Boston Run

by David Robbins

  "What if they don't?"

  "Don't talk like that. The Warriors won't rest until we discover who took Blade and where they're holdin' him."

  Jenny leaned against the jamb and gazed at the trees to the east of the cabin. "I know all of you will try your utmost, and I appreciate your efforts.

  But I'm also sensible enough to realize that I may never see my husband again. Like you said, he's made a lot of enemies. In his capacity as the head of the Warriors, and in his job as the leader of the Force, he's defeated dozens of power-mongers and crazed killers, some of whom are still alive."

  "They'll all get theirs one of these days."

  "I miss him," Jenny declared passionately.

  "So do I."

  She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip.

  Hickok stared at her in dismay, at a loss to know what to do, deeply affected by her grief. "How about if I send my missus over to sit with you a spell?" he suggested.

  "No thanks," Jenny responded. "I'd rather be alone."

  "You shouldn't be by your lonesome at a time like this," the gunman observed. "A person needs friends the most when that person is down in the dumps."

  "Meaning me," Jenny said.

  "If the boot fits," Hickok joked, then became serious. "We weren't put on this loco world to be alone; otherwise there wouldn't be so many folks traipsin' over the landscape. You have a lot of friends, Jenny, and we're here if you need us."

  A glimmer of happiness touched her features. "Thanks."

  "So why don't I have Sherry mosey on over for some chitchat?"

  "Are you sure she won't mind?"

  "Are you kiddin'? Sherry will jump at the chance to get out of our cabin."

  Jenny nodded slowly. "Okay. Send her over. I would like someone to talk to."

  "On my way," Hickok declared, and pivoted to the right. He beamed and waved and ambled around the cabin, bearing to the south. The instant he was out of her sight his expression clouded. He felt like such a hypocrite trying to convince her to look at the bright side of the situation when, in his own heart, he felt they didn't stand a prayer of locating Blade and bringing him back safely. For one thing, too much time had elapsed since the abduction. For another, whoever took Blade had planned the affair meticulously, which meant they had obviously wanted to specifically grab the head Warrior and no one else. Dozens of Family members used the same route Blade had taken on a daily basis, but the only one kidnapped was him. Why? And who could be behind it?

  The gunfighter reflected on the events of the past week as he walked in the direction of his cabin, trying to fit together the pieces of the puzzle for the umpteenth time. Jenny had been right, he decided. It was hard to believe seven days had gone by since his pard disappeared.

  The first inkling he'd had that something was wrong came when his stocky Indian friend and fellow Warrior, Geronimo, raced up to his cabin and yelled that Blade hadn't returned from Halma and was three hours overdue. As Blade's personal pick to be second-in-command of the Warriors during his absences. Hickok had chosen three other Warriors to accompany Geronimo and himself to the small town located approximately eight miles southwest of the Home. Halma had been abandoned during the war. Six years ago the Family had assisted a large group of refugees from the Twin Cities to settle in Halma, and now the two factions were on the best of terms. The leader of the people in Halma, who called themselves the Clan, was a man named Zahner. Blade and Zahner were close friends. On the day Blade vanished, he'd gone to Halma to visit Zahner.

  And never returned.

  Hickok selected Beta Triad to help with the search initially. The eighteen Warriors were divided into six Triads of three Warriors apiece.

  Alpha, Beta, Bravo, Gamma, Omega, and Zulu Triads were, collectively, the fighting arm of the Family, devoted to safeguarding the Home at all costs. Beta Triad consisted of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Yama, and Teucer.

  The five of them followed the dirt road connecting the Home to Highway 59, then took 59 south to Halma. A quick check with Zahner revealed Blade had departed almost four hours before the other Warriors got there.

  The search was on.

  After Hickok, Geronimo, and Beta Triad failed to find any trace of Blade, most of the other Warriors and volunteers from the Home and the Clan combed the countryside until midnight, using lanterns, torches, and the few flashlights in their possession.

