His face a livid red, his blond hair a mess, his buckskins disheveled, the Family’s preeminent gunfighter surged to his feet, caught in the glow from the lanterns placed in the nearby wall. He glared at everyone and everything, his knuckles white on the grips of his Pythons. He glowered at Spartacus, then Boone, then at the Cavalry riders. Even their horses were included in his baleful scrutiny. He had the menacing air of a man eager to shoot someone or something, anyone or anything. All it would take was the right provocation.
Boone broke the ice. He smiled wanly and gave a little wave. “Howdy, Hickok.”
It was all the opening Hickok needed.
The gunman advanced on Boone, furious, gesticulating with his revolvers. “You dang-blasted, dimwitted cow chip! Didn’t you know it was me?”
“How were we supposed to know?” Boone replied. “It was too dark.”
“I could of suffocated in that smelly hide!” Hickok bellowed. “And do you realize what all that bouncing around did to my kidneys?”
“I’m really sorry, Mr. Hickok,” said the Cavalry rider responsible for dropping the hide on the gunman.
Hickok faced the rider. “You did this to me?” he growled.
The hapless rider blanched and gulped. He simply nodded.
Hickok twirled the Colt Pythons into their respective holsters.
“I want all of you to listen up!” he shouted, his hands hovering near his revolvers.
Spartacus suppressed an impulse to laugh. The Cavalry riders appeared to be in a state of shock. Hickok’s formidable reputation had that effect on people.
“I know you hombres were just doin’ your job,” Hickok declared, “which is the only reason I don’t blow you away here and now! But if one word of this gets out, just one word, I’ll be lookin’ you up to talk this over real personal like. Do you get the drift?”
Everyone nodded or otherwise acknowledged they understood.
Boone was grinning.
“What are you doing here?” Spartacus inquired. “Why aren’t you with Blade and the others.”
The mention of Blade immediately sobered the gunman and soothed his intense embarrassment. “I plumb forgot,” he mumbled.
“What happened?” Spartacus asked.
“Blade sent Geronimo and me back in a truck,” Hickok explained. “We were bringin’ Bertha and Josh back to the Home so the Healers could tend to ’em.”
“Bertha and Josh? Are they hurt?” Spartacus questioned him.
Hickok nodded. “Bertha is hurt bad. She might not make it. Josh is hangin’ in there, though.”
“What about Blade?” Spartacus probed. “Are Samuel and the Doktor still alive?”
“We won’t have to worry none about the Doktor,” Hickok revealed.
“Last I knew, Blade was makin’ for Denver. Geronimo must still be back on Highway 59. We were spying on the Army camp when these nincompoops jumped me.”
“We can’t leave Geronimo out there alone,” Spartacus stated.
“He’s got a Cavalry guy named Morton with him,” Hickok disclosed.
“But you’re right.” He stared at Boone.
“Do you want us to go after him?” Boone inquired.
“Yep,” Hickok responded. “You’ll have to stay with him, because Bertha and Josh are in no shape to be ridin’ a horse. And there’s no way you’re gonna get that troop transport past the Army convoy.”
“I’ll leave half of my men here,” Boone offered.
“Thanks,” Spartacus interjected. “We can use them.” He looked at Hickok. By rights, and according to the established chain of command, the gunman was now in charge of the defense of the Home. Spartacus felt mixed emotions: on the one hand, he was relieved the burden had been lifted from his shoulders, but on the other, he experienced a faint resentment Hickok was taking over.
Boone walked to his horse and swung up. “We won’t let anything happen to Bertha and Joshua. Just make sure nothing happens to you.”
He paused. “Do you want me to send a messenger to Blade for help?”
Hickok shook his head. “The convoy will be here tomorrow. A rider could never reach Blade in time.”
Boone nodded his understanding. A man on horseback would take weeks to reach Colorado. “Take care,” he said. He quickly selected half of his men, choosing the ones to go by pointing at them.
Spartacus watched as Boone and ten of his men vanished into the night.
Hickok strode up to Spartacus. “Give me the low-down.”
