David Robbins - New York Run

“Do you hear it now?” the first guard demanded. He was young and wanted to impress the others with his superior senses.

“Sounds like a trike,” remarked one of the others.

“But who would be out with a trike at this time of night?” queried the young trooper. “The captain would be in his jeep.”

They moved to the east side of the tower, listening. The trike motor abruptly revved louder.

“It must be the Warrior!” the second soldier exclaimed. “He’s going to try and break through the gate!”

A beam of light abruptly appeared on the far side of the mine field.

“Here he comes!” cried the second soldier.

“No he’s not!” disputed the third. “Look! He’s going to try and make it across the mine field!”

Sure enough, the light zoomed toward the mine field, streaking for the far side.

“The fool will never make it,” said the young trooper.

The trike was bobbing and bouncing as it raced across the field. It swerved from side to side in a weaving pattern.

“He’ll never make it,” reiterated the young guard, cradling his Dakon II in his arms.

A sparkling blast rent the air as the trike struck one of the mines. A ball of flame and smoke coalesced for several seconds, then dispersed.

“What a jerk,” the young trooper said.

“You stay here,” directed the second soldier. “We’ll take the flashlights and the mine map and go have a look. Call HQ and tell them what happened.”

“Right away,” the youthful guard replied.

The young guard walked to the Communications Console while his three friends hastened down the tower steps. He picked up the headset and pressed the appropriate buttons. “Private Casey here,” he said when the sergeant at the ComCenter in the Central Core answered. “Inform Captain Zorn we have a Priority Two. Repeat. Priority Two.” He listened for a moment. “Yes, sir. On their way now.” He glanced at his watch. “ETA five minutes? Yes, sir. Over and out.” He replaced the headset and walked to the east side of the tower, watching through the window as his three companions moved across the field toward the smoldering wreckage of the trike. Their flashlights were proceeding very slowly, as they cautiously advanced while consulting the minefield map to insure they didn’t step on a mine and wind up the way the driver of the trike had.

“Freeze!”

Private Casey tensed at the barked command. He started to turn his head.

“I said freeze!” the harsh voice warned. “One more twitch and you’ll be feedin’ the worms instead of vice versa!”

“Who are you? What do you want?” Casey asked.

“I’ll do the talkin’, pipsqueak! Set your piece on the floor, real easy like!”

Private Casey hesitated. He knew his duty. He should whirl and confront this stranger. But there was something about the man’s deep voice, a steely vibrancy, a “Don’t mess with me or else!” quality he found unnerving. He intuitively sensed he would die instantly if he disobeyed this man, and Casey didn’t want to die. He laid the Dakon II on the floor.

“That’s real sensible for a Technic,” the stranger said.

Casey waited, expecting to hear the man cross the tower. Instead, something hard was jammed into his spine.

“Turn around!” the voice commanded.

Private Casey complied, discovering a lean blond man in buckskins with a rifle over each shoulder, a revolver under his left arm, and two more revolvers, both pearl-handled silver jobs, in his hands.

“Where’s the key to the gate?” the blond man demanded.

“I can’t give it to you,” Casey mustered the courage to say.

The gunman sighed. “I’m tired, pipsqueak. Real tired. And I don’t have the time to play games.” He cocked the right revolver. “If you don’t tell me where they keep the key to the gate, I’m gonna shoot you in the nuts.”

Casey swallowed, and a prickly sensation erupted over his balls.

“I ain’t got all night!” the gunman snapped.

Casey pointed at a desk in the northwest corner. “It’s in the top drawer on the right.”

“Thanks.” The gunman sidled to the desk and opened the drawer.

“You’re Hickok, aren’t you?” Casey asked.

The gunman nodded as he withdrew a large key on a metal ring.

“I knew it!” Casey said. He didn’t know what to do or say, and he was too excited to remain silent. “Did you really kill the Minister?” he blurted.

“Yep.”

“I can’t believe it!” Casey exclaimed, awed.

“How do I turn off the fence?” Hickok inquired.

“There’s a circuit breaker in a box to the left of the gate,” Casey revealed.

“What’s a circuit breaker?” Hickok responded.

“Look for an orange lever,” Casey said. “Pull it down and you’ll turn off the current.”

Hickok moved to the window and watched the trio of guards heading for the flaming debris in the mine field.

“Who was on the trike?” Casey asked.

“Nobody,” Hickok answered.

“But trikes don’t run by themselves,” Casey stated.

“They do if you help ’em along a little,” Hickok said. He motioned toward the stairs. “Let’s go. You first.”

Private Casey led off. “Are… are you going to kill me?”

“I’m not in the habit of gunnin’ pipsqueaks,” Hickok declared. “But don’t push me or I might make an exception in your case.”

They reached the steps to the ground. “How did you do it?” Casey queried as he descended.

“Wasn’t too hard,” Hickok said. “A bozo by the name of Spencer told me how the trikes run. To pick up speed, you have to turn a thingumajig on the handlebars. And to shift, your foot presses on a thingamabob. Hope I’m not bein’ too technical for you.”

“I know how to drive a trike,” Casey told him.

“Then you’ll appreciate how I did it,” Hickok remarked. “I fired her up, with the shift in neutral, and turned the accelerator to where I wanted it.

Then I tied it in place with Spencer’s shoelaces. Those grips have deep ridges in ’em, so it was real easy to keep it from slippin’ too much. After that, I kicked the buggy into gear and—presto!—the decoy I needed.”

“Pretty clever,” Private Casey admitted.

Hickok sighed. “Where’s Geronimo when I need him?”

“Geronimo?” Casey said, puzzled.

“A pard of mine,” Hickok stated. “Believe it or not, I don’t get complimented on my smarts too much. I wish he’d been here to hear it.”

“Wasn’t one of the other Warriors captured with you named Geronimo?” Casey asked.

Hickok stopped. “Yeah. Have you heard anything about him or my other buddy, Blade?”

“You know they went to New York City?”

“So I was told.”

Private Casey shifted uneasily. “I don’t know how to tell you this.” He stared at the pearl-handled revolvers.

“Give it to me straight,” Hickok directed.

“It’s not official,” Casey said anxiously.

“Spill the beans!” Hickok ordered.

“We lost contact with them,” Casey disclosed. “Now remember,” he quickly added, “it’s just some scuttlebutt I picked up. It hasn’t been confirmed.”

Hickok’s features were obscured by the shadows. They were standing near the fence, the gate illumined by a spotlight on top of the guard tower.

“Turn off the current,” he said gruffly.

“I thought you were going to do it,” Casey said.

“I can’t. You see, I’ve got me this new motto I live by,” the gunman declared.

“New motto?”

“Never, ever trust a lyin’ skunk of a Technic!” Hickok stated harshly.

Private Casey gulped.

“Now kill the blasted fence!” Hickok commanded.

Casey immediately complied.