  It was as if the earth had swallowed the head Warrior up.

  The next morning they were right back at the job, using every available person, and although they used a thorough grid pattern to cover the terrain, again nothing was found.

  Not until the fourth day had Geronimo located the spot where Blade had been captured. Then the mutant Warriors, the three genetically engineered hybrids who comprised Bravo Triad, had tried to trace the trail by scent and been thwarted by the deer musk. Only this very morning had the mutations finally located the helicopter landing site.

  Poor Jenny and little Gabe.

  Hickok glanced up at the afternoon sun, feeling the warmth on his skin.

  Ordinarily June was one of his favorite months, with the chill of winter long since gone and the lush spring about to give way to the scorching heat of summer. But he scarcely noticed the scenic splendor of the Home as he hastened to his cabin, engrossed in pondering his friend's abduction.

  As near as Geronimo and the hybrids could deduce—and they were the best trackers in the Family—Blade had been walking on the dirt road about three miles from the compound when, for some unknown reason, he'd ventured into the forest to the south of the road. Forty yards into the vegetation was a clearing, and it was there that whoever waited in ambush had jumped the top Warrior. Although the kidnappers had gone to great lengths to eradicate their prints and the signs of a terrific struggle, enough telltale evidence remained to enable Geronimo and the trio of mutations to formulate a plausible scenario.

  Hickok simmered at the recollection. Somehow, some way, someone had suckered his pard into the woods and sprung a trap. At least a dozen enemies had been involved, and Blade had put up quite a fight before they'd taken him prisoner. Thankfully, the vermin had wanted Blade alive.

  But why? Why? Why?

  And who the heck were they?

  The notion of Blade being tortured in a dismal dungeon made Hickok's blood boil. If the Warriors could just find one measly clue establishing the identity of the vermin, he'd lead the rescue mission himself. Maybe it was time to call in help, he speculated. Maybe it was time to notify the rest of the Federation.

  One hundred and six years after World War Three, the country once known as the United States of America no longer existed. Barbarism reigned where previously a seemingly cultured civilization had prevailed.

  Disparate organized factions ruled limited areas or certain cities, but the majority of the U.S. was now designated as the Outlands, referring to any and all territory outside of any recognized jurisdiction. In the Outlands life was cheap, survival of the fittest the law of the land. In the Outlands a life span of 30 qualified as exceptional.

  But not all of the country had degenerated into darkness and savagery.

  There were seven organized factions dedicated to preserving the worthwhile vestiges of prewar society, seven factions who had joined in a mutual defense treaty and dubbed themselves the Freedom Federation.

  Although considerable distances separated many of them, each faction was pledged to dispatch aid to any other member of the alliance when called upon.

  Hickok skirted a stand of trees, mulling over which faction he should contact first.

  The least reliable in a pinch were the Moles, the inhabitants of a subterranean complex located 50 miles east of the Home. Less than a week prior to World War Three, a group of people who were certain that conflict was inevitable had fled far into the Red Lake Wildlife Management area, where they'd believed they would be safe, and dug a series of underground tunnels in which to live. Those tunnels had later been expanded into the complex, and the occupants h
ad become known as the Moles.

  The Clan and the Moles were the only other Federation members who, like the Family, were based in northern Minnesota.

  Far off in Montana the Flathead Indians had reclaimed the former state as their own. Finally free of the white man's yoke, they clung to their newfound freedom tenaciously. They had perfected the art of living naturally off the land, and many of them were excellent hunters, trackers, and trappers.

  Between Minnesota and Montana, in the area now referred to as the Dakota Territory, reigned the Cavalry, an army of superb horsemen who were as indomitable as the wild horses they caught and rode.

  Embracing a number of Plains and Rocky Mountain states and a few in the Southwest, the Civilized Zone owed its existence to the United States Government, which had relocated to Denver, Colorado, after the Russian attack on the nation's capital. The culture and the standard of living in the Civilized Zone came the closest of any Federation member to approximating the prewar lifestyle—although a pale imitation at best—

  with one possible exception.