“I think we’re all set,” Spartacus detailed. “All our arms have been distributed. I placed our youngsters and elderly in the cabins. Everyone from the Clan who can fight has been housed in F Block and D Block—”
“The Clan is here then?” Hickok interrupted.
“Yes,” Spartacus confirmed. “We have two hundred and sixty-five fighters, not counting the ten Cavalry men. I’ve divided them up and assigned them to a wall.”
“What about the Warriors?”
“Seiko and Shane will hold the north wall,” Spartacus divulged. “Carter, Ares, and Gideon have the south wall. I gave the east wall to Crockett, Samson and… Sherry.”
“You were plannin’ to take care of the west wall all by your lonesome?”
“I didn’t see where I had a choice,” Spartacus said.
“Sounds like you did a right proper job,” Hickok complimented his fellow Warrior.
“You’re welcome to change whatever you don’t like,” Spartacus commented.
“There is one thing that needs changin’,” Hickok commented.
“What?”
“You won’t be alone on the west wall,” Hickok informed him. “I’ll be joinin’ you.”
“What about Sherry?” Spartacus asked.
“What about her?” Hickok responded defensively.
“Do you want her moved to the west wall with us?”
Hickok studied Spartacus for a moment. “Thanks, but no. You assigned her to the east wall and that’s where she’ll stay.”
“But you’re in charge now,” Spartacus stated. “You can do whatever you want.”
“I’ve gotta do what’s best for the Family,” Hickok said. “Having at least three Warriors on the east wall makes sense.”
“You could transfer me to the east wall and have Sherry by your side,” Spartacus suggested.
“Nope.” The gunman sighed. “I can’t be showin’ any favoritism. You’ve already committed her to the east wall. If I change her post, the other Warriors are gonna get hot under the collar. We’ll leave things just the way you have them.”
“As you wish,” Spartacus said.
“And as far as me being in charge goes,” Hickok went on, “I ain’t lettin’ you off the hook that easy.”
“But according to the chain of command—” Spartacus began.
“Hang the chain of command,” Hickok declared. “This is all-out war. I’ll make the decisions, but I want your input on everything. And I mean everything. We can’t afford to make any mistakes.”
“Don’t I know it,” Spartacus agreed.
Hickok glanced at the ten Cavalry riders. “Get some shut-eye. Be up at sunrise. I want you ready to ride if I give the word.”
“Where do you want us?” one of the riders asked.
Hickok pointed at the nearest Block, C Block. “Wait on the far side of the infirmary.”
“We’ll be ready,” the bearded rider promised. The ten Cavalrymen rode off to get some sleep.
Hickok looked at the three Family men manning the drawbridge mechanism. He gestured upward with his right hand. They proceeded to elevate the wooden bridge, the massive chain rattling and clanking as it moved the gears.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Spartacus commented.
“I wish Blade and the rest of the Freedom Federation Army was with me,” Hickok commented.
“Do you have any idea how many we’re up against?” Spartacus inquired.
“Two thousand,” Hickok answered.
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p; “Two thousand,” Spartacus repeated. “Our estimate was right.”
“That ain’t the worst of it, pard,” Hickok declared.
“What could be worse?”
“They’ve got a tank,” Hickok told him.
“A tank!” Spartacus couldn’t keep his shock from showing.
“Things are gonna get hot around here,” Hickok predicted.
“What are we going to do to stop their tank?” Spartacus asked.
“Beats me,” Hickok replied. “The Founder didn’t leave us any antitank guns or heavy explosives.”
“Then what will we do?” Spartacus queried, aghast at the idea of pitting puny automatic-rifle fire against a tank.
“We’ll do what I always do,” Hickok stated. “We’ll play it by ear. Trust me.”
“But a tank!” Spartacus exclaimed.
“Calm down, pard,” Hickok advised. “Don’t let it get you in an uproar.”
“How can you be calm,” Spartacus retorted, “knowing two thousand soldiers and a tank are going to attack our Home?”
“What good would it do me to lose sleep over it?” Hickok countered.
