

Hickok grinned. “Just a lucky guess.”

Manta suddenly turned, listening to the uproar coming closer and closer. “No!” he cried.

“Afraid so,” Hickok said. “Your little empire is about to come tumblin’ around your gills.”

Manta glared at the Warrior. “If it’s the last thing I ever do,” he hissed, “I will revenge myself on you!”

“Now there’s an original line,” Hickok cracked.

Manta shook his right fist at the gunman. “I swear you will pay!”

“Just so you don’t jump me in the bathtub,” Hickok said. “You might scare my son’s rubber ducky.”

Further conversation was precluded by the arrival of nearly a hundred rampaging men and women from the north, from the kelp factory, where they had risen up and pounced on their overseers, killing every mutant and sustaining marginal losses in their frenzied bid for freedom.

Manta and the Brethren with him turned to meet the rushing tide of enraged, bloodthirsty humanity. The mutants fought with fang and claw, but they were grossly outnumbered. The humans overwhelmed the mutants, venting months, years, and even decades of simmering hatred and hostility. The center of the Humarium became a writhing mass of humans and mutants. Screams, cries, and curses rent the air.

Hickok leaned against the wall. He propped his other rifle alongside his left leg, folded his arms, and waited.

Fewer and fewer mutants were still in the fray. Bodies dotted the floor, contorted in their death throes.

Hickok began whistling the tune to “Home on the Range.” He saw five men stradding a mutant, beating at him with their fists and kicking him again and again and again. The mutant wasn’t moving, but their fury had not subsided. They would beat him until his corpse was a pulpy mass.

The battle was slowing, winding down.

A lone mutant broke from the melee and staggered toward the gunman.

Hickok straightened, his hands dropping to his Colts.

Manta was coated with blood and sporting half a dozen wounds. His left leg was bent unnaturally. He shuffled to within six feet of the Warrior, breathing heavily, his tongue flicking over his lips. “You! You did this to me!” he bellowed.

“I reckon so,” Hickok agreed.

“Human scum!” Manta growled.

“I’ve been givin’ some thought to what you said,” Hickok commented as Manta limped toward him.

Five feet separated them.

“And I don’t much like the notion of your traumatizing my son’s rubber ducky,” Hickok remarked.

Four feet.

Manta lunged, his claws stabbing for the human’s face.

Hickok hardly seemed to move; one moment his hands were lightly resting on his Pythons, and the next the Colts were bucking and belching lead.

Manta took a slug in each eye. The impact catapulted him backwards to crash to the floor in a disjointed heap. He gasped once, then was still.

Hickok twirled the Pythons into his holsters. He walked over and looked down at Manta. “Piece of cake, Fish Lips.”

They were at the designated rendezvous spot, Lake Forest Park, waiting for the Hurricane to return. Their relief and happiness at being reunited was tempered by their sadness at the loss of the Family’s flamboyant gunman. Gar, Fab, and forty Sharks were waiting with the Warriors. Gar had assumed leadership of the Sharks, none of whom had opposed his taking command. A majority of the Sharks considered Gar to be an excellent candidate, and a majority also wanted to avoid antagonizing Gar’s newfound friends, the Warriors, at all costs. Especially Yama.

Blade had scoured Shark territory for Hickok after returning to the site of the ambush and discovering the gunman’s body was missing. He entertained the forlorn hope the gunfighter was alive, although his better judgment told him the rats had disposed of the corpse.

“I am sorry about your friend,” Gar said to Blade as they stood near the field where the Hurricane would land.

“Thanks,” Blade responded, his expression downcast. “I don’t know how I’ll tell his wife and son.”

“You won’t need to tell them a thing,” Rikki commented from Blade’s left.

Blade glanced at the martial artist, who was staring to the south.

“How does he do it?” Yama asked no one in particular.

Blade looked in the direction Rikki was gazing, and his features brightened, a broad smile creasing his face. He slung the Commando over his right shoulder and jogged toward the man who had just emerged from the undergrowth 40 yards to the south. “Hickok!”

Hickok was wiping at a smudge of dirt on his left leg. He saw his friend approaching and ran to meet him. “Blade! Where the dickens have you been?”

The two Warriors met each other halfway. They halted and studied one another for a moment.

“I thought you were dead,” Blade said.

“Me? I’m too ornery to die,” Hickok joked.

To the gunman’s utter astonishment, Blade unexpectedly stepped forward and embraced him in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground.

“Damn! I missed you!” Blade declared ecstatically.

Hickok struggled to break loose. “Put me down, you dang-blasted idiot! What do you think you’re doin’, anyway? I swear! You’re gettin’ worse than Geronimo!”

Blade grinned and released the gunfighter.

Hickok shook his head in annoyance. “You ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll tell your missus on you!”

“Where have you been?” Blade inquired. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

Rikki and Yama reached them.

“ There you two are!” Hickok said. “I was beginnin’ to think I was the only one tryin’ to get our mission accomplished.”