David Robbins - Denver Run

The west wall.

“Here they come!” yelled a male defender, a Family Tiller.

Hickok, standing in the middle of the skirmish line on the inner bank of the moat next to Spartacus, ten yards from the stream, raised the Daewoo Max II he was using, and sighted on the opening in the west wall where the drawbridge had once been.

So far, his strategy had worked to perfection.

Three times the troopers had assaulted the west wall, cramming into the opening and climbing over the wall. Each time, the soldiers were stopped by the moat or exposed on the rampart. Each time, the defenders showered a hail of lead on the attackers, downing dozens upon dozens and checking the enemy charge.

Hickok had to hand it to the Founder, Kurt Carpenter. By situating the moat inside the walls, he had presented a formidable obstacle for an opposing force to overcome. If the moat had been located outside the walls, it would have been easier for their foes to cross while keeping the defenders on the rampart pinned down with blistering fire. As it was, there was no way the soldiers could swim a moat and shoot their M-16’s at the same time.

The carnage wrought by the defenders was incredible. Dead troopers were stacked in the opening and piled on the rampart. Over four dozen had fallen into the moat and were clogging the stream.

The soldiers appeared again, working in unison, with a row of them packing into the drawbridge opening while a dozen clambered over the parapet onto the rampart.

“Fire!” Hickok ordered.

Without adequate protection, the troopers were punctured again and again by defender fire. Some of them screamed as they were hit, their bodies thrashing and jerking as if they were performing an outlandish dance.

After a few minutes the soldiers stopped coming.

“Cease fire!” Hickok commanded.

A cloud of white smoke drifted above the stream. The moans and whimpers of the wounded formed an eerie symphony of torment.

“Make sure you are reloaded!” Hickok directed the skirmish line.

“Do you think they’ll come again?” Spartacus asked.

“Beats me,” Hickok responded.

“How many have we killed so far? A hundred? Two hundred? I can’t believe they keep coming back for more,” Spartacus commented, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his left hand, his HR93 in his right.

“Some folks just have bricks for brains,” Hickok quipped.

Spartacus gazed to the north and the south. “Sounds like the rest of the Home is still under attack. Should I go see how we’re faring?”

“Wait a spell,” Hickok said. “Until we’re sure these yo-yos have called it quits.”

“What would you do right now if you were Brutus?” Spartacus asked his friend.

Hickok thoughtfully stroked his chin. “I reckon I’d pull back my troops and wait until tomorrow to try again. Only I’d do it differently come morning.”

“In what way?”

Hickok indicated the west wall. “I’d use what ammo I had left for my artillery and blast away at one wall until it was a heap of rubble.”

“Why only one wall?” Spartacus asked.

“Because they could rush all their troops at us at once. During the night they could build portable bridges or some such to get ’em across the moat.

If they could get a foothold in the compound, with their superior numbers it’d be all over in an hour or so,” Hickok detailed.

“Maybe Brutus won’t consider your idea,” Spartacus declared. “Maybe he’ll assault all four walls again.”

“He might,” Hickok concurred, “but I doubt even he’s that blamed dumb.”

They waited for the next onslaught, the strain taking a toll on their already frazzled nerves.

“They’re not coming,” Spartacus stated optimistically after a while.

“I need someone to climb the stairs to the rampart,” Hickok said. “Have ’em take a peek at what Brutus is up to.”

“I’ll go,” Spartacus volunteered.

“Keep your head low,” Hickok advised.

“You’ve got it,” Spartacus mentioned. He hurried to the stairs and ascended to the western rampart. As he crossed above the stream he stared down at the pale faces in the water below, some of them with their eyes wide open, some with their discolored tongues protruding, some with vacant black cavities where their eyeballs had once been. The butchery nearly sickened him.

Spartacus reached the rampart and stopped, crouched at the top of the stairs.

Bodies of troopers were strewn all along the rampart. Some were still alive; they were groaning and twitching in agony.

Spartacus moved toward the parapet, carefully scanning the soldiers to insure none of them was capable of shooting him in the back. He reached the parapet and glanced over the top.

Scores of corpses littered the west field, but there wasn’t a living trooper in sight. Evidently, they were all massed in the forest. There was no indication they were intending to stage another attack.

The distant firing from the north, south, and east walls was dying down.

Had Brutus given up then?

Spartacus returned to the wooden stairs and descended to the compound.

“Well?” Hickok inquired.

“Nothing,” Spartacus said.

The gunman smiled. “Good. We’ve got a breathing spell. Take four of our people with you and check on the other walls. I want to know exactly how many casualties we’ve had. Tell the other Warriors to report to me after tending to their own people.”

Spartacus nodded and ran off.

Hickok turned to his right. He spotted Zahner, the leader of the Clan, 30 feet away. “Zahner!” he called out.

Zahner jogged up to the gunfighter. “Yes?”

“I want you to take a detail and clear the bodies from the rampart,” Hickok directed.

“What about the ones still alive?” Zahner wanted to know.

“Shoot ’em in the head.”

Zahner’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Shoot them in the head?”

“We only have four Healers,” Hickok elaborated. “They’re gonna be hard pressed to take care of our own wounded.”

“Just shoot them in the head?” Zahner reiterated, stupefied.

“Would you rather I gave the job to somebody else?” Hickok asked softly.

“No. I can do it,” Zahner stated. “I’ll get Bear and Brother Timothy to lend a hand.”

“Watch out,” Hickok warned. “Some of ’em might have some fight left.”

“Will do.” Zahner departed on the run.

“You!” Hickok barked, pointing at a nearby Family Tiller.

“Me?” The man stepped forward apprehensively.

“Form a squad,” Hickok instructed him. “Fish those bodies from the moat.”

“What do you want done with them?” the Tiller inquired.

“Stack ’em on the inner back, right there.” Hickok pointed at the edge of the moat.

“You don’t want us to bury them?” the Tiller responded in amazement.

“Is everybody hard of hearing today?” Hickok snapped. “No, I don’t want ’em buried. Not right now, anyway. After this is over we’ll form a burial detail. But right now I want you to stack them along the bank.

Make a wall of their bodies.”

The Tiller gulped and hurried away.

Hickok slung his Daewoo Max II over his right shoulder. He missed his Henry, and he wondered if he would ever see the rifle again. The very first chance he got, he silently promised himself, he would head for the site of the enemy’s former camp and search for the Henry. He never should have left it at the base of that tree!

A raven-haired woman with a machine gun walked up to the Warrior.

“Can we take our wounded to the infirmary?”

Hickok mentally berated his stupidity. “You haven’t done it yet?” he countered.

“No one told me to,” the woman explained.