“Fun? Fun isn’t the word I’d use,” Blade said, disagreeing.
“Lighten up, pard,” Hickok recommended. “I’ll see to it you get back here in one piece.”
Blade smirked. “Thanks.”
Hickok gazed to the west. “Yes, sir. I’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ there. I told the guy who radioed for help that we’d bail him out. And I can’t wait to tangle with that mangy coyote Manta.”
“From what you told me earlier, it’s obvious this Manta will be expecting us,” Blade cautioned.
Hickok patted his Pythons. “So?”
“So I don’t like walking into a trap,” Blade declared soberly.
“Trap, schmap! We can handle anything the vermin throws at us,” Hickok predicted.
“I wish I had your confidence,” Blade observed. “Don’t sweat it,” Hickok said. “It’ll be a piece of cake!”
“Famous last words,” Blade quipped.
Chapter Four
“We’re on our own,” Hickok announced, watching the Hurricane wing rapidly to the south toward California.
“Where are we?” Yama inquired in his low voice.
Blade studied the old map in his left hand. The Hurricane had deposited them in a field to the north of Seattle. Captain Laslo had deliberately landed in a secluded area to minimize the risk of detection.
Trees bordered the large field on all sides.
“Which direction should we take?” Rikki questioned.
Blade surveyed the immediate vicinity. Hickok was to his right, an M-16 in the gunfighter’s hands. Yama, armed with the inevitable Wilkinson, was to the left. Rikki stood ten feet away, alertly scanning the vegetation, holding a Heckler and Koch HK-93.
“We head south, right?” Hickok said.
“Right,” Blade confirmed, glancing at the map again. “This area was once known as Lake Forest Park. I estimate we’re about two miles from the Seattle city limits.” He folded the map and slid it into his left front pocket, then unslung his Commando Arms Carbine. “Let’s head out!” he ordered, jogging to the south.
Hickok kept pace with the giant while Yama and Rikki fell in behind.
All four Warriors toted backpacks containing their rations.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” Blade advised.
“Shucks! I was thinkin’ of takin’ a nap,” Hickok stated.
“Since we don’t have any idea where to find Manta,” Blade said, “we’ll proceed into the heart of the city. We should stir up something.”
“I wish I had my Henry,” Hickok mentioned, thinking of his favorite long gun, a Navy Arms Henry Carbine, a lever action rifle in 44-40 caliber.
“Automatics are better when you might be outnumbered,” Blade noted.
He hoped they were packing enough hardware to overcome any threat. His 45-caliber Commando incorporated a 90-shot magazine. Combined with Yama’s 50-shot Wilkinson, Rikki’s 25 rounds in the KH-93, and Hickok’s 30 in the M-16, their firepower was awesome. As if the automatics weren’t enough, Yama carried his personal arsenal, Hickok his Colt Pythons, Rikki his katana in its scabbard attached to a black belt around his waist, and Blade was armed with his Bowies and Combat Master MK V’s in shoulder holsters, one pistol under each arm.
Surely that’s enough, Blade thought to himself.
But as events turned out, it wasn’t.
The four Warriors entered the woods, threading their way through the dense growth.
“Do you think anyone saw the Hurricane come down?” Hickok asked.
“Probably,” Blade said. “Even if they didn’t see it, they had to hear it.”
“When will the Hurricane be back?” Hickok queried.
“Laslo will land in that field in three days,” Blade responded, keeping his tone subdued. “If we’re not here, he’ll leave.”
The quartet advanced for over a mile.
“Blade!” Rikki stated urgently.
Blade halted and turned.
Rikki was standing with his head cocked to the right, listening. “Do you hear them?”
“I do,” Yama said.
Blade heard them too. A chorus of howls off to the north.
“They’re on our trail,” Hickok deduced.
“Move it!” Blade barked, sprinting southward. He wanted to avoid a confrontation, if possible. Gunfire might enable hostile elements to pinpoint their position.
“Must be the welcoming committee,” Hickok joked.
They ran for another 500 yards, then unexpectedly darted from the forest onto the ravaged vestige of a road.
Blade abruptly stopped. The road surface, aligned from east to west, was buckled and cracked, choked with weeds. He studied the foliage on the far side, espying buildings some distance beyond.
Hickok was listening to their pursuers. “They’re gainin’ on us,” he declared.
Blade had reached the same conclusion. “Take cover,” he commanded. “When they reach the road, let them have it.”
The four hastened into the brush.
Blade concealed himself behind a tall tree, using the wide trunk to screen him from the road. He checked the Commando’s magazine and flicked off the safety.
The howling had attained a crescendo.
Blade peered around the trunk.
A frenzied pack of feral canines burst from the woods, onto the road, yowling in anticipation of their next meal. The pack was a mixture of diverse breeds of mongrels, including shepherds, Dobermans, Great Danes, collies, and others. Each dog was on the lean side, with a lackluster coat. Ravenous, eager to eat, they were slavering at the mouth, many with their fangs exposed. The leaders of the pack checked their rush, pausing to sniff at the road where the scent of the humans was strongest, causing the dogs to mill about. The pack was momentarily vulnerable, in the open, their vigilance diminished.
Which was the opening Blade wanted. He counted 21 canines before he elevated the Commando barrel and squeezed the trigger. The Carbine thundered, the stock bucking against his stout shoulder, the 45-caliber slugs ripping into the unsuspecting dogs with a vengeance.
The other Warriors opened up.
Endowed with incredible reflexes, the feral dogs reacted instanteously, hunger compelling them forward into the hail of lead. Snarling and growling, bristling in primal fury, they charged the humans.
The slaughter was total.
Most of the dogs died on the road, their forms torn apart by the withering gunfire. Hair and blood sprayed everywhere. Several of the biggest canines managed to reach the edge of the road.
Yama stopped them cold. He emerged from behind a tree, the Wilkinson blasting, and stitched a pattern of bullets across the chests of the hurtling dogs. They crashed to the ground in a bloody line of perforated, convulsing figures.
Blade ceased firing, his ears ringing. He frowned as he surveyed the carnage. He much preferred a stand-up fight, where he could engage an enemy face-to-face. An ambush wasn’t to his liking. But in the Outlands, the regions outside the territories of the Freedom Federation, where survival of the fittest was the norm, he couldn’t afford to be particular about the style of combat he employed. Surviving was essential by whatever means necessary.
Hickok came around a bush, shaking his head. “Stupid mutts! They should have hightailed it instead of comin’ after us.”
Rikki walked into view from the undergrowth, scrutinizing the slain dogs with displeasure. “They were famished,” he said. “And starvation can override prudence.”
Blade walked to the roadway. He reached behind him and opened a leather pouch attached to his belt.
“Between the Hurricane and this,” Yama mentioned, “the whole city must know we’re here.”
Blade removed a fresh magazine from the pouch. “I agree. Which means we keep on our toes at all times.” He removed the spent clip from the Commando and inserted the new one.