David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

“Okay.” Blade had decided. “We’ll stay with this road all the way to the University of Minnesota. We’ll run a mile, rest a bit, then run about another mile. I want us in top form when we get there.”

“If we’re not in top form now,” Hickok joked, “we will be by the time we get there.”

They ran in determined silence, eating up the distance. The buildings closed in on the highway the further they went. Taller structures, former businesses and offices and apartments, replaced individual houses with increasing frequency.

Blade found his mind straying. What would they do if they couldn’t locate the supplies and equipment Plato required? What if their entire trip here was wasted? Their lives endangered, their futures in jeopardy, for what? He grinned. At the very least the Family had a new member and Hickok a new… friend. He knew Bertha liked Hickok, and he suspected the gunman reciprocated, but Bertha had intimated Hickok was holding back.

Why?

A clanging sound momentarily split the shadows off to their right.

Blade whistled and dropped flat, braced. Hickok and Geronimo did likewise, Hickok pulling Bertha down, Geronimo grabbing Joshua.

The clanging stopped.

“Oh, Lordy!” Bertha whispered, terrified.

“What’s the matter?” Hickok asked her. He could feel her shaking.

“The Wacks.”

“The crazy ones you were telling us about?”

“None other. We’re in for it, for sure!”

“We can handle them,” Hickok promised her.

Bertha gently touched Hickok’s right cheek. “If we don’t get the chance to know one another more,” she said softly, “I want you to remember I liked you a lot.”

“What’s with the past tense? We’re still alive, and where there’s life, there’s hope.”

“That’s beautiful.” Bertha smiled at him. “You got brains to go with your looks.”

“I read it somewhere,” Hickok said, embarrassed, “and I wish you’d stop complimenting me in public.”

“I don’t care who knows how I feel.”

“Let’s go,” Blade ordered, moving out.

“Thank the Spirit!” Hickok muttered, following.

It took them thirty minutes to reach the junction of University and 10th.

“That’s the place.” Bertha pointed when they stopped in the intersection. “The things you want might be in there.”

The college campus was a jumble of black buildings, stands of trees, and high weeds.

“Look at this,” Joshua remarked. He walked to their left.

A rusted automobile stood at the side of the road. The windows were gone, the tires flat and frayed almost to nothing.

“There’s a lot of them scattered around,” Bertha explained.

“To be expected,” Blade commented. He faced the University. Where should they begin? He didn’t relish the idea of them gropping around in the dark, and lighting torches would attract any undesirables in their vicinity. Maybe he’d made another mistake. Maybe they should have used the SEAL. Maybe they should have waited until morning. It wasn’t too late to turn around, to go back to the transport and wait for daylight.

Or was it?

The metallic clanging sounded from the direction of the darkened buildings in front of them.

“It’s the Wacks!” Bertha whispered, horrified. “I told you!”

“You sure?” Hickok asked her.

“It’s the way they signal each other.” Bertha nervously hefted the Springfield. “We’re dead!”

Geronimo squatted on his haunches, peering into the night. The shadows appeared to be moving. “They’re closing in,” he warned the rest.

“A lot of them.” He glanced up at Blade.

Blade made up his mind. “Back to the SEAL,” he directed them. “If we’re separated, whatever else happens, get back to the SEAL.”

“I don’t know if I could find it,” Joshua candidly admitted.

Suddenly, from not far away, a booming male voice called out a single word. “MUH-EET!”

“What the blazes was that?” Hickok whirled, his Henry ready.

“MUH-EET!” came from the darkness.

“Sounds like someone saying the word ‘meat,’” Joshua declared.

“MUH-EET!”

They could hear feet, many feet, shuffling in the night.

Blade stepped closer to Bertha. “I’m sorry,” he told her.

“For what?”

“You were right. We never should have come in here in the dark. I should have listened to you.”

“Apology accepted.” She grinned. “I guess I ain’t so dumb, after all.”

“No one ever said you were.”

“MUH-EET!”

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Hickok suggested.

Blade gazed at each of them. “It’s imperative you get back to the SEAL. Let’s go.”

They ran, staying on University Avenue. From near and far came the distinct sounds of pursuit, as if invisible phantoms were all around them, circling them, waiting for the signal to pounce.

“This gives me the creeps,” Hickok said. “I wish they’d do something!”

They did.

An overgrown hedgerow materialized, bordering University Avenue to their left. To their right, like a concrete and metal juggernaut, rose a five-story office building. Scraggly shrubbery lined the lawn between the road and the structure.

“Good spot for an ambush,” Geronimo noted.

The Wacks swarmed on them out of the night, shrieking and hollering and babbling. Some carried bladed implements, others wielded clubs and boards, still others held large stones or bricks.

“MUH-EET!” thundered the incessant voice.

The first Wack, a grim, shapeless apparition in the black of night, reached the edge of University Avenue.

“Take this, sucker!” Bertha yelled a challenge, sighted, and fired. The crack of her Springfield was the catalyst, causing pandemonium to erupt.

The first Wack jerked backwards and tumbled to the ground. The remainder of the crazies screamed bloody murder.

The road in front abruptly became packed with indistinct forms.

Blade, in the lead, dropped to one knee, sweeping the Commando in an arc, the staccato burst clearing a path for them to proceed.

A brick struck Geronimo on the left shoulder. He spun, catching sight of a figure behind one of the bushes, and he let loose with the Browning.

The Wack slammed into the earth.

“They’re all over the place!” Hickok shouted. Stones and other hard objects were striking all over the road as the Wacks pelted them with everything they could lay their hands on. A pale face flashed at the top of the hedgerow, and Hickok snapped off a shot, the blast of the Henry followed by a piercing wail.

“Gotya’!”

“There’s more here,” Joshua said, as another group closed in on them from the rear. Instinctively, Joshua pumped the Smith and Wesson four times. The shadows screeched and dropped. Joshua looked down at his shotgun. Dear Father in heaven! What had he done? Killed again? He hesitated, not noticing he was falling behind the others, unaware of his danger until a sturdy hand gripped his shoulder and forcefully spun him around.

A Wack, a blurry image of torn clothes and thin arms, raised a butcher knife above his head.

Joshua pulled the trigger.

The blast from the shotgun caught the Wack in the face, blowing it apart.

The others were fifteen yards ahead, grimly engaged in life-or-death combat, firing as fast as a target presented itself. They weren’t aware that Joshua had dropped behind.

“Wait for me!” Joshua tried to make himself heard over the din. “Wait for me!”

A heavy chunk of concrete, hurtling out of the night, connected with the back of Joshua’s head. Blood spurted as he sagged and dropped to his knees. A Wack ran up, raising a two-by-four.

Geronimo, concentrating on their right flank, thought he heard Joshua’s voice. He whirled, catching a glimpse of a Wack about to bash in Joshua’s head. The Browning blasted, catching the crazy in the chest, the force of impact propelling him backwards onto the road.