David Robbins - Capital Run

The pit?

The pit!

Blade jerked the Bowies free and rolled to the right, off of Grotto’s neck.

Something collided with his back, and he was sent flying, arms and legs flailing in the air, to crash onto the ground in a daze. He shook his head to clear his fuzzy mind, and rose to his hands and knees.

“Are you all right?” asked a concerned male voice.

Blade looked up.

Rikki smiled at him. “The Family will tell this tale for generations.”

Blade glanced around, confused, disoriented. “Where…”

“The pit,” Rikki answered before Blade could complete his question.

Blade stumbled to his feet. He tottered to the edge of the pit, his whole body aching like hell, and peered over the edge.

Grotto was lying in the center of the pit, on its side, its mouth open and slack, its eyes pools of green fluid, its legs curled up, its tail quivering.

Grotto was dead.

“I never saw anything like that!” Lex said as she joined them. “I wanted to shoot,” she added, holding up the Commando, “but I was afraid I’d hit one of you.”

Blade nodded absently, not yet fully recovered, staring at the creature on the pit floor.

“Are you all right?” Rikki repeated.

“Just a little dazed,” Blade responded.

“Its head hit you as you were rolling off,” Rikki disclosed.

Blade glanced at the black hole in the side of the pit, the hole providing access to the sewers. “Terza told me there are more of those things down there,” he commented in a low voice.

“Yeah,” Lex confirmed. “So?”

“So sooner or later those things are going to start coming out of the sewers to feed,” Blade predicted.

“A few have already done it,” Lex stated. “What’s the big deal?”

Blade stared at her, sweat beading his brow. “Population growth is going to force more and more of them to take to the streets,” he said wearily. “From what we’ve seen in our travels, many cities are like St. Louis. Living in them may become untenable.”

Lex gazed at Grotto, frowning. “So what? I don’t like living here anyway.”

Rikki touched Blade on the left elbow. “We should be leaving.”

Blade nodded. He realized he was still holding the Bowies, and he held them up. They were covered with the sticky green fluid. “Yuck,” he said, and walked to a fallen sister.

Rikki scanned the room. “We are the only ones here,” he observed.

Blade wiped his knives clean on the sister’s black-leather vest. “You can bet reinforcements are on the way.”

“You can have this,” Lex offered, extending the Commando. “I’ll take one of the rifles.”

Blade sheathed his Bowies and took the Commando. “Thanks.” He paused. “I appreciate all of the assistance you’ve rendered. And I know how you feel about living in St. Louis. How would you like to come and live with us?”

Lex grinned. “Rikki already made me the same offer.”

“And?”

“And the sooner we get to this Home of yours,” Lex said, “the better.”

Blade smiled. “Lead the way.”

Lex took a rifle from a dead stud, and found a handful of ammunition in his right front pocket. “Rikki told me you guys are called Warriors,” she mentioned as she straightened.

“There are fifteen Warriors,” Blade affirmed.

Lex swept the room with her right hand. “And you Warriors do this kind of thing all the time?”

“It does seem to happen a lot,” Blade admitted. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” Lex said. “But after seeing what you guys do for a living, I can’t help but wonder what you do for kicks.”

This was another blasted mess he’d gotten himself into!

The gunman was seated on a long bench on one side of the cargo bay.

Across from him, on another wooden bench, sat five Red soldiers, each with an AK-47, each pointing their weapon in his general direction.

Nearby, toward the rear of the aircraft, boxes and crates and miscellaneous equipment were stacked to the ceiling. In the opposite direction, a narrow alley between more crates and boxes led to a closed door. The sixth Red, the one he’d first seen in the cargo bay doorway and evidently a sergeant or of some equivalent rank, had disappeared through the door mere minutes before. After the sergeant and one other trooper had hoisted the gunfighter into the helicopter, they’d shoved him to the bench and ordered him to sit.

But the rascals had made a serious mistake.

Hickok wanted to laugh. The cowchips had neglected to search him for weapons. Consequently, the Pythons were safely tucked under his belt, hidden by the bulky uniform shirt over his buckskins.

“Any of you gents feel like shootin’ the breeze?” Hickok amiably inquired.

None of them responded.

“I have a pard by the name of Joshua,” Hickok genially told them. “He once told me a motto of his. You bozos could learn from it. If you ever want to make friends, old Josh once said, you’ve got to be friendly. You jokers sure ain’t the friendly type.”

One of the Reds wagged his AK-47. “Shut your mouth. We are not your friends.”

“Why do we have to be enemies?” Hickok countered. “The war was a hundred years ago.”

“The war is not over until Communism has conquered the globe,” the soldier said.

Hickok sighed. “You must be minus a few marbles. There ain’t no way you turkeys will conquer the world.”

“In time we will,” the trooper said confidently.

“You’re breakin’ wind.”

The soldier’s eyebrows narrowed. “Breakin’ wind?”

“Do you really expect the folks to just roll over and play dead while you run roughshod over ’em?” Hickok asked. “If you do, you must be eatin’ loco-weed on a regular basis.”

The trooper was about to speak, but the door toward the front of the aircraft opened. The sergeant returned, followed by a familiar figure. They approached the gunman.

“Hello, Hickok,” Lieutenant Voroshilov greeted the warrior. “This is a surprise.”

“Not as big of a surprise as I wanted,” Hickok said.

“I just finished talking to General Malenkov on the radio,” Lieutenant Voroshilov revealed. “He was equally surprised. It seems we underestimated you.”

“So how soon before we get back to Washington?” Hickok asked.

“We are not turning around,” Lieutenant Voroshilov disclosed.

Hickok’s own surprise registered on his features. “Why not? I reckon the general is a mite eager to get his paws on me.”

Lieutenant Voroshilov nodded. “He is most desirous of talking with you again,” he said. “Only the next time it will be different. Your escape angered the general. He is going to have his… consultants… question you next time. Perhaps you have heard of them? They are the KGB.”

Hickok shrugged. “Never heard of ’em.”

“Why don’t you relax,” Lieutenant Voroshilov suggested. “We will be in the air several hours before we refuel.”

“Why aren’t you takin’ me back to Washington?” Hickok inquired.

Lieutenant Voroshilov sat down on the bench alongside the gunman.

His green eyes studied the warrior, as if he were examining an inferior life-form. “Several reasons. Precious fuel would be wasted by the return flight, and fuel is one resource we cannot afford to waste.”

“Don’t have a lot of it, huh?” Hickok interrupted.

“Not as much as we would like,” Voroshilov said. “We have two refineries in operation, but they can’t supply enough fuel for all our needs.”

“Why don’t you just get some more from Russia?” Hickok queried.

Voroshilov’s mouth tightened. “If only we could.”

“Why can’t you?” Hickok pressed him.