More members of the Clan were flocking into the Home.
“They might be expecting us to counterattack,” Spartacus commented.
“They’ll come in slow, prepared for trouble.”
Plato gazed at a young mother hastening her two small children across the drawbridge. “We were fortunate those hunters saw the convoy,” he remarked.
Spartacus nodded. “The Clan would have been wiped out. The hunters guessed there must be a couple of thousand troops.”
Plato grimaced as a lancing spasm rocked his left leg. His body was deteriorating rapidly, all due to the accursed senility. For some unknown reason, the Family Elders were afflicted with a form of premature senility, aging years in mere months. Although the cause hadn’t been determined, a section of the Doktor’s notebooks dealt with the senility and was in the process of being deciphered by the Healers.
Did the notebooks hold the answer, not just for the senility, but for the presence of the force from the Civilized Zone? Did the Doktor know the Family possessed his notebooks? Had he sent the convoy to reclaim them?
Was the Doktor still alive? Had Blade failed in his mission to Catlow? Or had Samuel II simply decided to eliminate the Family?
Plato thoughtfully stroked his bushy beard. This was all his fault; he alone could accept responsibility. It had been his idea to send one of the Warriors, Yama, to the Cheyenne Citadel on the spying assignment. While there, Yama not only stole the Doktor’s four notebooks describing in minute detail every experiment and project the Doktor had ever devised, he also assisted Lynx in destroying the Doktor’s headquarters with a nuclear-tipped missile known as a “thermo.” Regrettably, the Doktor wasn’t in his headquarters at the time. He would want his four blue notebooks back at any cost.
Was that why the troops were approaching?
Or was it because Samuel II and the Doktor were tired of the Family’s interference in their affairs? After all, the Family was responsible for assisting the residents of the Twin Cities in escaping from the Civilized Zone’s army and relocating them in Halma. The Family had also forestalled Samuel II’s attempt to overrun the Cavalry. Had the dictator elected to remove a perennial thorn in his side?
Plato realized the Family’s situation was extremely precarious. Of the 15 Family Warriors, 6 were gone, part of the Freedom Federation’s force invading the Civilized Zone. The Family divided its Warriors into 5 sections for organizational purposes. Each section was comprised of 3 Warriors apiece. They were designated as Alpha Triad, Beta Triad, Gamma Triad, Omega Triad, and Zulu Triad. Each Triad had an appointed section leader. Blade, the commander of all the Warriors, was also the head of Alpha Triad. With Blade and the other Alpha Warriors, Hickok and Geronimo, gone, the command of the Warriors would normally pass to Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the Beta Triad head. But Rikki and his Beta companions, Yama and Teucer, were also gone. Next in the chain of command was the leader of Gamma Triad: Spartacus.
Plato found himself wondering whether Spartacus was capable of directing the defense of the Home. During peaceful periods, the Family Leader was in charge of the Home. But when an emergency arose, the Warriors automatically assumed command. The Warriors were skilled at their craft, but none of them had ever confronted a crisis of this magnitude. In its entire 100-year history, the Home had never been subjected to a mass onslaught.
If only Blade and the others were here!
Plato consciously suppressed his trepidation. He would have to have faith in Spartacus.
The long line of Clan refugees extended from the drawbridge, across the field west of the Home, and into the forest beyond. Some of them waved up to Plato and Spartacus as they entered the compound.
Plato felt an odd pain in his chest, and wondered again if he were on the verge of a heart attack. Was contemplating the impending attack too much of a strain for his weakened physique? He disregarded the discomfort and decided to take stock of the Family’s options.
The Freedom Federation was composed of four factions: All four of the groups had committed a large percentage of their fighters to the force invading the Civilized Zone. The Freedom Federation Army was hundreds of miles distant—in either Wyoming or Colorado, if Blade had adhered to the invasion strategy—too far away to be of any assistance to the Family in its time of need. None of the four factions had sent all of their fighters on the invasion. The Family still had 9 Warriors left, plus 34 men and 31 women; Tillers, Empaths, Weavers, Metalworkers, and the like. True, the other men and women weren’t as skilled as the Warriors in the martial arts, but they all took annual refresher courses in the use of firearms and would fight to preserve the Home.
