David Robbins - The Kalispell Run

A swordmaster would have been hard pressed to attain spiritual harmony in the times before the Big Blast.

Rikki placed his right hand on his katana. He wouldn’t have been “allowed” to carry his sword down the street before the war. Simply amazing! His katana was as much a part of him as his arm or his leg.

Maybe more so. The perfected swordmaster wasn’t a swaggering bully; he used his sword only when unavoidable in the performance of his duty. His path of Tightness, the code of Bushido, perceived the katana as the sword of justice, as an extension of his inner guide. Before he could engage an opponent, prior to combat, he must divest himself of all personal animosity and anger, strip his consciousness of any feelings of revenge or retaliation. He must become, in a sense, empty. An emptiness with a purpose.

So Napoleon’s motivation for desiring to usurp the Family leadership from Plato was completely irrelevant. To Rikki’s mind, to the mind of the professional Warrior, the mind of the perfecting swordmaster, the fact of Napoleon’s threat superseded any impulse toward compassionate understanding.

The threat must be eliminated.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi serenely gazed at the azure sky and cleared his mind of all thoughts.

Today was the day.

Either Napoleon would cease to threaten the Family, or by nightfall the Family would need a new head of Beta Triad.

“…up!”

What the blazes was it? An earthquake?

“Hickok! You’ve got to wake up!”

Hadn’t he just been through this? But hold the fort! This wasn’t Sherry’s voice. It was familiar, though…

“What did they do to you?” the person anxiously asked.

Hickok opened his eyes and found Shane’s bushy brows and full cheeks hovering inches from his face. The sixteen-year-old was wearing black pants and a black shirt, both filthy from his confinement in the dirty cell.

His brown hair was matted with grime.

“Thank the Spirit!” Shane exclaimed. “You’re okay!”

“That’s debatable,” Hickok groused, sitting up and pressing his left hand against the back of his head. “That’s another one I owe.”

Shane’s brown eyes sparkled with excitement. “I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am to see you!”

“Do tell, pard.” Hickok said, frowning in annoyance. “Need I point out I wouldn’t be in this fix if it wasn’t for you?”

Shane, shamed, averted the gunman’s gaze. “I didn’t think it would turn out like this,” he mumbled.

“Let me guess. You figured you’d impress me by finding the new Troll headquarters. Right?”

“How did you know?” Shane gawked, impressed.

“It was as easy as adding two and two,” Hickok informed the youth.

“Your letter told me you were going to find the Trolls, and it was pretty easy to figure out why. You jerk.”

“I take it you’re mad at me?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

There was a shuffling sound behind Hickok. “So this is the one you’ve been telling me about?” asked a new voice. “The one who killed fifty Trolls singlehanded?” he added doubtfully.

Hickok swiveled. The third and final occupant of the small earthern cell was a big man with short brown hair and green eyes, dressed in soiled clothes little better than tattered rags.

“Hickok,” Shane said, introducing them, “this is Wally. He’s from a small town south of here…” Shane paused a moment. “What was the name of it again?”

“Tenstrike,” Wally answered. “The Moles caught me about a year ago.

Wolfe put me on one of their digging crews, but I gave ’em such a hard time they threw me in here. I don’t imagine I’ll be in here much longer.”

“Why’s that?” Hickok inquired.

Wally nodded at the iron bars comprising the cell door. A guard with a rifle stood on the other side, leaning against the far wall, his eyes closed.

“These bastards put you out of your misery if you give ’em too much grief.”

“Do you want to throw in with us?” Hickok questioned him.

“You have something planned?” Wally said, moving closer so their conversation couldn’t be overheard by the guard.

“I’m busting out of this calaboose,” Hickok replied. “You’re welcome to come along if you like.”

“Calaboose?” Wally repeated, perplexed. “Oh! You mean this cell?”

Hickok nodded. “That’s what I said, pard. You game?”

Wally glanced at the guard. “How do you plan to do it?”

Hickok grinned. “With my ace in the hole.” He patted his right wrist, then froze, stunned.

The Mitchell’s Derringer was gone!

Instantly, he leaned over and felt his left ankle under his buckskin legging.

Oh, no!

The C.O.P. was missing, too!

“If you’re looking for your backups,” Shane said, “you can forget it. The guards found them when they dumped you in here.”

“Yeah,” Wally confirmed. “The one who dropped you on the floor bumped your wrist and discovered the derringer. They both went over you from head to toe and came across the other gun. I heard them say they were taking them back to Wolfe.”

“I’ll have to pay him a visit on my way out of here,” Hickok stated.

“You still think you can get us out?” Wally asked skeptically.

“Piece of cake.”

“Mind telling us how?” Shane queried.

“When do they feed us?” Hickok asked, requesting the information essential to his budding scheme.

“Twice a day,” Shane replied. “Two guards bring a bucket of slop and give us one spoon to eat it with. They wait around until we’re done, then they take the bucket and the spoon and leave.”

“Hmmmm.” Hickok stood and slowly paced the confines of their narrow cell. Fifteen feet long by five feet wide. Not much room to maneuver. “How do they do it?”

“Do what?” Shane didn’t understand.

“Exactly how do they feed us?”

“We just told you,” Shane responded.

“Be specific,” Hickok directed. “Give me details.”

“Well, usually one of them carries in the bucket and the spoon while his buddy and the guard outside the door keep us covered,” Shane detailed.

“What do they cover us with?”

“Guns.”

Hickok sighed, slightly exasperated. “What kind of guns? Handguns or rifles?”

“Oh. Rifles,” Shane answered.

Good. Good. Hickok nodded, satisfied with the arrangement. The five-foot width would work in their favor. It wouldn’t give the Moles much space to react. He spotted a rusty bucket in the far left corner of the cell.

“What’s that for?” he pointed.

“What do you think?” Wally replied. “It would be too messy if we did our business in the dirt.”

Hickok grinned, pleased at the prospects. “Okay.” He motioned for them to step nearer. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”

The warm sun on his face roused him to wakefulness. His right cheek, the one pressed against the rocks most of the night, felt sore and bruised as he opened his eyes and rolled over. The lake air was tangy and invigorating, stirring his sluggish senses.

Blade rose to his feet, taking stock. His clothes were very damp and his body cold, but overall he was all right. It was still morning, only several hours after sunrise. A pair of ducks—a colorful Wood Duck with his glossy purple-and-green head and long, downswept crest, and his mate—floated not far from shore.

There was no sign of Gremlin.

That was good.

But the M-16 was at the bottom of Flathead Lake.

And that was bad.

Blade started trekking toward Highway 35. He cut through some two hundred yards of forest before he struck the road. His mind pondered the probabilities as he walked northward toward Kalispell. What if he came across a mutate while he was unarmed? What could he use to defend himself? Find a branch he could use as a club? A lot of good it would do him against one of the larger mutates, such as the former bear they had killed a while back, before the Troll incident. And what if he ran into more Citadel soldiers? He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. It was useless to brood over potential problems. If something happened, he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Until then, it didn’t do any good to worry.