Armageddon Run

by David Robbins

  “Dear Spirit! Why?”

  “By having regular transfusions, and using only the blood from healthy, compatible infants, the Doktor is able to prevent the oxyradicals and peroxide from increasing in his own system and triggering the aging process. The longer he lives, the more frequently he must have the transfusions. The notebooks reveal he starts to age if he neglects the transfusions, although the process is partially reversible if caught in time.”

  Plato paused. “So, to answer your earlier questions, yes, I do believe it is possible for the Doktor to be one hundred and twenty-seven years old.”

  Spartacus patted the hilt of his broadsword. “I wish I was with Blade and the others!” he declared. “I’d like to find this Doktor on the business end of my sword.”

  “The use of the infants is not the only horror we’ve discovered,” Plato commented.

  “There’s more?”

  “We’re working on one notebook in particular, striving to decipher the writing,” Plato said. “But if the information we’ve found so far holds up, there is a definite link between the Doktor and the mutates. Probably the green clouds as well.”

  The mutates were pus-covered, perpetually ravenous mammals, reptiles, and amphibians. They infested the countryside, stalking and slaying any living thing they encountered. No one knew what caused their condition, nor did anyone know the origin of the green chemical clouds.

  The clouds appeared out of nowhere, drifting over the landscape, and any person unfortunate enough to be covered by a cloud, to be caught by its eerie, opaque fog, was never seen again.

  “Is there anything the Doktor isn’t involved with?” Spartacus asked.

  “We’ll know more after we have finished analyzing the four notebooks,” Plato said. “We’ve gleaned considerable knowledge concerning the Doktor’s research and work with genetics. In the realm of genetic engineering, he’s phenomenal. Before World War Three, scientists were able to produce babies from a test-tube. They even designated them test-tube babies, and would implant them in a female’s womb—”

  “Really?” Spartacus marveled.

  “Really. The Doktor has refined their technique.

  He is capable of tampering with a human embryo in a test-tube, of somehow altering the genetic code and creating mutants like Lynx and Gremlin, and the monstrosities in the Doktor’s own Genetic Research Division.” Plato shook his head. “If the Doktor weren’t so unspeakably wicked, I could readily admire the man and his sensational accomplishments.’’

  “No one should be allowed to fiddle with nature,” Spartacus opined.

  “The Spirit designed us a certain way, and we should leave well enough alone.”

  “We in the Family may believe that,” Plato stated, “but the Doktor obviously doesn’t, nor did many in the scientific community before the war. Some of them would perform any type of research for money. Money talked.”

  “Talked?” Spartacus appeared puzzled. “I thought their money was made from paper and metal?”

  “Just a quaint colloquialism from prewar times,” Plato explained. “A figure of speech, they called it.”

  “Women have figures,” Spartacus retorted playfully. “Speech has style.”

  “Why, Spartacus!” Plato said, genuinely impressed. “Such eloquence! I’d hardly expect it from you.”

  “I guess some of my schoolteachers must have rubbed off on me.”

  Spartacus grinned. “At least, one of my teachers.”

  Seven of the Family Elders shared in the responsibility of training the young children, each Elder instructing in areas in which he or she enjoyed expertise. Plato was one of those teachers.

  “I wonder what it was like,” Spartacus continued thoughtfully.

  “What what was like?” Plato asked.

  “Living in a world where they used money. From what I’ve read, money was responsible for a lot of greed and sorrow and even war.’’

  “The root of all evil, they called it.” Plato turned and watched several of the children playing tag 30 yards away. “Men and women committed all manner of immoral and wicked acts to acquire monetary wealth.”

  “It’s a good thing the Family doesn’t use money,” Spartacus stated.

  “We’re fortunate. With only slightly over six dozen members, the Family is small enough so that we don’t need it. Each of us performs our work to the best of our ability, and we all share in the fruits of the Tillers’

  efforts,” Plato said.

