With a whisk of air, a panel slid aside, a section of the wall simply disappearing as it slid into a recessed groove.
“Bingo!” Hickok said, smiling.
The compartment was six feet high by five feet wide. A metal bar was aligned across the space, six inches from the top. Dangling from silver metal hangers were the gunman’s buckskin shirt and leggings. His moccasins had been deposited on the floor in a corner. Leaning against the back wall were Hickok’s Henry, Blade’s Commando, and Geronimo’s FNC. Lying in a pile in the middle of the compartment were Blade’s Bowies, Geronimo’s tomahawk and Arminius, and one other item, the sight of which caused the gunman’s eyes to light up and a wave of genuine joy to wash over him: his pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers in their holsters.
Praise the Spirit!
Hickok crouched and laid the Technic pistol on the floor. He drew one of the Pythons and checked the cylinder to insure it was loaded. Satisfied, he raised the revolver and stroked his right cheek with the cool barrel.
The guard was gawking at the gunman in amazement.
“What’s the matter?” Hickok demanded gruffly.
“Ain’t you ever seen anyone in love with a gun before?”
“You’re crazy,” the Technic mustered the courage to comment.
“You think so, huh?”
“What else would you call it?” the soldier countered. “I’ve never seen anybody act the way you do over a rotten gun.”
“These Pythons have gotten me out of more tight scrapes than I care to remember,” Hickok said. “I know they’re just tools of my trade, but after all these years I’ve sort of developed a personal relationship with ’em. In a fix, they’re the best friends I’ve got.”
“Like I said,” the guard reiterated, “you’re crazy.”
“And you talk too much,” Hickok rejoined.
The guard clammed up.
Hickok hurriedly dressed, relieved to be clothed again. He strapped his gunbelt around his waist, then paused, considering the other weapons in the closet. What was he supposed to do about them? He couldn’t leave them for the Technics. Besides, Blade was as fond of the Bowies and Geronimo as attached to his tomahawk as he was to the Pythons. Nope.
He owed it to his pards to take the weapons with him, even if the extra weight slowed him down a mite. He picked up the tomahawk and slid it under his gunbelt in the small of his back. The Bowies, sheaths and all, he angled under the gunbelt, one on either side of the tomahawk. Bending over would pose a problem, but his hands had a clear path to the Pythons.
Next, he slung his Henry over his right shoulder. The FNC went over his left. He was about to grab the Commando when he saw the Arminius still on the floor.
Blast!
The gunman unslung the FNC, then draped the Arminius’s shoulder holster under his left arm. Finally, he slung the FNC over his left shoulder and took hold of the Commando.
He was ready.
Hickok walked over to the guard.
The Technic blanched. “I did everything you wanted!” he said, his voice rising.
“And I appreciate it,” Hickok remarked. “I surely do. But I’m afraid our friendship has reached the end of the line.”
“Are you going to kill me?” the trooper timidly inquired. “I have a wife and son.”
Hickok paused, thinking of Sherry and Ringo. “If you care so much for your missus and young’un, what are you doing in the Army?”
“I didn’t have any choice,” the guard replied.
“Everybody has a choice,” Hickok said.
“We don’t,” the Tecnnic revealed. “We’re given tests when we’re teenagers, about sixteen. The jobs we’re assigned are based on the test results.”
“They tell you what kind of work you’ll do?” Hickok asked.
The Technic nodded. “We don’t have any say in it. They say our system is best because the service we perform for the community, for the common good of all, is based on our demonstrated ability, not on what we might like to do.”
“But a person can have talent in more than one field,” Hickok noted.
“How do they know what’d make you happiest?”
“Make us happy?” The Technic snorted derisively. “Do you know what we’re taught? Individual happiness is an illusion,” he quoted from memory. “The good of all is the goal of the many. What is best for all brings real happiness.”
“So they tested you and told you the Army was going to be your career, whether you liked it or not?” Hickok concluded.
“You got it.”
“Pitiful. Just pitiful. Sort of makes me feel sorry for you. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m not gonna whack you upside the head like I planned,” Hickok said.
“Thanks,” the Technic said, manifestly relieved.
“But on the other hand…” Hickok crouched and began unlacing the guard’s right boot.
“What are you doing?” the Technic asked.
“Hold onto your hat,” Hickok said. He removed the boot, then the black sock underneath.
The guard perceived the gunman’s intent. “But that sock is dirty!” he protested.
Hickok rose. “Say Ahhhhhh.”
“But—”
Hickok raised the Commando in his left hand. “Say Ahhhh.”
The Technic opened his mouth wide. “Ahhhh—”
Hickok jammed the sock into the guard’s mouth, all the way in. He hastily removed the lace from the black boot, lopped the lace around the guard’s face, and tied it tight, the knot situated in the middle of his open mouth to prevent the sock from being spit out. “I reckon that ought to hold you for a spell. Adios.”
The gunman crossed to the door. If all went well, he’d find a flight of stairs lickety-split and vacate the Central Core before they realized he was missing. If he could find an unattended jeep or truck in the parking lot, he’d swipe it and make for the western gate.
Yes, sir.
Things were finally going his way.
It was beginning to look like busting out of Technic City would be a piece of cake!
Hickok opened the door and peeked around the jamb. The corridor, white tiles on the floor and walls, yellow panels on the ceiling, was deserted.
Like he said.
A piece of cake.
Hickok stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him, just as a squad of four Technic soldiers, each armed with an automatic rifle, rounded a corner to his right!
Chapter Thirteen
The Zombies were walking nightmares.
Each Zombie was naked, its gray flesh pitted and filthy, with peculiar patches of greenish blisters randomly distributed over the body. Their eyes were reddish and unfocused, their mouths gaping maws of yellow, tapered teeth. Although they stood well over six feet in height, they were emaciated, their arms and legs resembling broomsticks.
Geronimo nearly gagged as a putrid stench filled the air. He backpedaled as more Zombies poured from the abandoned vehicles.
Something collided with his back.
Geronimo whirled, and found Blade alongside him. “What do we do?” he asked.
The Technics opened up with their Dakon IIs, their fragmentation bullets tearing into the hissing Zombies and ripping them apart, blowing their chests and skulls to shreds or tearing limbs from their bodies.
Greenish fluid sprayed everywhere.
The Zombies never broke stride. Their grisly arms extended, their yellow fingernails glinting in the sunlight, their thin lips quivering in anticipation of their next meal, saliva pouring from their mouths, they advanced on the Technics, row after ravenous row, undeterred even when an arm or leg was shattered by a dumdum bullet. Nothing short of their chest or head exploding into smithereens stopped them.
The thup-thup-thup of the Dakon IIs mixed with the sibilant hissing of the Zombies.