Nevada Run

by David Robbins

  Someone snickered to Giorgio’s rear.

  “That’s showing him, Boss!” Manzo said excitedly.

  Giorgio turned.

  Manzo stood three feet away, a Springfield Armory MIA rifle held loosely along his right side, idly gazing at the blood spurting from Ted’s ruptured kneecaps.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Giorgio said.

  Manzo looked up. “About what?”

  “This,” Giorgio stated, and shot Manzo in the stomach. He kept firing until all 25 rounds in the clip were expended, even after Manzo was down, and he grinned as he watched Manzo’s body flopping and convulsing as it was hit again and again and again.

  Ozzi was laughing.

  “A good button man should be seen and not heard,” Giorgio said, addressing the corpse contemptuously, then stalked to the jeep. “Let’s hit the road,” he announced. “We have a long ride ahead of us.”

  “What about Manzo’s piece?” Ozzi asked.

  “Leave it,” Giorgio barked. “We don’t need it.” He slid into the jeep and glanced back at Mindy. “My plan worked like a charm.”

  Sacks took his seat behind the wheel. “I never doubted you for a minute, Boss,” he said.

  Giorgio ran his eyes up and down Mindy’s attractive figure, then snickered. “Yes, sir! The trip back to Vegas is going to be a hell of a lot more interesting than the one coming out. Too bad Manzo won’t be around to get a piece of the action.” He cackled at his joke.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The giant stood on the rampart above the drawbridge situated in the center of the west wall of the Home and surveyed the cleared field beyond.

  His massive arms were folded across his huge chest, his muscles, even at rest, bulging in stark relief. He was wearing a black leather vest, green fatigue pants, and black combat boots. Around his waist was strapped a matched set of Bowies, one big knife on each hip. A comma of dark hair dangled over his brooding gray eyes.

  He was worried.

  What was he supposed to do?

  The strain of living a dual life was beginning to take its toll, not on him but his marriage. His wife was miserable, and he couldn’t bear to see her upset. Jenny and his son Gabe mattered more to him than anyone else in the world. He wanted to see them both happy, but Jenny could never be content with the status quo. And he couldn’t blame her for her attitude because he was the reason for it. Or rather, his job was.

  His two jobs.

  He hadn’t foreseen how difficult the task would be to juggle two positions at the same time. On the one hand, he was the head of the Warriors, pledged to safeguard the Family from any and all threats. And on the other hand, he was in charge of the Freedom Force, the elite tactical squad based in California. The Force, as it was known, had been the brainchild of the leaders of the Freedom Federation, the league of seven widespread factions devoted to preserving the fragments of civilization, to establishing order after 105 years of relative chaos. All thanks to the holocaust of World War Three.

  Initially, he had moved Jenny and Gabe to California, to Los Angeles.

  But Jenny hated the city life; After so many years of togetherness and tranquility at the Home, she found the hustle and bustle of one of the few remaining major metropolises to be a constant source of anxiety. She also didn’t like the fact he was seldom home, which essentially left her alone in a vast city of strangers.

  The way he saw his problem, there were several choices. He could quit the Force or stop being the top Warrior, allowing him to spend more precious time with his wife and son. Or he could convince Jenny to return to the Home and continue his monthly trip to the compound, flying from LA to Minnesota on board one of the two VTOLs California possessed. The remarkable jets, with their vertical-take-off-and-landing capability, were utilized as a regular shuttle and courier service between the various Federation Factions. The aircraft were a godsend. What with the Family, the Clan, and the Moles in northern Minnesota, the Flathead Indians in Montana, the Cavalry in the Dakota Territory, the Civilized Zone in the Midwest, and the former state of California all comprising the Freedom Federation, they needed a means of traversing great distances rapidly and safely. Traveling overland between the factions was extremely dangerous; the barbaric Outlands were populated by savage bands of men and mutants.

  So what should he…

  There was a commotion on the rampart to his right, and he twisted to find another Warrior jogging toward him. The newcomer was a lanky man dressed in buckskins, with long blond hair and a sweeping blond mustache, keen blue eyes, and a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers snug in their respective holsters.

