A revolver cracked. Hickok had shot an injured raider at point-blank range. He went from body to body, and those killers he found alive he promptly terminated.
Scowling in revulsion, Geronimo did likewise with the horses. He patted each animal and whispered in its ear before he shot it.
Blade let his muscles and nerves relax a bit. How unfortunate, he mused, that they hadn’t been able to bring the SEAL on this trip.
Confronting the Outlaws would have been much easier.
The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle had been the brainchild of the Family’s Founder. Carpenter had spent millions to have the amazing prototype developed by financially strapped and therefore eager automotive executives in Detroit. Solar-powered, designed to negotiate any terrain, the SEAL was unlike any vehicle that had ever existed or ever would.
Once the engineers completed their task, Carpenter had turned to different experts, mercenaries, who’d outfitted the enormous bullet-proof van with more armaments than a tank. The Warriors had taken the SEAL on many a run to various sections of the country, and it had saved their lives on many an occasion.
But not this time, Blade reflected wryly. Two months ago, while conducting routine maintenance after a trip to the city-state known as Sparta, he’d discovered a crack in the lead-lined case underneath the SEAL that contained the revolutionary batteries used to power the vehicle.
Plato, the Family’s Leader, had decided to call in specialists from the Civilized Zone, mechanics who knew the basics of automotive construction and could assist in repairs. When Blade and his companions had departed the Home, those same mechanics, with the help of selected Family craftsmen, were in the process of welding the case and going over every square inch of the SEAL to be certain there were no other cracks.
Waiting until the van was fully restored would have made the trip less difficult, but the giant had decided he couldn’t afford another two weeks of delay. So off they’d gone.
And here we are, Blade noted, scanning the carnage, aiding complete strangers when the three of us should be hot on Yama’s trail. He heard muffled voices, and gazed to the west.
A majority of the townspeople, farmers, and trappers were nearing the settlement warily. At the forefront were Glisson and Old Jerry, leading his donkey.
Blade leaned on a post and thought about the irony of the situation. If not for Yama going AWOL, the three of them wouldn’t have been anywhere near Second Chance and the Outlaws would have razed it. Truly, as Plato often claimed, the workings of the Spirit were too mysterious to fathom.
Geronimo completed his mercy killings, and began helping Hickok to put the remaining raiders out of their misery.
The crowd hurried toward the Warriors, their fears dispelled when they fully realized the Outlaws had indeed been defeated.
Ike Glisson was first on the scene, his anxious gaze on his store. He noted the bullet holes with disapproval, but mustered a smile and declared, “You saved our town! We can never thank you enough!”
“Is that a fact?” Hickok asked bitterly, and planted a slug in the head of the last groaning raider. He promptly started to reload.
More of the people arrived, their shocked expressions betraying their true reactions to the slaughter. Mothers turned their children away from the blasted, blood-spattered corpses.
Old Jerry came up to the steps and grinned at the giant. “You’re everything they say you are.” He nodded at the battleground. “I ain’t never seen the like.”
“We get a lot of practice,” Blade commented.
“So I hear.”
“How can we ever repay you?” Glisson inquired, walking onto the porch.
“With information,” Blade said.
“Is that all?” Glisson asked in surprise. “We’ll help if we can. What do you want to know?”
“We’re trying to find a friend of ours. We have reason to believe he’s on his way to Technic City,” Blade said.
“What’s that?” called a man in the crowd.
“Technic City was once called Chicago.”
“Never heard of it,” volunteered a trapper.
“Chicago was a major American city located in Illinois on the southwest shore of Lake Michigan,” Blade patiently elaborated. Their profound ignorance reminded him once again of the deplorable conditions existing in the Outlands. Few could read; fewer still could write. Public education, the proud cultural hallmark of the prewar nations, was no more than a historical footnote.
“What’s an Illinois?” someone wanted to know.
Hickok and Geronimo strolled over. The gunfighter twirled his Pythons into their holsters and fixed a critical stare on the assembled Outlanders.
“My pard is tryin’ to find out something. The next one of you who butts in is liable to get me real riled, if you get my drift.”
Scores of lips were suddenly tightly sealed.
Blade smiled and looked at Glisson. “As I was saying, we’re after a friend of ours. If he made a beeline for Technic City from our Home, then he might have passed through Second Chance.”
“A lot of wanderers pass through,” Glisson noted. “What does this guy look like?”
“You’d remember him if you saw him. He’s almost as big as I am and carries an arsenal. He also wears a dark blue outfit with a black skull on the back.”
“Him!” Glisson exclaimed, and many in the crowd murmured.
The three Warriors exchanged excited glances.
“He was here, then?” Blade asked.
“Sure as hell was,” Glisson confirmed. “No one in Second Chance is likely to forget him.”
“Why not?”
Old Jerry supplied the answer. “Your friend killed three men right there in Ike’s place.”
Blade’s features clouded. “Tell me about it.”
The proprietor of Second Chance’s leading establishment glared at the grizzled prospector, then provided the details. “Well, a guy wearing the clothes you describe walked into my joint one night well after sunset. I was behind the bar and I noticed him right away. I mean, a big son of a bitch like that stands right out in a crowded room.”
“Go on.”
“He came up to me and asked for a glass of water. I sort of laughed and asked if he didn’t want a stronger drink, but he looked me in the eyes and shook his head.” Glisson couldn’t repress a slight shudder. “I don’t mean no offense or nothing, but there’s something about that guy, about his eyes, that can scare the living daylights out of you. Staring into them is like staring into… into… into living death, if that makes any sense.”
“No offense taken,” Blade said softly.
Geronimo nodded. “We know what you mean.”
“Anyway,” Ike went on, “I gave him what he wanted.
It struck me as odd that he’d just waltzed into town. There aren’t too many men who will travel the Outlands at night, not with all the mutations and wild animals lurking everywhere, just waiting to rip a person to shreds. Most folks who are on the road and who don’t reach a settlement by nightfall generally make a roaring fire and stay up most of the night tending it.”
“We know,” Blade said, wishing the man would get to Yama.
“So there I was, standing right across from your friend and not knowing what to say or do. The whole room had gone silent when he entered. Everyone sensed that he was a tough one and no one bothered to be friendly.”
“Get to the killin’ part, idiot,” Hickok snapped.
“Yes, sir. The guy in blue had been there not more than a minute when three drunks walked over to him and started making fun of him.”