Madman Run

by David Robbins

  DEATH FROM THE SKIES

  Geronimo raised his hand over his eyes and squinted. "What are those things attached to the bottom of its wings?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine," Blade said, and saw the aircraft arc into the heavens again. As it did, a small spherical object dropped from the right wing directly toward them. Blade's intuition flared, and he gave his friends a shove. "Into the forest! Move!"

  Confused, Geronimo and Hickok nonetheless trusted the giant's judgment enough to obey him instantly and without question. They darted to the northwest.

  Blade raced on their heels, his gray eyes glued to the spherical object.

  When it was 15 feet from the soil, he threw himself to the ground and bellowed, "Get down!"

  Again the pair complied, and not a moment too soon. For when they hit the ground, a blast with the force of a quarter-ton of dynamite rent the air and rocked the ground…

  Madman Run

  #26 in the Endworld series

  David Robbins

  Dedicated to…

  Judy, Joshua, and Shane.

  To everyone who remembers

  those scary Saturday afternoon matinees.

  Oh. And to the memory of

  H.G. Wells. His imagination

  has inspired so many.

  A LEISURE BOOK® June 1991 Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 276 Fifth Avenue New York, NY

  Copyright 1991 By David L. Robbins

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  * * * * * *

  Dear Plato:

  Hi.

  Enclosed is the file you requested. I had to go into the basement to find it. No one has read this particular one in many years, and I was extremely surprised when you asked for it.

  Although you are probably as familiar with the facts as I am, I thought it might help to refresh both our memories and provide some background.

  All three of them were in their midteens at the time. Blade had just turned 16, according to the records. This was the fourth of their little adventures and the one that affected Blade the most.

  As usual, I employed a subjective style instead of an objective narrative. History should be vibrant, not dull.

  Knowing you as well as I do, I took the liberty of going through the archives for the other files related to Blade's travels during the same period. If you desire to see them, I'll be happy to send them over.

  By the way, does Blade know you're doing this? He doesn't take kindly to anyone prying into his past without a good reason. I know the files are official records open to every Family member, but it's a privilege that should not be abused, even by our esteemed leader.

  Does this have anything to do with the recent incident involving Blade's son Gabe and that mutated black bear? If so, I understand your motive. Will you give this to Blade before or after you read it? Heh-heh.

  Well, I've rambled enough. Stop by and visit me sometime. I get lonely with no one to talk to.

  Respectfully,

  RLD

  The Chronicler

  Chapter One

  The scorching July sun was perched at its zenith above the northern Minnesota landscape. A slight breeze provided scant relief from the heat, occasionally stirring a leaf in the verdant forest. Birds sang gaily and insects buzzed, indicating there were no predators abroad.

  Three youths were hiking to the southeast at a brisk pace, despite the temperature. All three carried backpacks, and all three were armed to the proverbial teeth.

  In the lead walked a teenager whose features revealed his Indian ancestry. The blood of the Blackfeet flowed in his veins, and perhaps it was due to his biological inheritance that he had always excelled at hunting and trapping. He wore torn jeans and a faded blue T-shirt that fit his stocky frame snugly. Tucked under his brown leather belt were two tomahawks, one on either hip. He held a Winchester 30-30 in his left hand.

  "Whose bright idea was this, anyway?" he asked while swatting a fly the size of his thumb.

  "It wasn't mine, pard," replied the second youth in line. His hair was blond, and a thin moustache just beginning to take shape on his upper lip was the same color. He wore buckskins that served to accent his alert blue eyes. Strapped around his slim waist were a pair of Colt Python .357

  Magnum revolvers sporting pearl handles. "Blame this on Mikey."

  "The new name is Blade, remember?" stated the third member of their party, a giant standing six-feet eight-inches tall and endowed with a herculean physique. A black leather vest and jeans scarcely contained his bulging muscles. Around his waist were two matched Bowie knives, while slung over his left shoulder was a Marlin 45-70. His hair was dark, his eyes a penetrating shade of gray.

  "Well, excuse me for living," the blond gunman said. "I've been calling you Mikey since we were knee-high to a grasshopper. Just because you had your Naming last week doesn't mean I'll automatically stop."

  "You will if you know what's good for you," Blade declared.

  The gunman halted and turned. "Was that a threat?"

  "It was a promise," the giant said.

  "Oh, brother. Here we go again," the Indian interjected, looking at the gunman. "Hickok, he's right and you know it. You don't like us to call you Nathan any more, so have the decency to call Mikey by his new name." He grinned broadly.

  "I reckon you have a point, Lone Elk," Hickok said. "Too bad your Naming isn't for a couple of months yet. Have you picked the one you want?"

  "I've decided to take the name Geronimo."

  The young gunfighted cackled. "Leave it to you to pick the name of a bloodthirsty Injun. Why couldn't you select something civilized?"

  Lone Elk straightened indignantly. "Like what, for instance?"

  "Oh, I don't know. How about Percival or Barney?"

  "If they're such great names, why didn't you pick one for yourself?"

  "Because I like a handle with class."

  "You know what you can do with your class."