“You should have a philosophy of life like mine.”
“You have a philosophy of life?” Spartacus asked in amazement, emphasizing the first word.
“You bet your boots!” Hickok affirmed. “You’ve got to take what comes your way in life and make the best of it.”
“That’s your whole philosophy?”
“And don’t sweat the small potatoes,” Hickok amended his statement.
“A tank is small potatoes?” Spartacus rejoined.
“Look at the bright side,” Hickok recommended.
“What bright side?”
“They ain’t plannin’ to nuke us.” Hickok yawned. He stared to the east.
“Is Sherry in our cabin?” he inquired.
“As far as I know,” Spartacus responded. “She wanted to pull guard duty tonight, but I told her to get some sleep.”
Hickok gazed into his friend’s eyes. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“She’s supposed to be on the east wall by dawn,” Spartacus said.
Hickok smiled. “Dawn is hours away. I reckon I’ll mosey on over to our cabin and let her know her heartthrob has returned.”
“You go ahead,” Spartacus said. “I’ll be waiting for you here, on top of the wall. I don’t think I could get any sleep anyhow.”
Hickok started to amble off. “Give a yell if you need me.”
“I will,” Spartacus promised. He waited until the gunman was obscured by the night, then he turned and climbed the stairs to the western rampart.
How did Hickok do it? He always remained so cool and confident, even when confronted by the gravest danger. Nothing seemed to bother the gunfighter. Or did it really affect him, and he only pretended to be indifferent? Whatever the case, Spartacus was now wholeheartedly happy the gunman was back.
Spartacus wondered how he would fare in the battle ahead. He had fought scavengers, mutates, and Trolls in the past, but never a threat of this magnitude before. Neither had most of the Warriors. Their crucible of combat loomed with the rising of the fiery sun. If the Warriors proved unworthy, the Family would fade into oblivion, its memory erased from the historical record of humanity with few to mourn its passing. The wind from the north gusted again, and for the first time that night Spartacus felt the cold. He shivered.
Chapter Nine
Kurt Carpenter, the immensely wealthy filmmaker responsible for constructing the survival site he dubbed “the Home,” and for organizing his followers into “the Family,” had wanted to make the postwar transition as smooth as possible. Carpenter attempted to forsee the Family’s future needs and provide for them. He projected a breakdown of law and order, and proceeded to amass an extensive weapons collection to insure the Family’s survival. He considered an enormous library essential to the Family’s welfare. How else were they to obtain the knowledge crucial for maintaining the basic necessities of life? Close to half a million books were stocked in E Block: books on gardening, hunting, fishing, and metalsmithing, natural medicine, herbal healing, geography, history, and religion and philosophy, the martial arts, military tactics, and photographic books, encyclopedias, dictionaries, sundry reference books and much, much more.
Carpenter also left them the SEAL. The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle— SEAL, as it became known—cost Carpenter millions upon millions. Of revolutionary design, it ran on solar power collected by a pair of unique panels on the roof of the van-like vehicle. Its body was constructed of impervious plastic, shatterproof and heat-resistant, tinted green and designed to prevent anyone outside the transport from seeing within. Six extraordinary batteries, each with an unlimited life span, capable of being recharged countless times, were stored in a lead-lined case under the SEAL. Four huge tires served to convey the vehicle over any terrain. The SEAL had been Carpenter’s pride and joy.
The Family saw it as an irreplaceable blessing. Without it, they would not be able to travel great distances from the Home. With it, they could go virtually anywhere. Its indestructible body shielded the occupants from harm, and Carpenter’s modifications turned the SEAL into an awesome dreadnaught.
Carpenter had hired several mercenaries, skilled weapons specialists, and told them to make the SEAL unstoppable. They did their best. A pair of 50-caliber machine guns were mounted on the vehicle, one under each headlight. A miniaturized surface-to-air missile, dubbed a STINGER, was fitted in the roof above the driver’s seat. At the flip of a toggle switch, a roof panel would slide aside, the missile would slant upward on its launch track, and presto! A flamethrower was positioned behind the center of the front fender, an Army Surplus model with a range of 20 feet. As if all of this weren’t enough, a rocket launcher was secreted in the middle of the front grill. Shielded against the heat from the flamethrower, the rocket would emerge from its concealed compartment at the flick of the appropriate switch.