  “Wasn’t our system called Communism before the Big Blast?”

  Spartacus asked, referring to World War III by the slang expression the majority of the Family used.

  “Our system is called sharing,” Plato expounded. “Any resemblance to Communism, the tyrannical scourge of the planet, is purely superficial. If the Family were larger, we would require an efficient economic system.

  Capitalism was the best, but even Capitalism is only as good as the Capitalists practicing it.”

  “What was wrong with Communism?” Spartacus queried.

  “Think back to your history studies,” Plato directed. “Remember how it was before the war erupted. Global Communism was on the verge of collapse. Communism stifles individual initiative, and contains a major, fatal flaw. No economic system can survive when it forces the worker to become a slave to the idler. Also, the Soviet Communists, and the other Communist Governments, were determined atheists. No social system that denies the reality of the Spirit can long survive. I firmly believe that the Communists realized their system was close to falling apart, that it was disintegrating under their very noses, and they pressed the nuclear button as much in desperation as for any other reason. They probably believed the propaganda disseminated by both sides, that a nuclear conflict was survivable. The ignorant, destructive idiots!”

  “I’ve got another question,” Spartacus declared.

  “What is it?” Plato was pleasantly surprised by this behavior of Spartacus. He had erroneously assumed Spartacus was a lot like Hickok: living for the moment with nary a thought about profound matters.

  “You mentioned that the Communists denied the Spirit, and that reminded me of something I’ve wanted to ask for some time, but kept forgetting to bring up. We, the Family, call the Creative Force the Spirit.

  In many of the books in the library, I’ve noticed that before the Big Blast they called the Spirit by another name. They usually used the term God.

  So how come we use the Spirit instead of God?”

  “You amaze me!” Plato was sincerely surprised by this unexpected philosophical interest of Spartacus. “Your question is easily answered.

  You’re right in that the prewar society did use the designation God, or Lord, for the First Source. Unfortunately, the terms lacked any special significance to the average user. They were commonly taken in vain. The term God was routinely prostituted by incorporation into a standard curse word, ‘goddamn.’ Some people could use the word six times in a seven-word sentence. Our Founder was a religious man, and this verbal violation of the special relationship existing between Man and Maker revolted him. He urged the Family to avoid using the crude slang, and to adopt instead the term Spirit. To this day, the Family usually employs the word Spirit when referring to the Divine Presence.”

  “So that explains it,” Spartacus said.

  Plato stood and stretched. “I’d best be getting along. Nadine will have my supper waiting, and she can become quite cross if I’m detained.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Spartacus stated. “Don’t worry about the guard schedules. I have everything worked out, which Triad is supposed to be on duty and when.”

  “You’re doing a superb job. Blade will be proud of you.” Plato smiled.

  “And thank you for the stimulating conversation. It has perked me right up!”

  “My pleasure,” Spartacus said, satisfied with himself. He had wanted to rouse Plato from his depression, and he knew there were few pursuits Plato relished more than an invigor
ating chat. He watched the Family’s adored Leader shuffle off toward his cabin. The current situation had to be rough on the old man. Plato loved Blade as though he were his own son, and now Blade was hundreds of miles from the Home in northwestern Minnesota, preparing to fight the Doktor to the death.

  Spartacus gazed up at the darkening sky, noting the first visible stars.

  What was Blade doing at this very moment? he wondered.

  Chapter Three

  Catlow, Wyoming. Located on U.S. Highway 85 between the junctions of Highways 18 and 16. Present population: approximately 400. Catlow was one of the many communities which had sprung up after World War III, after the Government had evacuated thousands of people into the area later known as the Civilized Zone. The Constitutional Republic of the United States had deteriorated into a dictatorship controlling most of Wyoming, Colorado, eastern Arizona, New Mexico, Oklahoma, the northern half of a state once called Texas, and most of Montana, as well as the former states of Kansas and Nebraska. Catlow was one of the northernmost settlements in Wyoming, and a garrison of 40 Government troops were stationed there.