  Hickok pretended to be offended. "Why are you being so touchy? It was the Founder who said a person's name should reflect their personality. I can't help it if you're more the Percival type than a Geronimo." He glanced at the giant. "What do you think, Mikey?"

  "Leave me out of this," Blade responded. He walked past them and took the lead, refusing to become embroiled in yet another senseless argument over their names. Although the three of them were the best of friends, they still found plenty to bicker about, especially after they'd been hiking for miles through dense woodland in 100 plus degree weather.

  Blade was proud of his new name. He'd spent countless hours narrowing down a list of those he liked the most and had finally chosen the one that best described his outlook on life and his preference in weapons. Ever since the age of four or five, he'd entertained a fascination with edged arms of every type, and over the years he'd become extremely proficient in the use of all the knives, swords and daggers in the huge Family armory. So it was only natural for him to take a name that typified his passion.

  The way he saw it, he owed a debt of gratitude to the long-deceased Founder of the Home, Kurt Carpenter, the man who had constructed the 30-acre survivalist retreat in northwestern Minnesota shortly before the outbreak of World War III. A wealthy film maker who realized the inevitability of nuclear conflict after the liberal Russian president was deposed by militant hard-liners, Carpenter h
ad spent millions on his pet project. It was he who first dubbed the compound the Home and designated his select band of followers as the Family, and for 92 years they'd survived in a world deranged by radioactive and chemical toxins.

  Carpenter had instituted many unique social reforms designed to stabilize the new society, and among them was the ceremony known as the Naming. Because he had worried that subsequent generations would lose sight of their historical roots, he'd encouraged all parents to have their children search through history books and choose the name of any historical personage they admired as their very own, a name they were formally christened with on their 16th birthday. The practice was later changed to allow those undergoing such a special event to select the name from any source they liked or even to adopt one of their own devising, as Blade had done.

  The young giant suddenly halted and cocked his head. He belatedly realized that all the birds and insects were quiet, which could only mean trouble. Unslinging his Marlin, he surveyed the forest but saw nothing to arouse alarm.

  Hickok and Lone Elk were 20 feet away, still going at it.

  Blade shrugged and continued trekking in the direction he hoped to find the castle mentioned in the Founder's diary. Carpenter had meticulously noted every item of interest in a daily log, and one of those items talked about a mysterious castle belonging to an eccentric recluse who lived 15 miles from the Home. The cryptic reference had aroused Blade's curiosity, and he'd persuaded his friends to do a little exploring with him to see if the castle still stood.

  "Hey, Mikey!" the gunfighter yelled. "Wait for us."

  Halting, Blade turned and regarded them critically as they jogged up to him. "This isn't the time or place for your petty squabbles," he said.

  "Whoa! Who died and made you boss?" Hickok quipped.

  "As you pointed out, this was my brainstorm. So by rights I should take charge," Blade noted.

  "We're both Warriors. I don't see why you should lord it over us just because you had an idea for once."

  "What about me?" Lone Elk interjected. "I can lead, too."

  Hickok snorted. "You don't count. You're not even a Warrior yet."

  "But I will be soon," Lone Elk pointed out.

  Blade smiled. "I bet you can hardly wait."

  "You don't know the half of it."

  But Blade did have an excellent idea of the excitement his friend felt.

  After all, he'd felt the very same way when it came time for the Family Elders to decide on his nomination.

  The Warrior class consisted of twelve Family members who were carefully screened not only for their ability as fighters, but for their temperament and intelligence as well. They were diligently trained under the tutelage of a retired Warrior in everything from the martial arts to combat psychology. Because of a recent mishap, three vacancies had developed. Blade and Hickok had applied and were accepted, and shortly it would be Lone Elk's turn.

  "If you ask me, we don't need someone in charge," Lone Elk stated. "It's not like we're on official Family business. All we're doing is taking a day to goof off."

  "Speak for yourself, twinkle-toes," Hickok responded. "I'm a Warrior now. I never goof off."

  Lone Elk unexpectedly leaned down and inspected the grass at their feet.

  "What the blazes are you doing?" Hickok demanded.

  "Making a note of this spot. I want to return next week and see how well you've fertilized it."

  Blade chuckled and marched onward, eager to reach their destination.

  If they didn't spot the castle soon, they'd have to head back to avoid being abroad after dark—not that they were afraid—but at night the predators and mutations were out in force, and anyone foolish enough to roam around courted death or risked being maimed.

  The eerie stillness persisted. Not so much as a bee buzzed.

  "Have you guys noticed how quiet it is?" Blade asked.

  "Yeah. And I don't like it," Lone Elk said.

  "What's the big deal?" Hickok wanted to know. "We'll blow away anything stupid enough to mess with us." His hands hovered near his Pythons.

  Lone Elk stopped. "Did you hear that?"

  "I didn't hear nothing," Hickok said. "Your mind is playin' tricks on you."

  As if deliberately trying to prove the gunfighter wrong, howls and snarls erupted from a dense thicket to the west, and a moment later a feral pack of mutations burst from cover and charged.

