Blade averted his eyes. He turned and watched the column begin its climb up the hill.
“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” Rikki offered.
Blade didn’t respond.
“Don’t take what I’ve said too seriously,” Rikki suggested.
Blade mumbled a few words.
“What did you say?” Rikki asked.
“I said,” Blade stated heavily, “you were right on the mark. It’s about time I owned up to it. I never did adjust to my father’s death. I’ve even had nightmares about it. I…” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “I loved my father very much.”
“Healing takes time,” Rikki observed. “When you can face up to your father’s death,” he predicted, “you’ll be able to accept your destiny as Leader of the Family.”
Blade glanced at Rikki, his features downcast. “I pray you’re right.” His eyes conveyed his inner torment. “Dear Spirit, how I pray you’re right!”
Chapter Three
“It looks like wimpy is finally comin’ around,” the gunfighter declared.
The trooper groaned and slowly opened his brown eyes. For a moment, he stared around in confusion at the interior of the truck cab. “Where am I?” he wanted to know.
“You don’t remember?” Geronimo prodded him.
The soldier was confused. He was seated in a troop transport, wedged between an Indian on his right and a man in buckskins driving the vehicle, on his left.
“Come on, Arthur Mitchell,” the blond man said. “Don’t tell me you’ve plumb forgotten our little chitchat already?”
In a rush, Mitchell recalled everything. The gunman. Brandon and Telford. The Family. The Warriors. The revolver barrel pressed against his nose. “I’m still alive!” he exclaimed in amazement.
“This boy is bright,” Hickok quipped.
“You didn’t shoot me?” Mitchell queried in astonishment.
“What was your first clue?” Hickok retorted, chuckling.
“I thought I was dead!” Mitchell marveled.
“Hickok turned the barrel aside at the last instant,” Geronimo explained.
“But what happened?” Mitchell asked.
“You went and fainted,” Hickok informed the trooper.
“I fainted?”
“Dropped like a rock,” Hickok said.
“I don’t get it,” Mitchell remarked, bewildered. “Why didn’t you kill me?”
“I ain’t partial to blowin’ away wet-nosed kids,” Hickok mentioned.
“I’m not a kid!” Mitchell bristled. “You aren’t much older than I am.
What are you, twenty-five?”
“Thereabouts,” the gunman admitted.
Mitchell glanced at Geronimo. “But they told us you would kill us. They said you’ve murdered woman and children.”
“You can’t believe everything you’re told,” Geronimo said. “You always have to consider the source, and if they might have an ulterior motive.”
“But you shot Brandon and Telford,” Mitchell stated lamely.
“Give me a break!” Hickok rejoined. “They were aimin’ to put holes in my new buckskin shirt. My missus would have a fit!”
“You’re married?” Mitchell’s mouth fell open.
“Didn’t you see the ball and chain on my left leg?” Hickok responded.
Mitchell gazed at the highway ahead, scarcely noticing the scenery they passed as the troop transport lumbered along at 40 miles an hour. “I’m so confused!” he muttered.
“While you’re tryin’ to collect your marbles,” Hickok said, “I’m gonna give you the rules.”
“Rules?” Mitchell stared at the gunman.
“Yep. In case you ain’t noticed, we didn’t bother to tie you up. But I gotta warn you, just in case you get an itch to make a break for it, that Geronimo and I can take care of ourselves real good, with or without our irons. We may not be Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, but we can—”
“Who?” Mitchell interrupted.
“Rikki-Tikki-Tavi,” Geronimo replied. “He’s a fellow Warrior.”
“Rikki-Tikki-Tavi?” Mitchell shook his head, perplexed. “Did this Rikki-Tikki-Tavi pick his own name, like you told me you did?”
“Rikki chose his own name,” Geronimo answered.
“Where did he ever get a name like that?” Mitchell inquired.
“From a book.”
“A book? You guys get your names from books?” Mitchell asked.
Geronimo smiled. “Perhaps it would help if I provided some background. The man we call the Founder of our Family, the man who built the Home prior to World War III, wanted us—”
“What was this man’s name?” Mitchell asked.
“He was called Kurt Carpenter,” Geronimo disclosed. “He was a survivalist, a man who thought a war was inevitable and who decided to do something about it. He was very wealthy, and he used his money to buy a plot of land near what was once known as Lake Bronson State Park in northwestern Minnesota. Carpenter personally directed the construction of his survival site, and called it the Home. He decided to call his followers, the people he invited to the Home before the war erupted, the Family. He was worried the Family might forget about the history of society, about the factors leading up to the cause of the war. So he initiated a special ceremony he termed the Naming.”
“The Naming?” Mitchell repeated, fascinated by this glimpse of Family history.
“Carpenter left a diary behind,” Geronimo detailed. “In it, he said he was worried the Family wouldn’t learn from the mistakes humanity had made. He was afraid we would disregard our ‘historical antecedents,’ as he called them. So, to foster an understanding of history, Carpenter encouraged every Family member, when they reached the age of sixteen, to select the name of a historical figure they admired as their very own.
