David Robbins - Citadel Run

“So what now?” Blade asked. “Do you truck us all to the Civilized Zone?”

Colonel Jarvis gazed at the crowded stockade and thoughtfully stroked his jutting chin, his brown eyes squinting in the bright afternoon sun.

“Yes, we do. But we have a problem in that respect. We have sixteen available transports. Even if I pack in these filthy swine like sardines, the most I can cram into any one truck is forty. That means my trucks can carry six hundred and forty prisoners, all told, and there wouldn’t be any space left for my men. So the most I can take back with me is five hundred and forty prisoners. But we have seven hundred and thirty-one, which is one hundred and ninety-one too many. Let’s round the figure off to two hundred. What do I do with the excess?”

“You could let them go,” Geronimo offered. “I know Blade and I wouldn’t object if you decided to leave us here.”

Jarvis chuckled. “The only way I’ll leave you here is if you are six feet under.”

“Forget it, then,” Geronimo said. “We haven’t mastered the technique of breathing dirt.”

“Sir,” Captain Rice mentioned, “should we place these two in the stockade with the others?”

“Why not? They might find a few of their old friends inside. They can talk over old times.”

“Before we go,” Blade commented, “I’d like to know what you meant earlier.”

“About what?” asked Jarvis.

“When you said something about playing golf.”

“Oh.” Jarvis swept the area with his right hand. “This land my men constructed the stockade on was once a golf course. Do you know what golf was?”

“I’ve seen some books in our Library on it,” Blade divulged. “A game of some kind, where you went around smacking this dinky little ball all over the place with funny-looking clubs.”

“Exactly. Well, this field was once known as the Columbia Golf Course, according to my map.” Colonel Jarvis started to walk away, then stopped.

“I’ll see you later and we’ll have that meal I promised. In the interim, you can enjoy the company of the Porns and Horns and Nomads.” He paused.

“Damn strange names! Where do you suppose they ever got names like that?”

“I know,” Blade volunteered. If he continued to be marginally cooperative with Jarvis, the officer might become complacent and lower his guard long enough for them to make a break for it.

“You do?”

“The last time we were here,” Blade disclosed, “we learned a few of the facts. It seems there were two main factions left here after the evacuation.

One was in Minneapolis, the followers of a pornographer and drug dealer, mostly street people. The other group was a religious one based in St. Paul. The leader of the religious faction started referring to the pornographer and his band as, aptly, Porns. The Porns retaliated by calling the religious group the Horns.”

“The Horns? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It had something to do with insulting their sexual prowess,” Blade revealed.

“Horns?” Jarvis pondered a moment. “Hornbill? Horned lizard? Horned? Horny?” He laughed, comprehension dawning. “Horny! That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why they became known as the Horns!”

“So we were told,” Blade confirmed.

“And when Zahner began his outcast splinter group he called them Nomads because they didn’t owe allegiance to anyone,” Jarvis recounted.

He glanced at Blade. “Thanks for the information. It will make my report complete. I’ll see you later.” He waved and departed, heading toward the northern sentry tower.

“He’s awful polite for a fascist,” Geronimo remarked bitterly.

“Move it!” Captain Rice barked.

The twelve soldiers surrounded the Warriors as Rice led them to a gate in the center of the western side of the stockade.

Blade saw a multitude of faces turning their way, watching them with hostile interest. What kind of reception would they get if they were tossed in there? After all, none of those people knew them. The three groups had met Hickok and Joshua, but not Geronimo and himself. How would they react to complete strangers in their midst? Considering the circumstances, they would view the Warriors with suspicion and fear.

They might turn on the two newcomers and beat them to a pulp.

A pair of troopers stood at attention in front of the gate.

“Open it!” Rice ordered.

One of the soldiers removed a key from his left front pocket and unlocked a large padlock attached to a bar in the middle of the gate.

“I’d like to register a formal complaint,” Geronimo said as the soldier swung the gate open. The other troopers present trained their M-16’s on the gate, effectively preventing anyone inside from bolting.

“If you have a complaint,” Rice stated, “I’ll take it to the colonel. What is it?”

Geronimo nodded toward the crowded captives. “After all the trouble you went to just to capture us, the least you could do is supply separate cells with indoor plumbing.”

One of the soldiers cut their bonds, and they were rudely shoved into the stockade.

His blasted left shoulder hurt like the dickens!

Hickok hurried, striving to ignore the pain, his injury the result of his uncontrolled plunge to the road surface after bailing out of the troop transport.

Things weren’t as bad as they appeared.

Sure, Blade and Geronimo were still in the hands of the Army. Sure, Joshua was alone in the SEAL a mile or so ahead. Sure, their plans had been shot to heck and back. But there was one bright spot on their horizon.

He had his Pythons!

Come what may, he was ready for it!

He was hastening toward Moore Lake. His only hope of rescuing Blade and Geronimo depended on reaching the SEAL. The soldiers were unaware of the special features incorporated into the vehicle, and the special armaments could be used to devastating effect.

All he had to do was reach the SEAL.

That was all.

If the jokers on his heels didn’t catch him first.

He knew there were two of them and they’d been on his trail for some time. They’d probably found the point where he left the highway and dove into the woods.

Let ’em catch up!

He’d blow the varmints away!

Or would he?

Hickok leaned against a tree, slightly winded, checking for any sign of his pursuers.

Nothing yet.

What if he did shoot them? he asked himself. The shots would draw other soldiers, maybe even the Wacks, to his position. Gunfire would advertise where he was for anyone interested. So what should he do? Try to outrun them? Hide and hope they passed him by? Or take them out quietly?

Hickok glanced around, seeking a potential weapon. His eyes alighted on a broken limb five feet away. He walked over and picked up the branch.

It was about four feet in length and relatively straight, with the thicker end blunt and ragged and the thinner part tapered into some semblance of a point.

Not much, but it would have to do.

He resumed running, deliberately applying extra pressure as he pounded his moccasins on the ground. His tracks had to be fresh and clear if his plan was to succeed. The element of surprise had to work in his favor, and it would if the soldiers were intently concentrating on his sign, on his footprints.

Time passed.

Hickok came across the spot he’d been searching for, an ideal location for an ambush. To his left stood the charred trunk of a tree, the apparent victim of a lightning strike. Only ten feet of the burnt trunk still stood. To his right, six feet from the tree trunk, was a giant boulder, the side of the boulder facing the trunk essentially flat while the other side was tapered and rough.

Perfect.

He ran around the trunk of the tree and stopped dead in his tracks.