When it came to offensive weaponry, Blade reflected, the SEAL was armed to the proverbial teeth. He skillfully drove the transport south on U.S. Highway 287, avoiding the ruts and potholes in the road. The highways in the Civilized Zone weren’t in much better shape than those outside the Civilized Zone; a century of neglect had taken its toll.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi sat across from Blade in the bucket seat next to the passenger door. His katana was cradled in his lap. Behind the pair of bucket seats separated by a console was a seat running the width of the vehicle. Yama and Teucer occupied this seat, Yama behind Blade and Teucer behind Rikki. The rear section of the SEAL was devoted to a large storage space for provisions. Curled up on top of the pile of supplies, taking a snooze, was Lynx.
“Where are we now?” Blade asked. Another small town was directly ahead, and like all of the others it was deserted.
“We just passed a sign,” Rikki commented. “I didn’t catch the name.”
“I saw part of it,” offered Teucer. “Something about The Garden Spot of Colorado.”
Blade scanned the sparse landscape on both sides of the highway.
Except for a few trees here and there, there was nothing to compare to a “garden.” Which wasn’t too surprising. One thing he had noted, after many hours of studying the maps and atlases in the Family library, was that the people of long ago picked the weirdest names for places, usually with no semblance of rhyme or reason. Many aspects of the prewar culture were decidedly strange, some even perverse. Small wonder the idiots had almost destroyed the world!
The morning sun was well into the sky.
Blade frowned. There was still no sign of Samuel II or his Army. Lynx had to be right. Samuel II believed the Freedom Federation had one or more thermonuclear devices and was reluctant to engage them.
The SEAL was passing through a business district. They crossed a set of railroad tracks, and Blade wondered whether the trains were still functional. He seriously doubted that they were. The Civilized
Zone’s industrial production was minimal. Utilizing its sparse resources to manufacture trains, when even the necessities were scarce, would be an incredible extravagance.
“Are we going to take a break or keep going?” Teucer inquired.
Blade drove past a bank, a small market, and a couple of restaurants.
Ahead, to his right, was a quaint park. “We’ll take a breather,” he replied. “I want to stretch my legs.”
There was a side street to the left.
Blade slowed and swung onto the side street. He braked the SEAL and turned off the engine. “Have them disperse around that park,” Blade instructed.
Rikki. “We won’t be staying long.” He opened his door and dropped to the ground.
The sun was bright, the air refreshingly chill and light. A raucous flock of starlings was in a nearby tree.
Blade slowly strolled along the street, his hands clasped behind his broad back.
“Do you want any of us to come with you?” Yama called out.
Blade glanced over his right shoulder.
Rikki, Yama, and Teucer were standing near the SEAL, concern on their features.
“No, thanks,” Blade responded. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
The rest of the trucks had stopped on U.S. Highway 287. The Cavalry riders were behind the troop transports.
Blade spotted an alley to his right and walked into it. Dry, reddish-brown dirt swirled around his moccasins. He strolled past several wooden-frame homes and came to a chain-link fence bordering a low wooden structure. On an impulse, he placed his hands on top of the chain-link fence and vaulted to the other side. He followed a cracked cement walk to the front of the low structure. A door to his left was hanging open. He stepped to the doorway and peered inside. The interior was dark and gloomy. Obviously, this building hadn’t been used in years and years. A fine coating of reddish dust covered everything. Sunlight streaming through two narrow windows high on the west wall revealed a wide, clear area on one side and a cluttered workshop on the other. A row of rusty tools—screwdrivers, hammers, saws, and the like—filled the top of a wooden workbench. A pair of antique sawhorses stood near the workbench.
Blade backed from the low structure and glanced at a large green house to his right. The paint on the house was chipped and worn away, particularly around the windows and the eaves. The sidewalk had buckled near the house.
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