This practice goes on even now, a century after the war. It’s not a mandatory requirement, but most Family members follow it. Now, though, we take names from literature and other sources as well as the history section of our library.”
“You have a library?”
“Carpenter left us hundreds of thousands of volumes,” Geronimo said.
“We have books on every conceivable subject.”
“And you can read any of the books you want?” Mitchell inquired.
“Certainly.”
“We have to get a permit to take a book from a library,” Mitchell said, “and even then we’re only allowed to read government approved books.”
“The Civilized Zone is ruled by a dictatorship,” Geronimo observed.
“They control every aspect of your life. The Family is different. We can read any book in our library we want, and all of us are pretty avid readers.” He paused, smirking. “Except for Hickok, of course. He’s illiterate.”
Hickok pretended to glare across at Geronimo. “Don’t listen to that mangy Injun. I can read and write as good as him. I went to the same school he did.”
“The Family has a school?”
“Yep,” Hickok replied. “Our Elders teach the youngsters everything they know.”
Mitchell stared from Hickok to Geronimo and back again. “You mean to tell me you both went to the same school?”
“Same school, same teachers,” Hickok answered. “But we didn’t wear the same britches!” He grinned at his own joke.
Mitchell faced Geronimo. “It’s not possible.”
“What’s not possible?” Geronimo asked him.
“How could you both have gone to the same school?” Mitchell demanded. “You talk like any normal person, but he,” Mitchell jerked his left thumb in Hickok’s direction, “talks so… so… so…” He couldn’t seem to find the right word.
“Weird,” Geronimo finished the sentence.
“You got it,” Mitchell said. “How come?”
Geronimo chuckled. “Hickok took his name from his childhood hero, a man who lived way back in the old Wild West days.”
“What’s the Wild West?” Mitchell asked.
Unfortunately, he even talks like he believes the Hickok of old talked. You know he sounds ridiculous, and I know he sounds ridiculous, and I’ve tried to convince him of this fact many times. But have you ever tried to reason with a man who has the intelligence of a turnip?”
Despite his situation, momentarily forgetting his predicament, Mitchell laughed.
Hickok wisely concentrated on his driving, ignoring the barb.
Mitchell abruptly stopped laughing. “What am I doing?” he asked aloud. “I’m as crazy as you guys! Here I am having a good time with the enemy!”
“We’re not your enemies,” Geronimo said, disputing him. “We’re opposed to Samuel the Second and anyone who sides with him, but we’re not an enemy unless you want us to be.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Mitchell remarked. “You guys aren’t anything like what I expected.”
“It’s nothing to get all bent out of shape about,” Hickok declared, noting how perturbed the soldier appeared.
“If you only knew,” Mitchell said glumly.
“What’s botherin’ you, buckaroo?” Hickok inquired.
Mitchell looked at Geronimo. “You really don’t plan to kill everyone in the Civilized Zone?”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” Geronimo shook his head.
“Besides, how could we? There are thousands and thousands of people living in the Civilized Zone. The Family only has about eighty or ninety members.” He paused and glanced at Hickok. “How many do we have? I’ve lost track. We’ve been adding new members so fast lately, I can’t keep count of them all.”
“Well, there’s Sherry and Cynthia,” Hickok enumerated, “and Tyson and Cindy, and Gremlin and Lynx, and—”
“There’s something I need to say,” Mitchell blurted.
“What is it?” Geronimo asked.
Mitchell’s features reflected an intense inner turmoil. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
“Spit it out, boy,” Hickok exhorted him.
“Are there a lot of women and children at your Home?” Mitchell queried.
“We’ve got a passel of young’uns,” Hickok replied. “About twenty or so, I reckon.”
“And the Family has close to thirty women members,” Geronimo divulged. “Why?”
“All those women and children!” Mitchell stated, horrified.
Hickok slowed the truck. “What’s eatin’ at your innards, boy?”
“It’s about why I’m here,” Mitchell said.
“I asked you that before,” Hickok reminded him.
“Do you know who the Doktor is?” Mitchell questioned him.
Hickok and Geronimo exchanged knowing glances.
“We know about the Doktor,” Geronimo replied, not bothering to disclose the part they had played in the battle with the Doktor in Catlow, Wyoming.
“The Doktor hates the Family,” Mitchell said.
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Hickok cracked.
“Did you know the Doktor blames you for the nuking of Cheyenne?”
“He blames the Family for that?” Geronimo asked.
“So I was told,” Mitchell responded. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Be specific,” Geronimo directed him.
“The Doktor wants your Family wiped off the face of the earth,” Mitchell informed them.
“That’ll be the day!” Hickok declared.
“That day might come sooner than you think,” Mitchell said. “The Doktor has sent a large force to destroy your Home.”
Hickok slammed on the brakes so hard the troop transport slewed to an abrupt stop.
“What the hell is going on up there?” shouted someone from the back of the truck.
