David Robbins - Anaheim Run

He paused, peering into the giant’s grey eyes. “And I want you to know I’ll never forget this. If there’s ever anything I can do for you—anything—just say the word.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Blade said.

“One thing,” Ebert mentioned quizzically. “How did you know I was a spy? What tipped you off?”

“You did.”

“Me?”

Blade grinned. “I had no idea you were the spy until you kicked me in the nuts.”

Ebert was flabbergasted. “Well I’ll be damned!”

“He kicked you in the nuts?” General Gallagher queried.

“Yep,” Blade responded.

Gallagher shook his head. “I’m beginning to wonder about you Warriors.”

“Wonder about what?” Blade asked.

“First you get all misty-eyed over Emery taking poison, and now you’re all set to let a spy go. And he kicked you in the nuts, yet you don’t do a thing to him!” Gallagher shook his head again. “I’m beginning to wonder if all you Warriors are nothing but wimps.”

The storm struck southern California with a vengeance. Hickok, exposed to the elemental fury, was seething inwardly with an intensity equal to the storm’s. Ever since he’d arrived in California, there had been one setback after another! First, he’d missed the clown on the terminal roof at the airport. Then he’d nearly been blown to smithereens when the limo was hit. He’d almost been caught by the Gild, and to top everything off he’d gone and gotten captured by a group of illiterate cannibals!

Why did everything always happen to him !

The cannibals had taken shelter in the barracks. Driving sheets of rain pelted the ground and smacked against the fort. The gusting wind was whipping the trees surrounding the fort, bending the saplings almost in half.

Hickok swayed and rocked, soaked to the skin, vowing to get even with the varmints responsible for his latest humiliation. He glared at the barracks, wishing one of them, just one, would come outside and walk up to him so he could kick the crack-brained moron in the head!

One did.

Then another.

Hickok squinted, striving to see through the wall of rain. The landscape was plunged into a watery gloom by the combination of the storm and the twilight.

Two of the cannibals were walking his way.

Hickok tensed expectantly. What was up? Were they coming to kill him for the evening meal? He recognized the one called Tab, and he restrained an impulse to yell with delight when he spotted the pearl handles of his Colts sticking from Tab’s belt. He shifted his attention to the second cannibal, his eyes blinking in astonishment.

Was that a chicken?

The second cannibal was wearing torn, ragged jeans, a faded blue shirt with large white buttons on the front, and some kind of bizarre headgear.

He looked for all the world like a fuzzy white chicken with a yellow bill.

Only this bird was carrying an axe in his right hand.

Just when you think you’ve seen everything!

Tab and the second cannibal halted a yard from the swinging gunman, Tab with a carving knife in his left hand. He smirked at the Warrior.

“Guess what time it is?” he shouted above the wind and the rain.

“Time for your diaper to be changed?” Hickok yelled back.

Tab scowled. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Not as funny as your face!” Hickok retorted.

Tab didn’t appreciate the insult one bit. He brandished the carving knife menacingly. “You won’t be such a smart aleck when we’re done with you!”

“You’ll get yours!” Hickok vowed.

Tab motioned with the knife, and the chicken walked off to the left, to the post where the rope was secured.

“I hope this hurts!” Tab taunted the Warrior. He looked at the second cannibal. “Go ahead!”

The chicken raised his right arm, then arced the axe downward, slicing the rope.

Ordinarily a fall of three feet wouldn’t have fazed the gunman. But he had been hanging from the rope for hours; his shoulders were aching terribly, and his arms were numb from his elbows to his fingernails. He landed in the dirt, dropping to his knees, his shoulders lancing with pain.

Tab cackled. “You ain’t so high and mighty now, are you?”

Hickok doubled over, feigning extreme anguish, forcing his fingers to clench and unclench.

“On your feet!” Tab ordered.

Hickok stayed put, clenching and unclenching, clenching and unclenching, feeling his forearms start to tingle.

“On your feet!” Tab commanded angrily.

Hickok glanced up, careful to keep his hands hidden by his body. “I can’t! You’ll have to carry me!”

Tab laughed. “We ain’t going to carry your ass! On your feet! Now!”

The second cannibal stepped up to the Warrior.

Tab waved the carving knife in a small circle. “I’m not standing out in this rain all night! If you don’t get up, I’ll start cutting on you right here!”

Hickok pretended to rise, then slumped down again, furiously working his fingers. He couldn’t go for the Colts. Too noisy.

“Enough of this bullshit!” Tab bellowed. He looked at the duck. “Bring him!”

The second cannibal stooped over, taking hold of the Warrior’s left arm.

Hickok could feel sensation in his fingers again. He grinned, slowly rising, his blue eyes darting from the carving knife to the axe, assessing the probabilities, and he opted for the knife because Tab was holding it so carelessly, so loosely.

“Now that’s more like it!” Tab declared, the last words he was ever to utter.

Hickok lunged, his fingers closing on the top of the carving knife blade and wrenching it from Tab’s grasp even as his left leg drove up and out, catching the chicken in the midsection and sending the cannibal tumbling backwards. He slid his hands along the blade to the hilt and reversed the grip, extending the carving edge, all in a swift, smooth motion.

Tab went for the Colts.

Hickok slashed the carving knife in a vicious semicircle, and at the apex of his swing the cutting edge ripped the cannibal’s throat open from one side to the other.

Tab voiced a gurgling screech, clutching his neck, blood spurting everywhere.

There was no time to finish Tab off. Hickok whirled to confront his other opponent.

The bird had regained his balance and was hurtling toward the Warrior with his axe upraised for a death blow.

Hickok backpedaled, knowing his carving knife couldn’t withstand the axe, but as he retreated his moccasins slipped on the drenched, slippery ground and he fell to one knee. The movement saved his life.

The chicken had aimed a terrific swipe of the axe at the Warrior’s head, but the gunman’s misstep dropped him below the swinging axe.

Hickok found himself on his left knee, within arm’s reach of the chicken’s legs. He took instant advantage of the situation, stabbing the carving knife up and in, imbedding the blade in the bird’s groin.

The Second cannibal shrieked and released the axe, bending over and grabbing for his genitals.

Hickok yanked the knife out, then rose, bringing the carving knife up with the tip held vertically, savagely ramming the blade into the chicken’s neck.

The chicken squawked and frantically clawed at the Warrior’s eyes.

Hickok pulled the knife loose and sidestepped.

The chicken stumbled, almost straightened, then pitched onto his bill on the muddy turf.

Hickok twirled.

Tab was still on his feet, lurching toward the barracks, weaving and tottering, not ten feet off.

Hickok raced in pursuit and caught the cannibal by the scruff of the neck. He tugged, drawing Tab backwards, tripping the cannibal with his right leg.

Tab fell onto his back, the blood pouring from his throat, whining plaintively.