What about the other factions?
The Cavalry was based in eastern South Dakota. Getting word to them would take too much time.
The Moles lived in an underground city approximately 50 miles to the east of the Home. They probably had about a hundred fighters on hand to safeguard their city while the rest were away with the expedition. Their ruler, Wolfe, was unreliable. Plato didn’t know whether Wolfe would send help or not.
Which left the Clan.
The former residents of Minneapolis and St. Paul numbered 543. With 200 of its ablest fighters gone with the invasion force, the Clan was left with 343 members, the majority of them women and children. How many fighters did the Clan have on hand?
“I’ve called a meeting of the Warriors and the Clan leaders,” Spartacus mentioned, shattering Plato’s introspection.
“Excellent idea,” Plato remarked. “I’d like to attend, if you don’t mind.”
“Why would I mind?” Spartacus asked.
“I don’t want to impede your performance,” Plato stated.
Spartacus grinned. Leave it to Plato and his grandiose vocabulary!
Anyone else would have said, “I don’t want to get in your way.”
“It appears most of the Clan have arrived,” Plato remarked.
There was now a gap between the end of the line and the edge of the trees.
Spartacus nodded in satisfaction. When the runner from the Clan had arrived earlier in the day, bringing word of the presence of the military convoy, Spartacus had sent word to the head of the Clan, a man named Zahner, and advised him to evacuate Halma and march to the Home as rapidly as possible.
The compound below was crammed with people, the Clan congregating with the Family in the open space between the concrete blocks. Their voices rose in a noisy tumult.
Spartacus waited until the last of the Clan entered the Home, and then he signaled to the four men manning the drawbridge mechanism. They immediately proceeded to raise the drawbridge.
“Let’s get to it,” Spartacus commented, and led the way down the flight of wooden stairs. Supported by enormous beams, the stairs were positioned to the south of the drawbridge and traversed the moat.
Plato followed the Warrior to the base of the stairs.
There was a reception committee waiting for them below. Eight Warriors stood in a straight row, their eyes on their temporary chief.
Spartacus, his left hand on the hilt of his broadsword, slowly walked along the line of fellow Warriors, nodding at each of them in turn.
Seiko was first in line, attired in loose-fitting black clothing similar to the apparel worn by Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. Both were Family members with Oriental blood. Both were devoted martial artists. Seiko was five inches taller than Rikki, and his facial features were broader. Because Kurt Carpenter had seen fit to stock only one katana in the Family armory, and because by mutual agreement Rikki possessed it, Seiko had dedicated himself to mastering several other Oriental weapons, his personal preferences being the nunchaku and the sai. And, like every Warrior, he was competent at using many of the varied firearms in the armory.
Second in line was Shane, the youngest Warrior. Only recently having turned 16, he had become a Warrior primarily because his hero, Hickok, was a Warrior. Shane had proven himself in combat, and was one of the fastest gunmen in the Family. He proudly wore a Llama Coma
nche .357 Magnum on his right hip. The Family Weavers had, at his request, sewn together a black Western-style outfit, using photographs in some of the reference books in the library as guidelines. Shane’s brown eyes lit up as Spartacus passed by. He was excited at the prospect of some action. His brown hair, worn long in imitation of Hickok, stirred in the breeze.
Both Seiko and Shane were members of Gamma Triad.
Next came the head of Omega Triad, a strapping Warrior with curly blond hair and penetrating green eyes named Carter. In a holster on each hip was a Guardian-SS Auto Pistol, made of stainless steel, with a narrow trigger for quick firing and Pachmayr grips. Carter wore brown pants and a light brown shirt, both specially made by the Weavers, both insulated against the chilly weather.
After Carter came another Omega Triad member: Ares. He was one of the tallest Warriors, standing six feet, three inches. His attire was a peculiar leather affair, with a dark-brown one-piece shirt and short leather breeches cut off above the knees. Another distinctive feature about Ares was his haircut. He had shaved his hair off on both sides of his head, but left a trimmed red crest running from his spine to the center of his sloping forehead. A short sword was attached to his belt, angled across his left hip. He held a Colt AR-15 in his arms. It was common knowledge he had taken his name from the ancient Greek god of war. Many felt his name was highly appropriate; Ares could be bloodthirsty when aroused.