  All of these facts flitted through Blade’s mind as he viewed the town using binoculars. He was lying on a small rise 200 yards north of the outskirts of Catlow. The town had quieted considerably since darkness had fallen. Lights had come on all over the place, indicating the town had electricity.

  How long would it be, he speculated, before the garrison commander became concerned about the 12 missing troopers?

  How soon before a patrol was sent out to ascertain why the work detail was overdue?

  Blade glanced over his shoulder at the SEAL, parked on the highway below.

  The SEAL. Kurt Carpenter’s most important legacy to the Family, a gift costing Carpenter millions. He had wisely foreseen the need for an exceptional vehicle after World War III, knowing conventional cars and trucks would only last as long as fuel was obtainable and parts could be replaced. Consequently, Carpenter had personally financed the research on and construction of the SEAL. The Solar-Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle, more commonly referred to by the acronym SEAL.

  The SEAL was van-like in its contours, its body composed of a heat-resistant and shatterproof plastic, tinted green to enable those within to see out but preventing anyone outside from looking in. The SEAL’s source of power was the sun; sunlight was collected by two revolutionary solar panels affixed to the roof. The energy was then converted and stored in a bank of six singular batteries, stored in a lead-lined case under the transport. Four huge tires completed the exterior picture.

  Almost.

  Because, after the automakers had completed this prototype, Carpenter had spent even more money, hiring skilled mercenaries, weapons experts, who had modified the vehicle, installing various armaments.

  Blade saw a buckskin-clad figure emerge from the SEAL and climb toward his position. He glanced through the binoculars one more time, then turned to face his friend. “Why didn’t you stay in the SEAL?” he inquired.

  “I got tired of hearin’ Orson bellyache, pard,” Hickok said as he knelt alongside Blade. “I reckoned I’d best skedaddle before I was tempted to call him out.”

  Blade stared at the vehicle, frowning. “Bringing him along was a mistake,” he stated.

  “It wasn’t our idea,” Hickok reminded him. “Plato was the one who said each outfit should send at least one fighter.”

  “At least Orson can fight,” Blade commented. “He proved that when we ambushed those twelve earlier.”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing,” Hickok disagreed. “We took them by surprise.

  The real crunch will come when we’re on the receiving end. Personally, I don’t think Orson will hold up.”

  Blade gazed at the starry sky. “We’ll wait a while longer before we make our move.”

  “Should we break out the jerky and water?” Hickok asked.

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Blade said.

  Hickok started to go.

  “Wait,” Blade said.

  “What is it, pard?”

  “I never got around to asking you,” Blade noted. “How did Sherry take to this campaign?” Sherry was Hickok’s wife.

  The gunman laughed. “She didn’t want me to come. She said she thought Plato’s plan is too risky, and I had to agree it is a mite on the cockamamie side. She was worried I might get hurt, which is only natural seeing she worships the ground I walk on.”

  Blade chuckled. “I’ll bet what she loves the most about you is your humility.”

  “How did Jenny take it?” Hickok queried, referring to Blade’s spouse.

  “The same as Sherry. Geronimo’s wife probably reacted the same way,” Blade commented.

  “Not quite, pard,” Hickok said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was talking to Geronimo a while ago,” Hickok explained. “He claimed Cynthia told him to kick ass and bring back some white scalps.”

  “He was pulling your leg.”

  “I figured as much,” Hickok said. “That mangy Injun wouldn’t tell me the truth if his life depended on it.”

  Blade smiled. “You do the same to him. That’s what you get for having him as one of your best friends.”

  “Yeah.” Hickok smiled also. “We know we can count on him when the going gets rough.”

  “And Bertha has proven herself in combat,” Blade remarked. “How do you rate Rudabaugh and Lynx?”

  “I like Rudabaugh,” Hickok declared. “He’s right handy with those pistols of his, but the poor boy suffers from delusions.”

