David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

“Joshua!” Geronimo ran to Joshua’s side and grabbed his right arm before he could fall to the pavement. “Get up! You have to get up!”

Geronimo tugged, trying to raise Joshua to his feet, to get them moving.

A stone hit Geronimo’s chin, stinging him, splitting the skin.

Joshua groaned.

“Get up!”

Their attackers, sensing a weak link in their defense, bore down on Geronimo and Joshua, wary now, hesitant to face the guns with over fifteen casualties already tallied in the first ninety seconds of the battle.

One of the Wacks approached and tossed a brick. The brick missed.

Geronimo’s shot didn’t.

Twenty-five yards ahead, Blade noticed some of the Wacks were dropping off. Why? he asked himself. He glanced around, freezing when he realized Geronimo and Joshua weren’t with them any longer. Where?

Where? He saw a commotion a ways behind, and caught the flash of the Browning as Geronimo fired again.

“Damn!”

Blade dodged a jagged piece of glass and reached Hickok’s side. “You’ve got to get back to the SEAL! Don’t wait for us!” With that, he ran back towards Geronimo and Joshua.

“What? What’d you say?” Hickok had missed Blade’s words. He stopped, watching Blade run off. Where the blazes was he… Where were Joshua and Geronimo?

“Lookout!”

Bertha stepped between Hickok and a charging Wack. She aimed for the head, feeling the recoil of the Springfield against her right shoulder at the same instant the crazy fell.

“Where are the others?” Hickok yelled.

Bertha suddenly realized they were alone. “Lordy! Let’s get out of here!”

“We can’t leave the others!” Hickok protested. He began to run back, managing only a few steps before they were cut off from their friends by a howling mob of zanies going after Blade.

“This way!” Bertha took hold of his sleeve. “The way in front is clear!”

Hickok fired four times at the group after Blade, downing four.

“Come on, White Meat! We got to get out of here!”

A tall crazy broke from the hedgerow, swinging a club. He lunged, bringing the club down, trying for Hickok’s head, but missing and striking the barrel of the Henry instead. The rifle clattered to the road and rolled out of sight.

Hickok ducked a second blow, drawing his right Python, putting the Wack away with a head shot.

Bertha tugged on Hickok’s arm. There was a momentary lull around them, the crazies devoting their attention to Blade and the others. “We got to get out of here!”

“Not on your life! I won’t leave my friends!”

The Commando and the Browning were still firing.

“You can’t do them any good if you’re dead! If we get out, we can come back and rescue ‘em!”

Dozens of Wacks had surrounded Blade, Geronimo, and Joshua.

“I’m not leaving them!” Hickok declared stubbornly. He glanced around, searching for his Henry. “Where the blazes is my gun?” He bent over, trying to distinguish features in the dark, elated when he spotted the stock protruding from under a bush at the side of the road. “There it is!”

“Look out!”

This time Bertha’s warning was too late. A short Wack jumping up from behind the bush, cackling insanely, holding a hammer. Quick as his reflexes were, Hickok managed one shot as the hammer smacked into his skull. Both men sprawled to the ground.

“Lordy, no!” Bertha crouched alongside Hickok, waiting for another attack. None came. She shook Hickok, trying to arouse him without success. Pressing her ear to his lips, she held her own breath and listened.

He was breathing, barely.

The Python was on the pavement by his right hand.

Bertha replaced the Colt in its holster, tucked the Springfield under her left arm, and grabbed Hickok under her arms. She strained and pulled, dragging him behind the bush, hiding him.

The others were still fighting.

Bertha placed a protective hand on Hickok’s head, flinching when a moist substance covered her hand. White Meat was hurt, and hurt bad.

She couldn’t leave him to help the rest, not now, not when he might die if she left. Cradling the Springfield in her arms, she leaned on Hickok’s chest and probed the night, sweating it out, dreading the Wacks would find them.

No, sir.

The other three would have to fend for themselves.

If they could.

Miles away, in opposite directions, three factions heard the shots and marveled. There were few guns in the Twin Cities, and ammunition was scarce. No one would use ammo as indiscriminately as it was being used in the battle they were hearing.

In camp one, a handsome, muscular man with brown hair and blue eyes turned to one of his men. “I want six men ready to go as soon as possible. This bears investigating.”

“Right away, Z.”

In camp two, an obese, bald blob of a man slapped a confederate on the cheek. “Send some patrols out. Find out what the hell is going on!”

“You got it, Maggot!”

In camp three, the farthest away, a short, gray-haired man with penetrating green eyes, mused aloud. “Earlier we heard that one brief burst of gunfire, and now it sounds as if a veritable war is being waged.

Ordinarily, we should refrain from entering that hell hole at night, but this case is an exception. Our curiosity must be satisfied. Send out a patrol.

Instruct them to ascertain the source of firing.”

“At once, brother,” responded the second in command. “Your will be done.”

He found her leaning against a tree, gazing sadly up at the heavens. The light from his torch revealed the frown on her face.

“I enjoy watching the stars too,” he said, announcing his presence.

“Communing outdoors accentuates the experience.”

She started, apparently unaware of his arrival until he spoke. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I was preoccupied. I didn’t hear you come up. What did you say?”

“It’s not important.” He sighed, his frail shoulders sagging. “You miss him terribly, don’t you. Jenny?”

“Of course. Don’t you, Plato? You two are very close.”

“He’s like the son I never fathered,” Plato admitted. “I wish I had never sent the Alpha Triad out.”

Jenny put her arm around him. “Don’t fret. Your regret is uncalled for.

You had to do what’s best for the entire Family.”

“That’s what I constantly tell myself,” Plato said.

“Small consolation if anything should happen to any of them.”

“The Spirit will guide them,” Jenny assured him, trying to assuage his emotional misery.

“I know.”

“And the Alpha Triad is comprised of the best Warriors in the Family.

You’ve told me so yourself. Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo can take care of themselves in a pinch. You don’t need to worry about them.”

Plato nodded. No matter how many times someone tried to comfort him, he couldn’t shake a nagging feeling of foreboding. Was it for the Alpha Triad or the Family? he wondered. He silently prayed Blade would return soon. His informant had told him the power-monger, the Family malcontent, was becoming more vocal in his expressions of dissatisfaction with the Family system. He desperately needed Blade. If words failed to rectify the situation and appease the errant rebel, Blade might well be the one man who could successfully prevent a bloody revolution.

“Are you okay?” Jenny asked him. “You look tired, too tired.”

“I’m fine,” Plato lied. “I’ve never felt better.”

“I wonder what Blade’s doing right now?” Jenny’s concern surfaced again.

“I’m certain he’s having a good night’s rest,” Plato told her. “Exactly as you should be doing. It’s getting a bit chilly. Permit me to walk you back.”