  “Hey, pard!” the gunman called out.

  “What is it?” the giant asked, lowering his arms.

  “Take a gander, Blade,” the gunman directed, pointing to the west.

  “What do you reckon that’s all about?”

  Blade gazed westward. The Family diligently kept the fields surrounding their walled compound stripped of all vegetation for 150 yards to discourage any hostile attack. The 20-foot-high brick walls topped with sharp barbed wire afforded an excellent view of all approaches. No one could cross the fields without being seen. Just past the fields the dense forest began, unbroken for miles and miles except for the crude dirt road the Family and the Clan had constructed running from the Home to Highway 59.

  And there on the road, barreling toward the Home at a reckless speed, stirring up a cloud of dust in the process, was an old flatbed truck.

  Blade’s eyes narrowed. He recognized that truck. The Clan had received the vehicle in trade with the Civilized Zone. All seven Federation factions now engaged in periodic trade and barter sessions. The Family often traded vegetables, venison jerky, buckskin clothing sewn together by the Weavers, and other items for commodities the other factions owned in abundance.

  “That hombre is going like a bat out of hell,” the gunfighter commented in his typical Western idiom.

  “This could be trouble,” Blade mentioned.

  “Do you want me to sound the alarm?” the gunman asked.

  Blade reflected for a moment. Why should he arouse the Family and interrupt whatever the rest of the Warriors were doing without justification? The Warriors in Beta Triad were probably still sleeping; Rikki, Yama, and Teucer had been on wall duty during the night, and it was only midmorning. “No, Hickok,” Blade said. “We won’t get everybody all excited until we know what’s going on.”

  “Makes sense to me, pard,” Hickok declared.

  The truck was several hundred yards off, swerving and bouncing as the driver hit a series of bumps and ruts.

  “We really should have made that road a mite smoother,” Hickok observed. “It’s murder on the kidneys.”

  “We did the best we could considering we don’t have any heavy construction equipment,” Blade remarked. He leaned out over the edge of the rampart, careful not to entangle himself in the barbed wire, and insured the drawbridge was down so the truck could enter. The drawbridge opened outward from the brick wall, permitting access to the Home over the inner moat. The Founder of the Home, a man named Kurt Carpenter, had diverted a stream into the northwest corner of the compound and channeled the water along the inner base of all four walls, then out the southeast corner. The moat was yet another of the defenses the Founder had incorporated into the design of his survivalist retreat immediately prior to the war.

  “Should we mosey down and see what the fuss is all about?” Hickok inquired.

  “Let’s,” Blade said.

  “What about Geronimo?” Hickok questioned.

  Blade hesitated. Together, Hickok, Geronimo, and himself composed Alpha Triad. The Warriors were divided into triads to increase their efficiency; the three Warriors in each of the six triads became the closest of friends and functioned as supremely deadly, tight-knit teams. He knew Geronimo was patrolling the ramparts, and was most likely somewhere on the east wall. Since the walls enclosed an area 30 acres in size. Geronimo would not return for another t
en minutes. “If we need him, I’ll send for him,” Blade said, and hurried to the stairs leading from the rampart to the inner bank of the moat. He descended quickly and crossed to the bridge, the gunman at his side.

  “I just hope the cow chip doesn’t run over somebody,” Hickok commented.

  Nearby, the Family members were busily involved in their everyday activities. While the eastern half of the compound was preserved in a natural state for agricultural purposes, the western half contained the enormous concrete blocks the Founder had built to withstand the devastation of the war, and was where the Family generally congregated and socialized.

  The flatbed was now less than a hundred yards away and closing.

  “We’ll meet him outside,” Blade said, and hastened across the drawbridge to the field.

  “How do we know it’s a guy?” Hickok noted. “It could be a gal.”

  “Could be,” Blade agreed.

  Whoever was driving was pushing the vehicle to its limits. The engine was roaring and belching puffs of smoke out the exhaust.