  The Free State of California. As one of the few states to retain its administrative integrity after the war, and thanks to its abundant resources, California rated as the most technologically progressive in the entire Federation.

  So there they were, Hickok thought to himself, ending his mental review of the Family's allies. Which one should he notify first? Did it even make a difference? Because without a clue as to the head Warrior's whereabouts, the combined might of the Freedom Federation was powerless to free him.

  Blade was on his own.

  Chapter Three

  Berwin had the strangest dream.

  He was walking across an expanse of grass toward a peculiar concrete bunker when a blond man in buckskins approached and addressed him.

  "Howdy, pard."

  "Who are you?" Berwin asked.

  The man in the buckskins laughed and slapped his right thigh. "That's a dandy, pard! I reckon that mangy Injun put you up to it, right?"

  "Why do you talk like that?" Berwin inquired.

  "I don't rightly know what you're gettin' at."

  "Why do you use those odd words?"

  "Ain't you ever heard Wild West lingo before?"

  "No."

  "Then your ears are in for a treat. Actually, I like to palaver this way because I 'm partial to the Old West. Oh, I went through the same schooling as everybody else, and I can shoot the breeze normal-like if I'm in a mind to, but it tickles my fancy to talk this way and drive that mangy Injun loco!"

  The dream abruptly ended and Berwin became aware that someone was shaking his right arm. He opened his eyes and smiled when he saw Nurse Krittenbauer. "Hi, again."

  "Hi, handsome. I have your food," she announced, and motioned at a gray cart beside her on which there was a steaming bowl of soup, two slices of buttered bread, and a glass of milk.

  "What, no steak?"

  "Sorry. But the doctor says you'll have to eat soup for a couple of days, until your stomach adjusts to solids again. In three or four days you might be able to have a steak," Nancy explained.

  Berwin sat up. "Bring on the soup. I'm so hungry, I don't care what I get to eat."

  "Chicken noodle soup is the soup of the day," Nancy informed him.

  "Tomorrow you'll get pea soup."

  "Yummy," Berwin said dryly.

  Nurse Krittenbauer reached down and removed a tray from the second shelf on the cart, then neatly arranged the tray on his lap. "You dozed off again," she commented while she transferred the bowl to the tray.

  "I'm bored just lying here. I need exercise."

  "Have any interesting dreams?" she inquired offhandedly.

  "Nothing much," Berwin responded, leaning forward to sniff the tantalizing aroma from the soup.

  "Like what?" Nancy asked as she placed the bread and the milk alongside the bowl.

  "I had this strange dream about a really weird guy who talked like he was a reject from the days of the Old West," Berwin divulged, his forehead creasing. "There I go again."

  "Beg pardon?"

  Berwin looked at her. "Why is it I can remember nonsense about the ancient American West, but I can't recall my own past?"

  Nurse Krittenbauer shrugged. "Amnesia works that way, sometimes.

  Just certain parts of the brain are affected."

  "It drives me nuts," Berwin said. He took the spoon she handed him and began eating, savoring every delicious mouthful, pausing long enough to comment, "This is the best chicken noodle soup I've ever tasted."

  She smiled. "I bet your mother makes chicken soup just as good."

  "I wouldn't know," Berwin said, eating contentedly.

  Nurse Krittenbauer studied his features for a reaction to her remark.

  "Because you don't remember a thing about your folks?"

  "It's not likely anyone could make soup as tasty as this is," Berwin said.

  "Enjoy. I'll be back for the cart in five minutes," she told him, and departed.

  Berwin polished off the soup, the bread, and the milk in no time flat. He placed the metal tray on the cart and stretched. The meal had barely served to whet his appetite, and he wished he could have the steak then instead of waiting a couple of days. Still feeling hungry and unaccountably restless, he swung his feet to the cool floor and glanced at the door, which was closed. The nurse would undoubtedly be upset if she found him walking about the room, but he needed to get up and move. The earlier dizziness had cleared entirely, and he was confident he could walk around without aggravating his condition.

