David Robbins - Denver Run

The guard to his left coughed.

Hickok froze and peered at the sentry. The man was sniffling. Poor baby! He must have a cold!

There was an unusual hissing sound to his right.

Hickok glanced in that direction.

The other sentry had unzipped his fatigue pants and was taking a leak.

Somebody sure did a lousy job of training these nitwits!

Hickok scrambled under the first truck and paused.

The singer was entertaining his companions with a song about a soldier, a barmaid, and leather and lace.

Hickok kept going, always keeping to the shadows. He could see dozens of soldiers on the other side of the truck.

A pair of black boots unexpectedly appeared to his right, near the vehicle. The boots walked from right to left and disappeared from view behind the left rear tire.

Hickok waited until he was certain the boots weren’t going to return, and then crawled behind the left front tire.

So far, so good.

Now where the blazes were the officers?

Hickok peeked around the tire and watched the assembled troopers go about their business of eating, cleaning their weapons, and engaging in idle chatter. Some of them were playing cards.

But there was no sign of the officers.

The troop transports were lined up from north to south, with the cabs positioned facing due north, the direction in which they had been driving when the convoy called it quits for the night.

Hickok decided to crawl under the next truck in line. There was a narrow space between the trucks, but no one was looking his way. He carefully moved from under the First truck.

“What the hell are you doing?” demanded a stern voice overhead.

Hickok, startled, glanced up.

A soldier was perched on the fender of the troop transport. The hood of the truck was propped open, and he was leaning on the radiator, a large crescent wrench in his right fist.

Blast!

Why hadn’t he seen the mechanic?

“Over here!” the man bellowed, and dived at the intruder.

Hickok rolled, hearing the crescent wrench thud into the ground an inch from his right ear. He was forced to roll into the camp to escape the mechanic, and as he lunged to his feet there were other loud cries of alarm.

Just great!

Some of the troopers were going for their weapons.

Hickok, cornered, grinned and drew his Colt Pythons, the .357 Magnums flashing from their holsters. He snapped off two shots.

A pair of soldiers clutched at their heads and toppled to the turf.

Hickok whirled, just in time.

The trooper with the crescent wrench was a foot behind the gunman, the big wrench uplifted for a crushing blow.

Hickok shot him in the right eye.

The trooper jerked backward, a crimson spray erupting from the rear of his head. He slammed against the cab of the truck and fell to the earth.

Several M-16’s were firing from the direction of the nearest campfire.

Hickok spun and blasted the Pythons four times.

Four soldiers were struck in the head, two of them screaming as they fell to the ground.

More M-16’s opened up.

Time for Mamma Hickok’s only son to make for the hills!

Hickok wisely retreated, knowing he was hopelessly outnumbered.

There was no way he could surprise the officers now.

Blast!

The dirt at his feet flew in all directions as a burst from an M-16 missed him by inches.

Hickok ran between the two trucks behind him, making for the open stretch beyond and then the forest. If he could reach the trees, he felt confident he could escape.

The pair of sentries he’d bypassed earlier were hastening toward the encampment.

Hickok’s Pythons boomed.

The guard on the right catapulted to the grass.

The sentry on the left twisted to the left as he was hit in the face. He shrieked as he staggered to his knees, then fell forward.

A veritable clamor rose from the camp.

“Get the son of a bitch!”

“He went this way!”

“Sound the alarm!”

Hickok raced toward the tree line.

Three soldiers skirted the cab of one of the troop transports, spotted the gunman, and began firing.

Hickok threw himself to the right. He landed on his right shoulder and rolled, coming up on his knees, his Pythons held at waist level.

The trio of troopers charged.

Hickok’s Pythons bucked, spitting lead and death.

Almost as one, the three soldiers went down.

The Pythons were empty!

Hickok rose and ran into the woods.

“There he goes!” someone bellowed.

“After him!”

Hickok jogged due east, wanting to draw his pursuers away from Geronimo and his injured friends in the truck.

Dozens of soldiers crashed into the undergrowth behind him.

Hickok stopped, getting his bearings and listening to the noisy sounds of the troopers.

The soldiers had fanned out in a skirmish line and were advancing, coming his way.

Time to whittle down the odds some more.

Hickok crouched behind a towering pine and quickly reloaded the Pythons, replacing the spent cartridges with new rounds from his gunbelt.

All set!

“Where the hell did he go?” a soldier demanded.

Hickok peered around the tree.

There was a shadowy form not ten feet off.

Hickok planted a slug in the middle of the form. He turned and ran at top speed.

The pine tree shook as round after round of M-16 fire poured into its branches.

Hickok heard the faint buzzing of stray bullets as they tore through the forest.

“This way!” a man yelled.

Busybody!

Hickok altered his course, bearing to the north.

The troopers did likewise.

There had to be a way to shake ’em!

Hickok detected the inky contours of a low hillock ahead. He swung to the right, intending to put the hillock between himself and the soldier-boys.

The vicinity of the hillock was especially dark and murky, obscuring all landmarks.

Something snorted off to his right.

Hickok stopped and crouched, scanning the gloomy vegetation for the source of the snort.

Was it a mutate?

Or worse?

The gunfighter cautiously moved forward.

The… thing snorted again.

There was a familiar quality to the noise.

What was it?

Hickok could hear the soldiers clumping through the woods behind him.

Terrific!

Here he was, caught between the troopers and an unknown menace!

Hickok backed up, seeking cover at the base of a huge boulder.

There was a barely audible scratching from the top of the boulder.

Hickok glanced up.

A billowy black shape was dropping toward him.

Hickok tried to bring his Pythons into play. His fingers were tightening on the triggers when the black figure engulfed him. A clinging material enveloped him, pinning his arms to his sides. He surged against the material, struggling to free his arms.

What the blazes was it?

He had to bust loose!

A sharp blow landed on his right temple.

Hickok reeled, stunned. He turned to the right, still striving to extricate himself.

The bulky material was constricting around his body as pressure was applied from the outside.

What the hell was happening?

Hickok thrashed and kicked in a vain effort to dislodge his assailant.

The constriction had spread from his arms, over his waist, to his legs.

Was it a snake?

Or one of the radiation-induced deviates?

Hickok tripped and fell onto his stomach. Before he could assess his situation, he was grabbed and lifted from the ground. He could feel his body being carried.

Had the soldiers caught him in some type of net?

A blanket?

That was it!

Some type of heavy blanket!

Someone had taken him unawares. They were transporting him some—

His body was suddenly shifted and elevated. His mid-section made contact with another surface.