  “Maybe we should put up a Stop sign at the edge of the trees,” Hickok quipped. “We don’t want hot-rodders tearing up the Home.”

  Blade glanced at the gunfighter. “Where did you learn about hot-rodders?”

  “In the library. Where else?” Hickok responded.

  Kurt Carpenter had stocked one of the concrete blocks with hundreds of thousands of books. He had realized his descendants would require knowledge if they were to persevere after World War Three, and he had filled his library with volumes on every conceivable subject. The Family members prized the books as their primary means of education and as a source of entertainment. The photographic books depicting life before the Big Blast, as they referred to the war, were especially valued. Blade pondered all of this as he watched the flatbed come to a screeching stop not 15 feet away. “Let’s go,” he said, running up to the driver’s door.

  The window was down, revealing the features of the leader of the Clan.

  Zahner was his name, and he had fine brown hair parted on the left, blue eyes, a cleft in the middle of his upper lip, and a square jaw. He took one look at the Warriors and motioned for them to climb in.

  “Hurry!” he goaded them.

  “Not so fast,” Blade stated. “Is the Clan under attack?”

  “No,” Zahner said. “But two of my people are dead and Mindy is missing. We think she’s been kidnapped.”

  “Mindy? Kidnapped?” Blade said in disbelief. He started around the cab. “Hickock!” he ordered. “Now you can sound the alarm. Assemble all of the Warriors and man all of the walls. Don’t let anyone out of the compound until you hear from me. And run a check to see if anyone besides Mindy is missing.”

  “Will do, pard,” Hickok promised. “What do I tell Helen?”

  Blade, about to open the passenger door, paused, his lips compressing.

  “Don’t say a word to her yet. Not until we find out what’s happened.”

  Hickok nodded his understanding, wheeled, and sprinted into the Home.

  Blade climbed up into the cab and slammed the door.

  “Hang on,” Zahner advised, tramping on the gas and executing a tight U-turn. The flatbed raced toward Highway 59.

  “Fill me in,” Blade instructed the Clan leader.

  “The details are still sketchy,” Zahner said, bouncing on the seat as the truck struck a rut. “You’ll need to talk to Ted.” He frowned. “If he can talk.”

  “Ted? Isn’t he the one Mindy’s been seeing?” Blade inquired. “Helen mentioned they are getting quite serious about their intentions.”

  “Ted’s the one,” Zahner confirmed. He was wearing faded, patched jeans and a blue shirt.

  “Tell me what you know,” Blade reiterated.

  “I was at home with Becky about an hour ago when a runner showed up at my door,” Zahner detailed, keeping his eyes on the road. “As you know, not all of the Clan live within the Halma town limits. A lot of my people live outside of Halma. They’ve built their own homes or taken over abandoned property. Anyway, a family living south of town apparently heard some gunfire this morning. Automatic gunfire.” He swerved to avoid a bump.

  “Go on,” Blade said.

  “The husband and his oldest son went to investigate,” Zahner continued. “They found Ted barely alive and another couple, Faron and Grace, dead.”

  “What about Mindy?”

  “Ted’s parents told me Mindy had dropped by early this morning,” Zahner replied. “Evidently the two couples got together and decided to go for a stroll. You know how it is when you’re young and in love. But to answer your question, no, there was no sign of Mindy.”

  “Were they armed?” Blade asked. None of the Family members were allowed to venture outside the Home unless they were armed or escorted by a Warrior.

  Zahner nodded. “Yep. Ted and Faron weren’t dummies. Ted took his dad’s shotgun and Faron had a revolver. Fat lot of good it did them.”

  “Will Ted live?”

  “I don’t know,” Zahner said. “We don’t have Healers, like your Family does, but we do have some people skilled in the herbal arts. Ted is being treated right now. They took him to the building we’re using as our town hall. I jumped in the truck and took off the first chance I got.”

  “I appreciate it,” Blade stated. “The sooner we act, the better. Do we know who shot them yet?”

  “No,” Zahner said. “Ted wasn’t able to talk before I left. I have search parties out looking for Mindy and their attackers.”

