David Robbins - New York Run

What was that?

Geronimo tensed. He’d distinctly detected a faint scratching.

“Something!” Private Kimper suddenly shouted, focused on his pulse scanner.

“What is it?” Captain Wargo asked.

“Now it’s gone!” Private Kimper said. He was young, inexperienced in combat, and scared out of his wits.

“Keep scanning,” Captain Wargo commanded. He began to doubt the wisdom of bringing Kimper on the mission. But Kimper, amazingly, had friends in high places, and one of those “friends” was influential with the Minister. No less a personage than Arthur Ferguson had personally requested to have Kimper taken on the mission. Ferguson knew what success would mean to Kimper’s career.

“There it is again!” Kimper exclaimed. “But I don’t get it! The images keep fading in and out. How can they do that?”

Captain Wargo frowned. How could they indeed? They might, if the life-forms were continually passing between a solid object or objects containing steel and the scanner.

“The reading is getting stronger!” Kimper warned them.

“How many do you read?” Captain Wargo asked.

Private Kimper glanced at his superior, his skin pale. “It’s off the scale!”

Geronimo, momentarily distracted by Wargo and Kimper, heard another scraping noise. He turned, perplexed, because all he could see was rubble and the abandoned jeeps and trucks.

The abandoned jeeps and trucks!

“They’re here!” Geronimo yelled in alarm, even as a macabre form hurtled from the cab of the nearest truck directly toward him and a horde of repellant apparitions charged from the gloom of the benighted hole.

He almost had it!

Only an inch to go!

Hickok strained against the manacles binding his wrists, his sinewy muscles rippling, his shoulders corded knots, sweat coating his skin and blood dribbling down his wrists. It’d taken two days, two days of strenuous effort, secretly exerting himself to the maximum whenever the chamber was empty. Fortunately, a guard only checked on him four times a day, and he always announced his arrival by rattling his keys as he unlocked the door. Twice daily the guard would bring a tray of food and feed the prisoner.

And, by Hickok’s reckoning, it was close to feeding time.

The gunman grunted and groaned as he wrenched his arms from side to side, twisting his wrists back and forth, torturously endeavoring to free his arms.

He could do it!

Hickok knew his escape was only a matter of time. Sooner or later, if he could maintain his frantic contortions, the combination of sweat and blood would provide the lubrication necessary for his wrists to slide from the manacles.

But could he do it before the guard arrived?

He must, the gunman told himself. Otherwise, the guard might notice the ring of crimson around his wrists.

He had to do it Now !

Hickok’s hair was plastered to his head, drops of sweat dripping from his chin, as he toiled at his task, his chest heaving from his laborious exertion. His eyes roamed about the room and settled on the white plastic bucket at his feet.

The bastards wouldn’t even unlock the manacles and permit him to relieve himself!

They’d pay!

Dear Spirit, how they’d pay!

Hickok’s mouth curved downward, exposing his grit teeth as he grimaced in agony.

It felt as if his arms were being torn from their sockets!

Hickok savagely jerked his right arm.

Come on!

With a pronounced squishing sound, the gunman’s right wrist popped loose of the steel manacle restraining his arm. The momentum swung him around in a circle, tearing at the tendons in his left shoulder as his body sagged.

Bingo!

Hickok reached up and clasped the right manacle, still imbedded in the wall. Using the manacle for support, he pulled his left wrist free in moments.

Just as keys jangled at the door.

Perfect timing! Hickok gripped the left manacle, then drooped his body and lowered his chin, assuming his usual resigned position. A smile touched the corners of his mouth.

Now he was ready.

Let the son of a bitch come!

The guard entered the chamber, a tray of food in his right hand, his keys in his left. He wore a camouflage uniform, black boots, and an automatic pistol attached to his green web belt.

Hickok, feigning dejection, glanced up.

The guard, a solidly built soldier in his forties with brown hair and brown eyes, closed the door. “Well, how’s our hick doing today?”

Hickok didn’t respond. He was accustomed to being baited; the guards took perverted delight in amusing themselves at his expense.

The trooper advanced toward the gunman. “What’s wrong with you? Antisocial or something?”

Hickok didn’t answer.

The guard stopped in front of the gunman and stared at his weary face.

“You look awful, stupid. Are you getting your beauty rest?” He cackled at his joke.

Hickok’s blue eyes darted over the food tray. A glass of juice. A plate containing potatoes and a slice of meat. One fork and one knife, a dull butter knife from the looks of it. Not much, but it would have to do.

“You’d best enjoy this meal,” the trooper was saying. “I’ve heard through the grapevine you don’t have too many meals left.”

Hickok’s interest was piqued. “Why’s that?” he asked.

“Ahhh! You are alive!” the guard cracked. “Do you really want to know?” he taunted the Warrior.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” Hickok said. “You probably didn’t hear a thing.”

“I did so!” the trooper said indignantly.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Think you know it all, don’t you, smart-ass?” the Technic said.

“I know more than you.”

“Is that so? Did you know the Minister plans to rack your ass after your buddies return from New York City?” the guard gloated.

“Nope,” Hickok admitted. “I didn’t know that.”

The soldier smirked.

“But I know something you don’t know,” Hickok mentioned nonchalantly.

“Like what?” the guard demanded.

“I don’t think you’d want to know,” Hickok said.

“You tell me or I’ll cram this food down your throat!” the soldier stated.

His gaze fell on the white plastic bucket. “Better yet, I’ll dump your shitpail on your head!”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Hickok asked, tensing.

“I want to know!” the Technic persisted.

Hickok shrugged. “If you insist.” He lunged, his left hand grasping the guard’s shirt and yanking him off balance as his right streaked to the fork and grabbed the implement.

Completely startled, the Technic dropped the tray and the keys, the tray clattering as it struck the floor. He tried to pull away, but the gunman’s left hand was locked on his shirt. The Warrior’s upper torso, without the shackles securing the wrists to suspend it, pressed down on the guard, causing his knees to sag.

Hickok touched the fork tines to the guard’s right eye. “Make one move and you’re blinded for life!” he threatened harshly.

The guard gulped.

“Do exactly as I say or I’ll ram this fork into your eye!” Hickok growled.

“What… what do you… want?” the trooper stammered.

“Reach down slowly, and I mean slowly , with your right hand and remove your pistol from your holster. Do it slow! One false move and you know what I’ll do!”

“Yes,” the guard stated in abject fright. He could feel the metal tines digging into his right eyelid.

“Use only your thumb and forefinger to draw the gun!” Hickok directed.

“Lift it—slowly—up to me!”

The guard trembled as his right hand lowered to the holster flap and undid the snap. He carefully eased his thumb and forefinger under the leather flap and withdrew the pistol, holding it by the grips.