David Robbins - The Fox Run

“principal paved route.” Possibly, at one time, it was, but not now. The pavement was cracked and split, some sections completely buckled, grass and weeds growing in the fissures. A century of neglect had taken its toll.

Blade carefully avoided a rut in the asphalt. Despite the damage nature had caused, the highway was still functional, probably because the road had not experienced any traffic for one hundred years. Traffic volume, Blade once read in the library, forced prewar societies to spend considerable portions of their budgets on highway repair each year.

“Badger should be just ahead,” Geronimo stated while consulting the map.

Blade had to hand it to Geronimo. Their route had progressed exactly as he predicted. First, they had reached the stream and turned south. Within four miles the SEAL had burst through a thicket onto the highway and they had headed for the next town, a place called Greenbush. Joan had fallen asleep after Hickok had tended her wounds and bandaged her right shoulder. Seeing them so happy, so content to be together, had made Blade feel uncomfortable, reminding him of Jenny’s absence and her dilemma.

Greenbush had been a monumental disappointment. Uninhabited, in utter disrepair, the buildings decayed, the vegetation reclaiming the land, it was an eerie reminder of life before the Big Blast.

“Sure is pitiful,” Hickok had commented.

Blade had decided to head straight to Badger. He couldn’t see any sound reason for stopping to explore Greenbush, and time was too crucial.

Nine miles had elapsed.

“There it is,” Geronimo pointed.

Blade braked.

The buildings of Badger were visible, interspersed with numerous tall trees.

“From here,” Geronimo observed, “it looks as run down as Greenbush.”

“Let’s find out.” Blade gunned the engine. “Roll up your window,” he advised Geronimo, a precautionary measure to prevent anyone from shooting them or hurling a projectile into the transport. Plato claimed the body of the SEAL could withstand a gunshot blast at close range.

“Somebody is home,” Geronimo said.

Blade saw it too. Gray smoke was curling skyward.

“If they turn out to be Trolls,” Hickok spoke up, “they’re all mine.”

Blade glanced in the mirror at Hickok’s granite features. He was worried about the gunman, concerned for his friend. After Joan had drifted into slumber, while tenderly stroking her hair, Hickok had become uncharacteristically quiet and reflective. Blade would look back and see Hickok’s lips compressed, his blue eyes hard. He could imagine what the gunman was thinking, even understand and condone it, but the reprecussions could be deadly for Hickok and those with him. Sheer blood lust made a person reckless, heedless of his personal safety, oblivious to everything but revenge.

Hickok wanted revenge.

The SEAL slowly entered the outskirts of Badger. The structures here were similar to those in Greenbush: gradually disintegrating, windows shattered and doors off their hinges, the concrete and brick buildings in better shape than the wooden-frame houses.

“There!” Geronimo spotted the source of the smoke.

Approximately fifty yards ahead, in the middle of the highway, was a raging fire, the blaze consuming a neatly stacked pile of dry wood.

“This doesn’t read right,” Geronimo warned Blade.

“I know.” Blade braked the vehicle. It made no sense. Who would build a fire in the center of the road? More importantly, why? On a hot day like today!

“Let’s take the bait,” Geronimo recommended, twisting in his seat to retrieve the Browning. The shotgun was leaning against the back of his bucket seat.

“Should I wake Joan?” Hickok asked Blade.

“No need,” Blade answered. “She’s been through an ordeal. You stay in the SEAL with her.” He shifted into Park and switched the motor off. “I’m leaving the keys in the ignition,” he said over his shoulder. “If something should happen to us…” He left the sentence unfinished.

“Understood,” Hickok said.

Geronimo opened his door and slid out of the transport. He glanced back at Hickok, grinning. “You two try and behave yourselves while we’re away, okay?”

“Cute, pard,” Hickok rejoined. “Real cute. You be careful, okay?”

Geronimo hefted the Browning. “They’ll never know what hit them!”

“Don’t forget!” Hickok advised. “Try for a head shot.”

Geronimo was about to close the door. Instead, he opened it and leaned inside. “That reminds me,” he mentioned. “When I was checking the Trolls you blew away, I found one shot through the heart. What happened? You suffer a memory lapse?”

Hickok smiled. “Nope. He was carrying a bow, and from where I stood it covered part of his face. So I went for a heart shot. I never said the head rule was chiseled in concrete.”

Geronimo chuckled and closed the door.

Blade was waiting for him several yards in front of the transport, the Commando in his hands.

“How do we play this?” Geronimo inquired as he joined Blade.

“The direct approach,” Blade ordered. He began slowly walking along the left side of the highway, while Geronimo did likewise on the right.

Tumbled-down houses bordered Highway 11 at this point. Blade, analyzing the setup, spotted the probable ambush site. On his side of the road, directly across from the fire, was a crumbling brick wall. On Geronimo’s side, again across from the blaze, was the rusted hulk of a large vehicle.

Perfect positioning for a bushwhacking, as Hickok might say.

Blade pretended to concentrate on the fire, the Commando hanging slack in his arms, his senses alert, his nerves tingling.

Movement.

Blade wanted to smile. Whoever these people were, they lacked skill and training. He had seen someone move in the second-floor window of a house behind the brick wall.

Geronimo was keeping his eyes on the wrecked remains of what appeared to be a former bus.

What were they waiting for? Blade wondered. The fire was now only ten yards away.

A woman suddenly jumped up from behind the brick wall, a bow in her hands, the string already drawn, pivoting for a shot.

Blade was faster. He crouched, leveling the Commando, aiming for the top of the wall and not the woman. The Carbine bucked as he pulled the trigger, the bullets biting into the lip of the brick wall, spraying dust and chunks of brick in every direction.

The woman, startled, dropped from sight.

Geronimo’s Browning boomed twice as a youth stepped into view, a spear in his right hand. The shots hit the bus near the youth’s head, forcing him to leap to safety behind the bus again.

Blade saw a gray-haired man stand erect in the second floor window of the house behind the wall. The glass in the window had long since disappeared. The man held a rifle, but it was obvious he entertained little enthusiasm for using it. He was gaping at Blade and Geronimo, his mouth open, his brown eyes wide in surprise and disbelief.

Blade covered him with the Commando anyway.

“Don’t shoot, mister!” yelled the woman behind the brick wall. “Don’t shoot anymore!”

“Hold your fire!” the man in the window shouted. “We mean you no harm!”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Blade countered. “Get down here on the double,” he commanded. “Hold your rifle above your head when you come out the front door or I’ll blow you away!”

The man nodded and vanished.

“And you!” Blade faced the wall. “Stand up with your hands in the air. Now!”

The woman, actually a girl in her late teens, did as he instructed. She had blue eyes and brown hair, worn cut off at the shoulders. The clothes she was wearing were tattered rags.

“You too!” Geronimo called to the boy behind the bus. “Leave the spear and step out. Now!”