  “What makes you think Mindy was kidnapped?” Blade queried.

  “Ted,” Zahner said.

  “But you just said you weren’t able to talk to him,” Blade noted.

  “I wasn’t,” Zahner explained. “But he was mumbling a lot, almost in shock. He said something about Mindy being taken.”

  “If someone took Mindy,” Blade vowed, “they’ll pay. No one attacks the Family or any of our allies with impunity.”

  “I just hope Ted doesn’t die before he can fill us in,” Zahner mentioned.

  They drove in silence for a while, the truck eating up the distance between the Home and Highway 59.

  “I wonder if the Russians could be behind it,” Zahner commented.

  “I doubt it,” Blade said. The Russians controlled a large section of what was once the eastern United States, and the Reds and the Family had clashed before. Each time the Russians had lost, and they were determined to eradicate the Family at all costs.

  “Why?” Zahner wanted to know. “The Russians sent a commando squad here once before, remember? Specifically to kidnap one of your Family, as I recall.”

  “True,” Blade conceded. “But they failed, and I can’t see them trying the same scheme twice. When they strike back at us, they’ll come up with a bigger and better idea. Besides, why would they take Mindy? She’s, what, nineteen? She wouldn’t be able to give them much information.”

  “The Russians wouldn’t know that,” Zahner said, disputing the Warrior. “But even if the Russians aren’t responsible, it could be any of the other enemies we’ve made over the years.”

  “You’ve got a point there,” Blade admitted.

  “Whoever did this wanted someone from the Home,” Zahner observed.

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Blade said.

  “Don’t I? Why were only my people shot? If whoever attacked them wanted women, why was Grace killed? Are you trying to tell me it was just coincidence that the only one left alive was Mindy? That the only one apparently kidnapped was from your Family?” Zahner countered.

  Blade stared at the Clan leader, musing. Zahner might have a point, and the implications were unsettling.

  “I don’t see how you do it,” Zahner said.

  “Do what?”

  “Take all the pressure,” Zahner said. “I mean, here you are, the head of the Warriors, responsible for the lives of around a hundred people at the Home, and you go and take the added res
ponsibility of leading the Freedom Force. I just don’t see how you take on all the pressure. It’s rough for me sometimes, knowing so many lives depend on my judgment.”

  “You have more people to look out for,” Blade reminded the Clansman.

  “Don’t you have about five hundred in the Clan?”

  “Five hundred and three, to be exact,” Zahner said.

  “So it’s a lot harder on you than it is on me,” Blade stated.

  “I don’t care whether the number is one hundred or five hundred,” Zahner said. “Being responsible for so many lives is a heavy burden. And since you’re also the head of the Force, every Federation group is relying on you.” He looked at the Warrior. “Don’t you ever think about it? Doesn’t it ever get to you?”

  Blade felt like laughing but refrained. “I try not to dwell on the responsibility too much. I just take it a day at a time and do the best I can.”

  “All I know is I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes,” Zahner remarked.

  The flatbed reached Highway 59 and Zahner jerked on the steering wheel, taking a left.

  Blade gazed down at his combat boots. Maybe Zahner had another point. Truth was, sometimes he felt like he didn’t want to be in his own shoes. Everyone undoubtedly felt the same way at one time or another.

  Learning to take the bad with the good was one of the major lessons every person had to experience.

  But such was life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Clan was using a two-story brick structure as their meeting place.

  They had selected the building because it was centrally located in Halma and because most of the windows were still intact, a rarity in postwar structures.

  Zahner brought the flatbed to an abrupt stop alongside the cracked curb and jumped out.

  Blade was already out and bounding up the cement stairs to the doors.

  A crowd had gathered on the steps and along the walk, but they quickly parted to permit his passage. He pulled on the right-hand door and entered the cool interior. Over a dozen people lined both sides of the corridor.

  Zahner came through the door behind the giant. He moved past the Warrior and headed for the second door on the right. “How is he?” he asked, addressing a portly man with a balding pate attired in green trousers and a black shirt.