Hickok looked up to find the barrel of a Ruger rifle a finger’s width from his nose. The man holding the rifle was a big man with wide shoulders, a barrel of a chest, a tangled mass of black hair, and dark eyes.
His clothing consisted of torn, faded jeans and a crudely constructed deer-hide shirt. Sandals adorned his filthy feet. Hickok mustered his friendliest smile. “Howdy, neighbor!”
The big man blinked several times, his dark eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I ain’t your neighbor, bastard!”
Hickok perceived he was as good as dead if he didn’t do some real fancy talking, and quickly. “I have this pard with the handle of Joshua. He lives at my Home, and he’s the most spiritual person I know. Josh says all of us are neighbors because we all share the same planet. So I reckon we are neighbors, if you get my drift.”
The big man leaned down to peer into the Warrior’s face.
Hickok nearly gagged when the man’s putrid breath assailed his nostrils.
“You’re out of your gourd, mister,” the man declared.
Hickok grinned, struggling to keep from falling further into the hole. He doubted the cavity was broad enough to permit his shoulders to slip through, but he didn’t want to become wedged in more tightly than he already was. “I’d be right grateful if you’d see fit to get me out of this hole.”
The big man nodded. “We’ll get you out, mister. We don’t want to lose you now.” He wagged the rifle barrel. “But first you drop them pretty handguns of yours. Nice and easy!”
Hickok hesitated, reluctant to part with his Colts.
“You do it or I’ll blow your face off!” the big man threatened.
“I like a man who knows how to motivate folks,” Hickok commented wryly. He released the Pythons, laying them on the dock.
The big man straightened. “You might not be as dumb as you look. Tab! Come here!”
A young man joined the big one. The newcomer was a thinner, smaller version of the man with the Ruger. He sported a ragged scar on his right cheek, and was wearing tattered brown trousers with a short black jacket and an outlandish yellow bow tie. A slightly rusted hatchet was in his left hand. “Yeah, Pax?”
“Get this moron’s guns,” Pax directed.
Tab crouched, warily reaching out and grabbing first one Colt, then the other. He rose, holding them in his right hand. “Wow! These are something else! Can I have one?”
“Maybe,” Pax said.
“Those irons are mine,” Hickok stated contentiously.
Tab smirked. “Not any more they ain’t, mister!”
“You won’t be needing them,” Pax commented, chuckling. “Jack! Phil! Get this turkey on his feet!”
Two men came forward and brutally hoisted the Warrior from the hole, careful to insure they didn’t suffer a similar fate. They rudely shoved him several paces forward onto the bank.
Hickok examined his captors. All eight were on the grungy side, wearing an odd assortment of strange, soiled clothing. The one called Jack was a beetle-browed hulk wearing a faded pink shirt with ruffles down the front, black pants with his knees protruding through irregular holes, and a weird black hat made conspicuous by the yellow skull and crossbones on the front flap. Another man crowned his head with a black cap resembling a set of enormous rodent ears. The three women were dressed equally as bizarrely. One of them was attired in a red and white polka-dot dress and white gloves, while another covered her feet with furry imitation dog paws. “Are you folks tryin’ to start a new fashion trend?” he quipped.
Pax rammed the barrel of his Ruger into the Warrior’s back. “Shut your face and move your ass!”
Hickok winced, staring at the evident boss. “You touch me with that rifle again and I’m going to cram the barrel down your throat!”
Pax pointed the barrel at the Warrior’s head. “Keep flapping your gums and you can die right here!”
“Go kiss a buffalo’s butt,” Hickok cracked.
Pax angrily motioned with the Ruger. “Move it! Now!”
“Which way?” Hickok asked.
“Follow them,” Pax directed.
Four of the motley group were walking to the north along a faint trail.
Hickok fell in behind the four.
“No tricks, mister!” Pax warned, staying behind the Warrior. Tab and two men brought up the rear.
“You mind tellin’ me who you people are?” Hickok inquired.
“As if you don’t know!” Pax rejoined acidly.
“I don’t,” Hickok said. “I’ve never laid eyes on you before.”
“Bullshit!” Pax declared bitterly. “You saw all of us a week ago!”
“I’ve never seen you before,” Hickok reiterated. “I wasn’t even in California a week ago.”
“What’s a California?” Pax queried.
Hickok glanced over his right shoulder. “You’re joshin’ me, right?”
“My name’s not Josh,” Pax responded.
“You really don’t know what California is?” Hickok questioned in disbelief.
Pax shook his head.
“The Free State of California is the name of the state you live in,” Hickok explained.
“What’s a state?” Pax wanted to know.
Hickok’s brow creased in bewilderment. “You mind settin’ me straight on a few things?”
Pax scrutinized the man in the buckskins. “Like what?”
“Can you read?” Hickok inquired.
“What’s that?” Pax responded, the Ruger barrel fixed on the prisoner’s back.
“Do you know what a book is?” Hickok asked.
“Nope,” Pax replied.
“Ain’t them those things we use to help get the fires started sometimes?” Tab chimed in.
“Those things?” Pax said. “We don’t see many of them in the Kingdom anymore.”
“The Kingdom?” Hickok repeated quizzically.
“The Kingdom, mister,” Pax stated. “Where we live. This place.”
“You call this old amusement park the Kingdom?” Hickok remarked.
“Why?”
“I don’t know nothing about no amusement park,” Pax asserted. “This place is our home. It’s always been called the Kingdom. That’s what my dad called it and his dad before him.”
“How long have you folks lived here?” Hickok asked.
“Our families have lived here since doomsday,” Pax answered.
“Doomsday? You mean World War Three?”
Pax shrugged. “Call it whatever you want, mister. My dad told me all about it. A long, long time ago, in the land outside of the Kingdom, everybody was trying to kill everybody else. Doomsday, my dad called it. The end of everything. We’ve been here ever since.”
“Your family, your ancestors, hid out in the park during the war and stayed here after it was over,” Hickok reasoned aloud.
“Of course we stayed here in the Kingdom,” Pax said. “Where else would we go?”
“There’s a whole wide world out there,” Hickok stated. “You should see it sometime.”
Pax made a snorting sound. “Who are you trying to kid? We know what’s out there! Poison air and poison ground. Killers and robbers. And lots of mutants. We wouldn’t last a day out there, mister.”
“You can call me Hickok,” the gunman suggested. “Where’d you ever hear the world is as bad as all that?”
“From my dad,” Pax said. “His dad passed it on to him. We know we’re safe in the Kingdom and we’re never going to leave.”
“You’ve got to leave sometime,” Hickok advised. “You’ll be surprised to find out that the folks out there aren’t half as bad as you make ’em out to be. Not all of ’em, anyway.”
“Yeah. Sure. And I suppose you and your friends are a good example, huh?” Pax demanded testily.
“My friends?”
“Don’t play innocent, you son of a bitch!” Pax exploded. “We don’t know how all of you got in, but a week ago Chester found the bunch of you staying in that building on Orleans Square. We spied on you for two days, watching you come and go. You bastards with your black robes and puff guns!”