The woman screeched, blood spurting from her mouth, and doubled over, the lance falling from her suddenly limp fingers.
Marcus wrenched the machete free and tried once again to reach the shelter of the SEAL.
A hefty man wielding an ax charged him.
Automatically Marcus adopted a defensive posture, elevating the machete to counter the anticipated swipe of the axe. But before the axe could descend, a .357 Magnum boomed and an expertly aimed bullet bored through the center of the scavenger’s forehead and burst out the rear of the man’s cranium, spraying brains, flesh, hair, and blood on the roadway. Marcus glanced at the transport.
Hickok sat in the driver’s seat, a Python in his left hand. “Will you quit playin’ around!” he ordered. “Get in here!”
The rest of the scavengers were converging on the SEAL with all the primal savagery of a rabid dog pack.
Marcus darted to the vehicle and clambered inside.
“About time,” Geronimo quipped, already sitting in the other bucket seat, his door closed and locked.
“I lost the HK 94,” Marcus informed them as he slid into the wide seat.
“Forget it,” Hickok responded, about to holster the Colt and close his door when a grungy scavenger materialized outside with a rifle in his hands, which he tried to point at the gunfighter. Hickok shot the man in the head, the impact flinging the scavenger backwards.
Several rounds smacked into the windshield.
Using just two fingers, Hickok snatched at the door handle and slammed the door shut. He slid the Python into its holster and took hold of the wheel. “Hang on!”
Marcus nearly lost his balance when the gunman shifted into reverse and tromped on the accelerator, sending the SEAL racing rearward.
Several scavengers were right behind the transport, and their bodies made loud thumping noises as the SEAL bowled them over.
The rest of the scavengers discharged a concerted volley.
“Mangy cow chips,” Hickok muttered, braking the SEAL 30 feet from the barricade. Over a dozen scavengers were charging toward the front of the transport. He flicked the silver toggle activating the 50-caliber machine guns again, and in less than five seconds every scavenger in front of the SEAL was dead or dying, their grimy forms perforated repeatedly, pouring blood from their multiple wounds.
“Hickok!” Geronimo abruptly yelled. “The barricade!”
The gunman glanced at the wall of trees, his steely blue eyes narrowing at the sight of a lean scavenger astride the top of the barricade. The man held a bazooka!
“He’s going to fire!” Geronimo warned.
Hickok’s right hand streaked to the toggle switch marked with an R, and the next moment the SEAL lurched violently as the miniature rocket flashed from its hidden compartment in the middle of the front grill.
If Marcus had blinked, he would have missed it.
The rocket sped straight into the center of the barricade and exploded with tremendous force. A mighty explosion consumed the wall of trees and a spectacular fireball rose feet skyward. Dust and debris swirled into the air, obscuring the scene in a billowing cloud.
“Wow!” was all Marcus could think of to say.
The Warriors waited for the cloud to disperse. They glimpsed scavengers retreating into the trees, and only a few desultory shots were fired in parting at the SEAL.
“Why didn’t they use the bazooka on us before?” Marcus asked, leaning forward to peer out the windshield.
“The vermin likely wanted to take the SEAL intact,” Hickok responded.
“When we proved too hot to handle, they figured they’d blow us to smithereens.”
“That band won’t be ambushing travelers for a while,” Geronimo commented.
“Too bad we couldn’t wipe ’em all out,” Hickok said.
The dust cloud rapidly dissipated. Bodies and bits of bodies were everywhere, intermixed with jagged lengths of busted logs, broken branches, and fluttering leaves.
“I thought you wanted to save the rocket,” Geronimo mentioned.
Hickok shrugged. “I did. But we have two more stored in the back.
Besides, I wouldn’t have had to use the rocket-launcher if you two bozos had been on the ball.”
“Meaning what?” Geronimo queried.
“Meanin’ there were only fifty or sixty of those Yahoos. You should have been able to take them out easy.”
Geronimo looked at Marcus. “You’ll need to excuse him. He occasionally suffers from delusions.”
“Well, I’ll be darned. Look at that,” Hickok said.
The barricade had been totally destroyed. A few man-sized logs, broken limbs, and leaves were scattered where the wall had stood.
“Should we replace the rocket now?” Geronimo inquired.
“Nope. There might be snipers in the trees. We’ll drive a few miles first,” Hickok replied, and drove forward, not bothering to skirt the corpses littering the ground. The SEAL’s massive tires crunched over a half dozen before the transport passed the last of the logs and leaves and headed to the east.
Marcus sat back in his seat and stared at the blood dripping from his machete. He shifted and reached into the storage section.
“What do you need?” Geronimo asked.
“A rag.”
“There’s one in the toolbox,” Geronimo said.
“Thanks,” Marcus responded. He found the toolbox, got out a fairly clean red rag, and started to wipe the blade.
Hickok looked at the self-styled gladiator. “You did real well back there. I was impressed.”
“I lost the Heckler and Koch.”
“You still have those pigstickers and the SIG/SAUERs. And we’ll find you a machine gun or an auto rifle somewhere. I’m sure the Commies have a few they can spare.”
“My performance was shabby,” Marcus remarked absently, involved with cleaning the machete.
“What’s with you?” Hickok questioned. “I pay you a compliment and all you do is gripe.”
“I wanted to demonstrate my competence to you. Instead I lost the HK 94 and my technique was flawed.”
“Your technique?” Hickok repeated.
Marcus nodded. “I should have taken care of that first guy in one move, not two. Economy of movement is essential in combat. You know that.”
“What are you, a perfectionist?” Hickok asked, partly in jest.
“Yeah,” Marcus answered.
Hickok and Geronimo exchanged glances.
“Not another one,” the gunman muttered.
“Who else is a perfectionist?” Marcus inquired.
“Yama, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, and Samson to name just three,” Geronimo answered.
“How are they perfectionists?”
“Yama is constantly striving to be the perfect killing machine, the consummate Warrior,” Geronimo said.
Hickok snorted, his eyes on the road. “What do you expect from a guy who took his name from the Hindu King of Death?”
“And Rikki,” Geronimo went on, “is constantly trying to attain the transcendent mental and emotional state of a perfected swordmaster.
Samson wants to be a spiritually perfect Warrior, the same as his Biblical namesake.”
“So what’s wrong with any of that? All three of them are outstanding Warriors,” Marcus noted.
“True. And any one of them would be the first to tell you that perfectionists must always be on guard against getting carried away with their quest for perfection. You’ll have to watch the same tendency in yourself. There’s a fine line between perfectionism and fanaticism, and you must be careful you don’t cross that line and wind up useless as a Warrior.”
“That’ll never happen to me,” Marcus confidently predicted. He finished cleaning the machete and replaced the blade in its sheath.