  “Delusions?”

  “Yep. He told me he’d like to have a shooting contest. The dummy thinks he might be able to beat me.”

  “One of these days,” Blade told him, “you may meet your match.”

  Hickok snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence! The only way anybody is going to beat me is if they tie my hands behind my back.”

  “What do you think of Lynx?” Blade inquired.

  “That hombre is downright loco,” Hickok responded.

  “Nathan,” Blade said, using the gunfighter’s given name, the name his parents had bestowed, the one he had used for the first sixteen years of his life before he had selected Hickok at his Naming. “Are you sure you’re talking like the real James Butler Hickok would have talked when you try to sound like him?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” Blade sighed. “So do you like Lynx or not?”

  “There’s no doubt the furry runt can kill,” Hickok said. “He just takes some getting used to, is all. I mean, when you saved Gremlin from the Doktor in Kalispell and brought him back to the Home, he took some getting used to also. But I like him fine. I do know I could count on Lynx to back my play in a pinch, which is more than I can say for that wimp Orson.” He paused. “I wonder how the Doktor does it?” he asked thoughtfully. “How does the madman make critters like Lynx and Gremlin and all the others?”

  “Beats me,” Blade confessed. “I think Plato and the Elders are close to understanding the process.”

  A twig abruptly snapped behind them, and Hickok reacted instantly, his hands flashing to his Pythons, the revolvers clearing leather faster than the eye could follow. His thumbs were cocking the hammers when he recognized his intended target.

  “Damn it, you idiot!” Hickok exclaimed. “I could of blown you away!”

  His body was half-twisted in the direction of the newcomer.

  “Not the pitiful way you shoot,” a husky feminine voice taunted him.

  “Bertha! What are you doing up here?” Blade demanded. “Did somebody call a meeting and forget to tell me about it?”

  “Be cool, baby,” Bertha advised him, kneeling next to Hickok. She was a lovely, statuesque woman, with dusky skin and curly black hair; one of her parents had been black, the other white. Her clothing, fatigues confiscated from a deceased soldier, blended nicely with the night. Alpha Triad had rescued her months before from an Army conti
ngent in Thief River Falls, Minnesota. Originally from the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, where she had served as a “soldier” in a faction called the Nomads, she had later become instrumental in assisting the Family in relocating the inhabitants of the Twin Cities to a deserted town known as Halma, situated very close to the Home. The Home itself was located on the outskirts of the former Lake Bronson State Park. “I wanted some fresh air,” Bertha stated. “Besides, you got no call to get on my case. But I want you to know I’m still ticked at you for what you did today.”

  “Me?” Blade touched his chest. “What did I do?”

  “You left me behind to babysit the buggy while you boys”—she emphasized that word—“went off to get your jollies. I didn’t like it but I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others and show them you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing?” Blade retorted.

  Bertha playfully slapped Hickok’s shoulder. “Do you hear this bozo? He has a short memory. Who was it who almost got us killed when we made that run to the Twin Cities? Who was it who almost lost his gonads to the Wacks?” She stopped and pointed at Hickok’s Pythons. “You gonna put them away or shoot me, White Meat?”

  Hickok, absorbed in her tirade against Blade, had forgotten to replace his Colts. He promptly twirled them into their respective holsters. “Keep goin’, Black Beauty,” he urged her. “I’m enjoying this.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” Blade cracked.

  Bertha faced Blade. “You ain’t off the hook yet, sucker! Why’d you do it?

  I can hold my own, and you know it. Why didn’t you let one of them other jerks guard the SEAL today?”

  “You’ve got it all backwards,” Blade informed her.

  “Oh, yeah?” Bertha responded skeptically. “Then set me straight.”

  Blade put his brawny right hand on her shoulder. “Bertha, I’d never treat you differently because you’re a woman. Remember, I’m the one who picked two women to be Warriors in the Family. I happen to think women can handle combat as competently as men, provided it’s the right woman—”