  Chapter Two

  They resembled coyotes in shape and size, but there any resemblance ended. Hideously transformed by an unknown agent, the nine creatures loping toward the three humans lived purely to kill. Their bodies were hairless and covered with sores that oozed a yellowish-green pus. Their teeth were bared, their eyes blazing like miniature beacons of blood-crazed insanity.

  Blade had seen such horrors before. The Family referred to such creatures as mutates. None of the Elders knew what caused them to exist, although Blade's father and another man who was called Plato had often speculated the chemical weapons employed during the war were somehow responsible. If radiation was the culprit, so the reasoning went, then there would be humans similarly affected, and there wasn't a single report in the entire Family history of a human mutate. As far as anyone knew, only reptiles, amphibians and mammals were mysteriously altered. Never had anyone observed a mutated bird or insect. Since the war, the mutate population had grown dramatically to the point where they were a serious threat to all travelers, day or night. Plato, the wisest member of the Family, believed the mutates were increasing by geometric progression, and he was eager to secure a live juvenile specimen for analysis.

  Unfortunately, the only way to get one was to kill it.

  The young giant pressed the Marlin to his right shoulder, sighted on the foremost mutate, and fired.

  Struck in the head, the lead coyote was flipped backwards by the impact of the slug. Other members of the pack collided with it, causing momentary confusion.

  Lone Elk opened up with the Winchester, levering off two shots in rapid succession, the sharp retorts producing two dead beasts.

  Leaving six.

  Blade was aiming at another onrushing form when Hickok moved around him. He held his fire, the Marlin still raised to provide cover if need be, but as he anticipated, his help wasn't required.

  The blond youth's hands streaked those gleaming Colts from their holsters and twin shots sounded as one. Three times the gunman stroked each hammer, and after the six shots there were six twitching, dying mutates stretched out on the grass. Each one had been shot in the head between the eyes. Dead center between the eyes. Grinning, Hickok ambled toward the pack, ready to finish off any that tried to rise. None did.

  Lone Elk glanced at Blade and said softly, "If he gets any faster he'll have to change his name to lightning." Then he looked at the gunman and declared, "You could have saved some for us."

  "I can't help it if you're as slow as molasses," Hickok retorted, in the act of prodding each coyote with a toe.

  "Don't get smart with us, ding-a-ling. We know your secret," Lone Elk said.

  "What secret?"

  "Your so-called quick draw is a trick done with mirrors."

  "Anytime you feel inclined to try and outdraw my mirrors, feel free to let me know."

  Lone Elk stepped forward to help check the bodies. "You'd shoot little ol' me?" he asked innocently.

  "Of course not. Oh, I might crease your head, but it's so swelled up you'd never notice the difference."

  Blade surveyed the woods in case there were more mutates in hiding.

  Nothing moved, and he relaxed a bit. "We'd better get going," he urged.

  "If there are scavengers in the area, they're bound to have heard the shots."

  Hickok looked up and smirked. "There you go again, trying to take charge."

  "You can't blame him," Lone Elk said. "It's in his veins. His dad is our Leader, after all."

  "And one day Mikey might follow in daddy's footsteps," the gunfighter joked.

 
; "I have no intention of becoming the Leader of the Family," Blade asserted stiffly. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

  "You can tell us until you're blue in the face, pard, but we won't believe you."

  "Why not?"

  "Because we know you," Hickok said. Satisfied the mutates were all dead, he began to reload the Magnums.

  "And what does that mean?" Blade demanded.

  "It means you're a rotten liar. Deep down you really do want to become Leader some day."

  "You're nuts."

  "Hey, Lone Elk agrees with me," Hickok said, glancing at the Blackfoot.

  "Don't you?"

  "Are you talking to me?" Lone Elk rejoined.

  "No, I'm talkin' to one of the blamed critters," the gunman muttered, then raised his voice. "Of course I'm talkin' to you, mutton head."

  "If you care to address me, from now on you'll call me by my new name."

  "You want me to call you Geronimo?"

  "Yes."

  Hickok paused, a cartridge in his left hand. "But you haven't had your Naming yet."

  "So? I will, soon. And since Mike and you already have your new names, I want you to call me by mine."

  "Forget it, dimwit."

  "What harm can calling me by my new name do, yoyo?"

  "Technically you don't have a new name until after the ceremony, and I aim to abide by the rules until then."

  "Suit yourself, Nathan," the stocky teen said, using the name bestowed on the gunman by his parents, and walked off.

  "Of all the childish antics," Hickok protested. He swung toward the giant. "What do you say?"

  "I say we humor him. If he wants to be called Geronimo, it's fine with me."

  "Some attitude for a future Leader."

  "If you keep bringing that up, you won't have a future," Blade chided and followed Geronimo.

  Hickok trailed after them, still reloading. "Well, don't expect me to break the rules. As far as I'm concerned, Lone Elk is Lone Elk until the Naming is over."

  "Do whatever you think is best," Blade said.

  "Besides, I still figure he'd make a better Percival."

  They traveled another mile and neared a hill with a bald crown. A hawk soared on the air currents to their right, and a pair of deer fled at their approach.