Gideon was next in line. He was a short, stocky man with black hair and brown eyes. He wore his hair down to his broad shoulders and braided in a single tail. His square features were tense but firm. He wore a green wool shirt and brown trousers. A large military-style knife was strapped to his left hip. He clasped an Uzi Carbine in his left hand.
There was only one Triad remaining.
Crockett was the head of Zulu Triad. A lean, wiry man with high cheekbones, a prominent nose, and keen brown eyes, he wore buckskins and carried a Remington Model Four Auto Rifle. A bandolier of cartridges crossed his chest from left to right. “I hear we’re going to have some visitors,” he casually mentioned as Spartacus came abreast of his position in line.
“That we are,” Spartacus said.
“Don’t those Civilized Zone types know it’s not polite to pay a visit uninvited?” Crockett asked sarcastically.
Spartacus kept walking.
The next Warrior was Samson. He was one of the few men in the Family with a build almost as powerfully developed as Blade’s. He had light brown hair and brown eyes and his hair was worn long, draping to the center of his back. Like his Biblical namesake, Samson had never allowed his hair to be touched by a scissors or razor. He wore a camouflage outfit constructed by the Weavers. On either hip, snug in their carefully crafted swivel holsters, were a pair of Bushmaster Auto Pistols. In Samson’s right hand was a Bushmaster Auto Rifle. He used the Bushmasters for two reasons; they were deadly pieces, and their ammunition was interchangeable.
Finally, Spartacus came to the last Warrior.
This one was unique.
This one was a woman.
In the hundred-year history of the Family, there had been four female Warriors. Only five months ago. the previous female Warrior had been slain in savage combat. The current woman Warrior was named Sherry, and she was exceptional in two ways. First, she was from outside the Family, a Canadian, the first non-Family Warrior ever appointed. Second, she was Hickok’s wife, a matter of considerable importance to Spartacus.
He knew she was a new addition to the Warrior ranks and quite inexperienced. She would need looking after.
Sherry was a statuesque blonde with striking green eyes. She was tall, about six feet, and almost skinny, with a slim waist and small feet. Not particularly fastidious concerning her clothing, she wore a brown, patched blouse and baggy green pants a size too large. She had a stately demeanor, a high forehead, full cheeks, and thin lips. A Smith and Wesson .357 Combat Magnum was in a holster on her right hip.
Spartacus nodded at Sherry and walked back to the middle of the line.
He scanned them, his expression earnest and grim. “All of you know an enemy force is approaching the Home,” he began. “We are undermanned because six of our fellow Warriors are absent, but we can rely on the assistance of the rest of our Family and we’ll have help from the Clan. As soon as I know how many fighters we have at our disposal, I’ll divide them up and give them their assignments.” He paused. “As far as we are concerned, we have a slight tactical problem. We have four walls to cover, and only three Triads on duty. Consequently, I’ve decided to oversee the defense of the western wall myself—”
“Just you alone?” Seiko interrupted.
“And my share of the other combatants,” Spartacus replied.
“Is such a course of action wise?” Seiko asked, pressing the issue.
“We have no choice,” Spartacus responded. “If any of you find your walls are not being attacked, you are free to render help where necessary.”
Seiko frowned, but didn’t say anything else.
“As I was saying,” Spartacus resumed, “Seiko and Shane will direct the defense of the north wall. Carter, Ares, and Gideon will handle the defense of the south wall.” He looked at Crocket. “You, Samson and Sherry will have the east wall. Any questions?”
Crockett stepped forward. “Since the only way they can get into the Home is through the drawbridge, wouldn’t it make more sense to concentrate the Warriors on the west wall? Why go it alone?”
“I won’t be alone,” Spartacus reminded him. “I’ll be dividing up the other combatants and assigning them to each wall.”
“I wish Hickok was here,” Shane absently interjected.
