David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

“Not nice,” she repeated, stepping closer, drawing her right foot back.

“Wait…” he tried to protest.

She kicked him in the head, above his right ear.

Reeling, Geronimo frantically tried to clamber out of the manhole.

She kicked him again.

His hold was fading.

And again.

He couldn’t seem to concentrate and his legs were sagging.

Again.

Geronimo felt his hands release their grip, and he plunged out of sight.

The girl waved at the black hole.

“Bye-bye!”

He had the impression his entire universe was comprised of sheer pain, and he didn’t want to open his eyes to face a cosmos bent on torturing him. Memories filtered through his brain. The trip to the Twin Cities.

Bertha. The Wacks. The Wacks! He remembered their attack, and the one with the hammer, and he flinched and opened his eyes, wishing he hadn’t as waves of agony rippled along his nervous system.

Blast!

“Well, well, well,” said a deep voice. “Look who’s finally woke up!”

“I was sure he wasn’t gonna make it,” snapped a squeaky voice.

“Pay up.”

“I ain’t got it.”

“You best have it.”

Hickok rose on his elbows. He was lying on a cot in a small room, sunlight streaming in through a shattered window. Two men were in the room with him, one standing on either side of the only door.

“I’ll get it,” said the small man on the right, a man with tiny eyes and a small nose, wearing faded jeans and a torn blue shirt.

“A bet is a bet,” said the big man to the left of the door. “You bet six rounds he wasn’t gonna come out of it, and you were wrong. I’d best have my ammo by the end of the week.” This one wore only jeans, his torso bare and bulging with power, his black skin blending with the shadows in his corner. He was holding a Winchester in his left hand, a 30-30.

“You’ll get it, Bear,” reiterated the other. “I always make good.” He had a revolver strapped around his waist, a Taurus Model 86 in the holster on his left hip.

“I know you do, Rat.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Hickok blithely interrupted. “Could I bother you for a drink? My throat is awful dry.”

“Is it, now?” Rat grinned. “You’ll get a drink when we’re damn ready to give you one and not before.”

“You know, ugly,” Hickok said coldly, “if I was feeling any stronger, I’d get up out of this cot and stuff your face up your ass. Who knows? The view might improve your disposition.”

Hat clenched his fists and came at Hickok.

“Cool it, Rat,” the one called Bear warned.

“You heard what he said to me!” Rat exploded, stopping.

“I heard.” Bear laughed.

Rat reddened. “No one talks like that to me and lives!”

“Our orders are to keep him alive,” Bear said.

Rat glared at Hickok, his fists opening and closing. “I’ll get my chance,” he stated. “Sooner or later.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared in my life,” Hickok grinned.

Rat reluctantly backed to the door.

“You believe in living dangerously, don’t you?” Bear asked Hickok.

“Is there any other way?”

Bear walked over to the cot. “How you feeling?”

“Plumb tuckered out,” Hickok admitted. “I take it I’m your prisoner?”

“You got that right.”

“And who are you guys? Horns?”

This time it was Rat who laughed. “Did you hear that? He thinks we’re Horns? What an idiot!”

“Which proves that Maggot was right, as usual,” Bear said. “This one ain’t from the Twins.”

“Where you from?” Rat demanded.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Hickok retorted.

“We’ll find out,” Rat promised. “Sooner or later.”

Hickok took stock of his weapons. The Henry and the Pythons were gone, but he could feel the Derringer on his right wrist and the C.O.P. .357

Magnum strapped to his left leg, above the ankle. Both guns were hidden by his buckskins. Good. He wasn’t defenseless.

“How’d I get here?” Hickok asked them.

“We sent a patrol out after hearing a lot of shooting the night before last,” Bear answered. “They found you out cold.”

Hickok sat up. “You mean I’ve been here a day and a half?” he asked incredulously.

“Sure have. The patrol was checkin’ bodies on University Avenue when they found you still alive. Had a nasty bump on the head. They couldn’t figure out what you were. You sure weren’t no Wack, and you weren’t dressed like a Horn, and you ain’t one of us. They decided to bring you back to Maggot.”

“Who’s Maggot?”

Rat snickered. “You’ll meet him soon enough.”

“Maggot’s our main man,” Bear replied.

“Your boss?”

“Yeah. He calls the shots.”

Hickok had noticed a trend. “You’re called Bear,” he said to the black, “and ugly over there is called Rat, and now you tell me your leader is someone called Maggot. What’s with the names? Why are they all animal or insect names?”

“Sharp one, ain’t you?” Bear complimented him. “The names are Maggot’s idea. He’s got this book all about wild creatures, and he gets a kick out of namin’ us according to the book. He says he tries to pick a name that fits the person.”

“Rat sure fits him.” Hickok indicated Rat. “But I can’t imagine anyone wanting to call himself Maggot.”

“You’ll understand, soon enough,” Bear said slowly. “What’s your name, anyhow?”

“Hickok.” He extended his right hand.

Bear stared at the hand for a few awkward seconds, evidently surprised it had been offered. Finally, he shook with a firm, strong grip.

“Pleased to meet you, Bear,” Hickok said. “Any chance of me getting some food? I could eat a… bear.” He grinned.

So did the black. “We’ll get you something.”

“But Maggot said we was to take him as soon as he woke up,” whined Rat in protest.

“Some food won’t hurt,” Bear stated harshly. “Go get some.”

“Why me?”

Bear pivoted, fixing his eyes on Rat. “Because I told you to, that’s why.”

Rat reached for the door handle.

“And keep your mouth shut,” Bear warned.

Rat left.

“I take it you guys are Porns?” Hickok said.

Bear nodded. “You know an awful lot about the Twins. Where are you from, Hickok?”

“Sorry, Bear, but I think I best keep that information to myself.”

Bear shrugged. “Where’d you learn so much about the Twins, about the Horns and Porns and such?”

“From a friend.”

“This friend have a name?”

“Guess it can’t hurt.” Hickok reflected a moment. “You might even know her. She mentioned she was once a Porn. Her name is Bertha.”

Bear’s mouth dropped at the sound of her name. He crouched next to the cot, studying Hickok’s face. “Bertha?”

“Yeah. You know her then?”

Bear nodded. “We were friends,” he said ruefully, “before she went over to the Nomads.”

“Why’d she switch?”

Bear frowned. “Didn’t she tell you? She went over because of Maggot.”

“Maggot?”

“Yeah. He thinks he can have any woman he wants, any time he wants.

He wanted Bertha, and she told him to go screw himself.”

“Sounds like our girl.”

“Yeah.” Bear smiled. “She’s a scrapper! But Maggot didn’t take to the idea of being told no. He had her tortured.”

“Tortured? How?”

Bear averted his eyes, the memory filling him with a sense of shame.

“Maggot had her arms tied over her head, and she was dangled in the pit.

He thought it would break her.”

“What’s the pit?”

Bear shuddered. “Maggot’s special place for those he don’t like. The pit connects to tunnels, and when someone is thrown in the pit, the rats pour out of the tunnels and eat the poor son of a bitch alive!” Bear paused, wiping his brow with his hand.