“Who was that?” Mitchell inquired, glancing over his shoulder. The view afforded by the small window located in the rear panel of the cab only permitted him to see the canvas-covered bed of the truck. “Is there somebody riding in the back?”
“Never mind them,” Hickok said brusquely. “What large force are you talking about?”
“The Doktor was so mad when Cheyenne was hit,” Mitchell explained, “he sent out a strike force under the command of one of his trusted officers and one of his freaks. I was part of the convoy until my jeep broke down.”
“Where is this strike force now?” Geronimo asked anxiously.
Mitchell pointed directly ahead. “Up there, somewhere.”
“How many are there?” Geronimo pressed him.
“Two thousand.”
“Two thousand!” Geronimo leaned forward, staring through the dusty windshield.
“Are they all regular Army troops?” Hickok inquired.
“Except for Brutus,” Mitchell answered.
“Brutus?” Hickok repeated.
“Brutus is one of the Doktor’s genetically produced creatures,” Mitchell said. “We call them freaks.”
“Two thousand troops,” Geronimo stated, his mind boggled by the number.
“Two thousand troops,” Mitchell affirmed, “a convoy of trucks to carry them, and the tank.”
Hickok reached out and gripped Mitchell’s left arm. “Tank?”
Mitchell tried to pull away. “Hey! You’re hurting me.”
Hickok disregarded the plea. “Did you say a tank?”
Mitchell nodded, frightened by the sudden gleam in the gunman’s eyes.
“Yeah. A tank. One of the few still functioning. The Doktor told us he wanted your Home reduced to a pile of rubble.”
Geronimo, his face pale, looked at Hickok. “The Family won’t stand a chance!”
Chapter Four
He wondered if he was going to have a heart attack.
The elderly man stood on the rampart above the lowered drawbridge and watched the stream of evacuees pouring into the Home. Men, women, and children, but mostly women and children, were hurrying within the walled confines of the Home as rapidly as their legs could carry them.
As if the 20-foot-high brick walls topped with barbed wire would withstand a determined assault!
The gray-haired man on the rampart turned and gazed over the Home itself. Kurt Carpenter had planned the compound with an eye to practical utility. A plot of 30 acres was enclosed within the square configuration of the walls. The eastern half of the Home was devoted to agricultural production or preserved in its natural state. Situated in the center of the compound, forming a line separating the eastern half from the western, were the cabins reserved for the married couples and their children. The western portion of the Home contained the Blocks. Carpenter had had six concrete structures constructed in a triangular formation. Each Block was designated by a letter. The Family armory, stocked with every conceivable weapon, was called A Block and was the southern tip of the triangle.
Northwest of A Block and 100 yards away was B Block, the Family sleeping quarters for single members. Another 100 yards to the northwest was C Block, the infirmary managed by the Family Healers. D Block, the spacious workshop, was 100 yards east of C Block. And 100 yards east of D Block was E Block, the giant library. E Block was the eastern point of the triangle. Finally, 100 yards to the southwest was F Block, used for farming and gardening purposes. Positioned in the middle of the western wall was the only means of entering and exiting the Home: a large drawbridge.
Carpenter had seen fit to provide one additional line of defense. A stream entered the compound under the northwest corner of the wall, via an aqueduct. The water was diverted along the base of the wall in both directions. It formed an inner moat, completely surrounding the compound, and flowed from the Home under the southeast corner.
All of these features were reviewed by the gray-haired man as he surveyed the commotion below. The gusty br
eeze was lashing his long hair and beard. A brown wool shirt and a pair of faded, patched beige pants covered his stooped, frail frame. His face was lined with creases. As he scanned the frantic crowd the worry in his blue eyes deepened.
“Any orders, Plato?” asked someone to his right.
Plato turned.
The speaker was a tall blond man, his hair styled in a crew cut, his blue eyes alert and clear. He wore a blue shirt well past its prime, and buckskin pants and moccasins. A wide leather belt encircled his waist, and attached to the belt was a long scabbard containing a genuine broadsword, one of the numerous exotic weapons Kurt Carpenter had stockpiled in the Family armory.
“Any orders?” the speaker repeated.
“How far away do we estimate them to be?” Plato inquired.
“Four Clan hunters spotted them about four miles south of Halma,” the man with the broadsword stated. “Their convoy was stopped. I suspect they will stay encamped for the night.” He gazed up at the late afternoon sun. “It’s already close to dark, and I doubt they’ll try moving at night.”
“I pray you’re correct, Spartacus,” Plato said.
“If their convoy starts out early tomorrow morning.”
Spartacus went on, “they probably won’t arrive here until noon or so.
They’ll travel slowly this close to the Home.”
“Why?” Plato questioned him.
Spartacus stared out over the field in front of the western wall. The Family deliberately kept the area outside the walls cleared of vegetation.
For 150 yards in all directions, the Family diligently removed any sprouting trees or growing shrubs, anything a potential enemy could use for concealment, an essential defense against a possible surprise assault.
Denver Run Page 3