Spartacus noticed Sherry glance at the drawbridge, her face troubled.
“How soon will we know the enemy strength?” Ares inquired.
“Soon,” Spartacus promised. “I’ll be sending out a scouting party shortly.”
The November wind was picking up.
“A few other items,” Spartacus mentioned. “I know each of us tends to prefer certain weapons over others, and you can use your favorites as you see fit. But each of you will go to the armory and, if you don’t already have one, get an automatic rifle or machine gun and all the ammunition you can carry.”
“When should we report to our posts on the walls?” Shane asked.
“As soon as you’ve picked your weapons,” Spartacus instructed him.
“Any questions?”
No one spoke.
“Hop to it!” Spartacus directed them.
The eight Warriors wheeled and headed toward A Block, the armory.
Spartacus saw four men approaching from the north.
The first man was of average height, and he was wearing tattered jeans and a blue shirt. He had fine brown hair, parted on the left and styled so it draped over his ears. His eyes were a sharp blue. In his 30s, he still retained a youthful appearance. There was a distinctive cleft in the center of his upper lip, and he had been graced with a classic square jaw. He was the type of man you knew you could trust at first glance. His name was Zahner, and he was the head of the Clan.
On Zahner’s right walked a giant black man. He wore green fatigue pants and a fatigue jacket, both taken from dead soldiers in the Twin Cities. His features were prominent: a large forehead, a wide nose, and thick lips. He wore his hair in a curly Afro. In his hands was an M-16. His name was Bear, and he was one of Zahner’s lieutenants.
Keeping pace on Zahner’s left was his other lieutenant, a man dressed in conservative black clothing, except for a thin white collar around his neck. He was on the lean side. The lower half of his face was covered by a bristly brown beard. He was known as Brother Timothy.
The fourth man was a few feet behind the trio of Clansmen. This one was tall, and he moved with the grace and controlled power of a mountain lion. He wore buckskins, and they fit his tall frame as if he had been poured into them. A .44 Magnum Hombre single-action revolver was in a holster on each hip. His brown sho
ulder-length hair swayed as he walked.
The man was called Boone, and he was one of the Cavalry, second in command to Kilrane himself. Because six of the Warriors had left the Home as part of the invading force, Kilrane had decided to leave Boone and 20 other riders at the Home to compensate for the Warriors being undermanned.
Spartacus didn’t waste any time. “Are all of your people inside the Home?” he demanded.
Zahner stopped, nodding. “All of the Clan are accounted for.” He frowned. “We were working on repairing the dilapidated buildings in Halma, getting them ready for the winter. We’ll never finish them before the first snow now.”
“We’ll help you after this is over,” Spartacus promised.
Bear snorted. “I heard of lookin’ on the bright side, hut vou’re crazy, Sparty-baby! Ain’t you heard the news? There’s thousands of them suckers out there!”
“The Lord will preserve us,” Brother Timothy interjected.
“How many fighters do you have?” Spartacus asked Zahner.
“About two hundred and twenty,” Zahner answered, “counting men and women. The rest are too young.”
“That’s more than I thought you’d have,” Spartacus said. “It’s good news.”
“Maybe not,” Zahner remarked. “We don’t have many guns. What good is it to have two hundred and twenty fighters if you can’t arm them?”
“We can arm them,” Spartacus stated. He pointed toward the armory. “Have your people, the ones who can fight, line up in front of A Block. We’ll pass out weapons to them.”
“Do you think you have enough?” Zahner queried.
Spartacus shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. Kurt Carpenter, our Founder, stocked our armory with hundreds of weapons. He said in his diary he knew civilization would decline after the Big Blast, and he wanted us to be able to protect ourselves.”
“What’s the Big Blast?” Brother Timothy asked.
Spartacus grinned. “It’s how we refer to World War III.”
“Cute,” Brother Timothy said.
“Get your people lined up,” Spartacus reiterated to Zahner. “I’ll divide them up among the four walls. As for the children and other noncombatants, put them in F Block. It’s furthest from the walls. If they won’t all fit, then put the rest in D Block.”
Denver Run Page 4