  "Here goes nothing," he said aloud.

  Berwin rose slowly. He tentatively took a step forward, past the cart, delighted at how strong and fit he felt. How soon would they allow him to go outside? he wondered, and turned to gaze out the window situated behind the head of the bed. Something else drew his attention from the window to the left-hand corner.

  A closet.

  He hadn't noticed the closet before, and curiosity compelled him to step around the bed and investigate. If his clothes and personal affects were in there, they might jar his memory. Any remembrance would be preferable to the clean slate that mocked him every time he probed his mind. He opened the closet door and blinked in surprise at finding it empty.

  Where were his clothes?

  His glance strayed to the full-length mirror attached to the inner door panel, and he saw himself for the first time since awakening from the coma. Amazement replaced his surprise. He hadn't realized how huge he was, easily seven feet in height and endowed with a prodigious physique bulging with layers of rippling muscles. His eyes were gray, his hair dark.

  The loosefitting gown added to the impression of size, and the sight caused him to compare his appearance to a tent he'd seen once at…

  Where?

  Berwin clenched his brawny hands in anger. For a second, a gut-wrenching second, a genuine memory almost surfaced. He waited, breathing shallowly, hoping to remember, but drew a blank.

  "What the hell are you doing out of bed?"

  The harsh voice startled him, and he turned sheepishly, as if he was a young boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I wanted a little exercise."

  Nurse Krittenbauer stood in the doorway, her displeasure transparent, and pointed at the bed. "Get back in there right now."

  Berwin complied, propping his pillow so he could sit upright comfortably, conscious of her watching him.

  "What were you doing in the closet?" she asked as she came over to the cart.

  "I was hoping to find my clothes. Where are they?"

  "Do you have any idea what shape your clothes were in when they brought you here?" Krittenbauer queried, and gave the answer before he could reply. "They were torn up and covered with blood and dirt. Your shirt was ruined, your pants were split down the left leg, and your boots were in pitiful condition. None of your clothing was worth saving."

  "Oh," Berwin said lamely.

  "I'm afraid I'll have to tell the docto
r that you disobeyed orders," she admonished him.

  Berwin folded his arms and watched the nurse wheel the cart from the room. If they expected him to remain in bed for more than a few days, they were mistaken. He felt too good, too healthy, to stay idle very long. He wanted to get into the swing of things, to return to his job, as soon as he could. The head injury had been sustained three months ago. Surely in…

  Head injury?

  Berwin looked at the closet. He couldn't see himself in the mirror from where he sat, but he could recall his image, particularly his hair, and there hadn't been any hair missing or a scar, no evidence whatsoever of the operation he'd supposedly had. He reached up and gingerly ran his right hand through his hair, his fingers covering every square inch. Not until he touched his crown did he discover the scar. His hair had been shaved in a pencil thin horseshoe shape from near the nape of his neck to the top of the head, with the curved contours of the horseshoe conforming to the shape of his crown. He could feel the slight indentation where his skin had been sewn back together. The stitches must have been removed months ago.

  So there had been an operation after all.

  Puzzled, Berwin folded his hands in his lap. Why was he so suspicious of Doctor Milton? Why did he automatically assume the story about his operation was a lie? Why did he persist in requiring confirmation of every little detail? Was he paranoid by nature? Or was there a deeper, unknown reason? To continue to doubt the physician and the nurse, without a justifiable motivation, would be foolish. And yet he couldn't shake a persistent feeling that something was wrong.

  Maybe the problem was all in his head.

  Maybe the accident had affected his ability to reason normally.

  Berwin sighed and closed his eyes. He'd never been so confused in all his life. But then, how would he know that if he couldn't remember his life? It was no wonder he felt continually frustrated, and his impatience with his condition was growing by the hour. He heard the doorknob turning and opened his eyes.