David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

A huge rat bounced off his chest.

Another gouged his left buttock.

Almost there!

Geronimo’s feet contacted a scurrying rodent, and he tripped and sprawled the final five feet, falling forward, trying to catch hold of anything, failing, plunging headfirst into a pool of murky, pungent water, losing the Browning, and accidentally swallowing several mouthfuls of warm, acrid liquid. The taste was nauseating.

Sputtering and coughing, he broke the surface, shaking his head to clear his vision, expecting the rats to swarm all over him.

They were gone.

Geronimo’s legs brushed bottom, and he discovered he could stand, the water level at his waist.

The rats were gone!

He stared at the tunnel he’d emerged from, amazed. Where had they gone? Why had they stopped when they almost had him?

A sharp, searing pain in his lower back reminded him that one rat, at least, was still with him. He reached behind his back with his left hand, his fingers closing on a slippery, hairy form. The rodent screeched as he squeezed and tore it from his back, bringing it around in front of him.

The rat twisted and squirmed, struggling to get loose, glaring at Geronimo, the long front teeth rising and falling as the mouth opened and closed.

Contemptuously, he tossed the rat into the water.

The rodent rose to the surface and began swimming away from him, its legs jerking as it swam.

Geronimo surveyed his deliverance. It was a spacious chamber, seventy-five yards across, filled with water. Several access tunnels emptied into it. The roof was thirty feet above his head. Litter and rubble clogged the surface of the pond, the trash so thick in many spots he couldn’t see the water. The light streamed in from an opening in the roof at the far end of the chamber. Metal rungs imbedded in the wall rose from the pond to the opening.

Sunlight! Precious sunlight! It had never looked so good!

Geronimo smiled, relieved. The ordeal was over! He’d find some food and return to where he’d left Joshua.

The rat was halfway across the pond, bearing for the far side and another access tunnel.

Good riddance!

Geronimo scoured the brackish water for the Browning. He bent over and groped below the surface, averse to diving in the polluted water, recognizing he wouldn’t be able to see more than an inch or two anyway.

He tried running his feet along the spongy bottom to no avail.

The Browning was gone.

He sighed, disappointed. True, the Family owned a literal armory, but the loss of any firearm was tragic because it could never be replaced. The munitions factories had long since been idled. Or had they? After all, the Watchers owned new guns.

A commotion erupted behind him, loud splashing and a squeak.

Geronimo turned, noting concentric ripples covering the surface thirty yards away. There was no sign of the rat. The lure of the beckoning sunlight goaded him to head for the opening. The sooner he was out of here, the better!

Garbage blocked his path at several points. He swept it away with his forearm, moving slowly, his feet tentatively taking one measured step after another. He was leery of dropping into a sinkhole, unwilling to submerge again.

Geronimo frowned, realizing their trip to the Twin Cities had turned into one giant fiasco. Plato might have had the right idea, but the execution left considerable to be desired. What chance was there that any of the equipment Plato required was in the Twins, let alone functional?

The probability was very slim. The Twin Cities were a monumental ruin and an actual madhouse. It was no wonder Bertha had wanted to stay away, to not come back. Who could blame her? She’d been right, after all.

Why was it, he reflected, a person could only learn things the hard way?

Was it simply human nature?

A motion to his right caught his attention.

Geronimo stopped and watched, bewildered, as a clump of debris moved rapidly across the pond for ten yards before coming to a stop.

What in the world? Was there something else in this water?

The thought spurred him on. He walked faster, the water level rising a bit, reaching his chest.

A frog croaked to his left.

A frog! Geronimo relaxed, feeling ridiculous. Why wouldn’t there be amphibians and even fish in this pond? It was polluted, but not too severely.

Another cluster of litter blocked his path, surrounding a long, pitted piece of wood. He reached for the wood and shoved, amazed when it continued to move of its own volition.

The creature erupted in a frenzy, whipping a long tail in an arc and slamming Geronimo in the head, churning the water as it twisted and lunged at him.

Geronimo fell sideways, stunned, glimpsing a protruding tapered snout, two yellowish-green, bulging eyes, and a gaping maw filled with a seemingly endless number of teeth.

Teeth!

“So tell me, smart ass,” Maggot mocked him. “Have you got anything to say now?”

Hickok’s body slowly turned, first one direction, then another, as the rope securing him to the beam twisted. Rat was lying on the beam, spinning the rope, deriving satisfaction from trying to make Hickok dizzy.

“The accommodations leave a little to be desired, fatso,” Hickok taunted his captor.

Maggot, standing on the rim of the pit with his four bodyguards and Bear, frowned. “We’ll see if you’re so flippant after the rats come for their meal. You’ll be a long time dying.”

“Not as long as you would take, blubber breath.” Hickok grinned. “The rats could feast on your carcass for a year or more!”

Maggot started to raise the Henry, then thought better of it. “No,” he said. “I want you to go slow. I want you to feel them eating your flesh from the feet up. I want to come back here later and see the fear in your eyes!”

Hickok deliberately yawned.

“Very funny,” Maggot snapped.

“I have a question,” Hickok stated.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Hickok said, his wrists beginning to ache from the strain of supporting his entire weight. “If you kill me, how the blazes do you think you’ll get the answers you want?”

“Do I look stupid?” Maggot angrily demanded.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

“Keep it up,” Maggot said. “When I get back, you’ll beg me to cut you loose. You’ll tell me everything I want to know, and I won’t need to lift a finger.”

“Just so it’s not your arm.”

Maggot, about to leave, was taken off stride by the remark. “What do you mean by that?”

“Ever heard of something called personal hygiene?”

Hickok noticed that Bear looked away from Maggot and grinned.

Maggot didn’t find the joke funny. “So long, you lousy son of a bitch!”

He strode off.

“Your mother!” was all Hickok could think of. Brilliant repartee, he told himself.

The bodyguards and Bear followed Maggot.

“Come on!” Maggot ordered Rat.

“Just a minute.” Rat carefully stood on the beam. The wood was six inches across and he maintained his balance easily. He reached for some buttons at his crotch.

What in the world? Hickok asked himself.

He got his answer.

Perched on the beam, laughing inanely, Rat emptied his urinary bladder on Hickok.

As the first drops struck his hair and shoulders, Hickok lowered his face and held his breath. The bastard! The crummy bastard! He’d get him, if it was the last thing he ever did!

The downpour ceased.

“Hey, Hickok?” Rat called down to him. “Ever hear of personal hygiene?”

Hickok could hear the others laughing as Rat joined them. This was followed by the loud slamming of a door.

Well, he mentally congratulated himself, this was yet another superb mess he’d fallen into! So what was next?