“Blade wants them buried,” Ferret said.
“So who is he? Our fairy godmother? Why do we have to listen to him?” Lynx retorted.
“You know why,” Gremlin mentioned. “The Family has been nice to us, yes? Given us a place to live, when no one else would, no? We owe them, yes?”
Lynx sighed. “Yeah, I guess we do. But I’ve got to tell you guys something.” He placed his hands on his hips. “I’m gettin’ real tired of this life. I mean, I’m bored to tears! Oh, sure, the Family is as sweet a bunch of people as you’d ever want to meet. And they’ve been real nice to us. Feedin’ us. Treatin’ us like one of their own.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Gremlin wanted to know. “Is pleasant, yes?”
“Yeah,” Lynx agreed, “but it’s also a pain in the butt! Look! We were just talkin’ about the good Doktor, about how he created us to be killing machines. Well, I don’t know about you two clowns, but I’m dying for some excitement in my life! Something to get the blood flowin’, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” Ferret said, listening attentively.
“Wasting these morons was the most fun I’ve had in ages,” Lynx went on.
“I did… enjoy… myself,” Ferret acknowledged.
“See?” Lynx said. “I’ll be honest with you. The Family is so devoted to the Spirit, so involved with loving one another and being kind and courteous and all, sometimes they make me want to puke!” Gremlin appeared to be shocked. “You exaggerate, yes?”
“A little,” Lynx confessed. “But you get my drift.”
“So what can we do about it?” Ferret asked.
“There’s nothing we can do, no?” Gremlin stated.
“We could leave the Home,” Ferret suggested.
Gremlin’s mouth dropped. “Ferret not serious, yes?”
“Why not?” Ferret countered. “I like the Family too. But there might be somewhere else in the world where we’d fit in even better.”
“Gremlin never leave Home,” Gremlin stated.
“Neither would I,” Lynx agreed.
“But you just said—” Ferret began.
“I said,” Lynx replied, cutting him off, “I was bored to tears. Not stupid! We’ve never had it so good. The Family are our friends. We’d be idiots to cut out on them.”
“Then how do you plan to inject some excitement into your life?” Ferret inquired skeptically.
“There has to be a way,” Lynx declared.
“I don’t see how,” Ferret said.
“Me neither,” Gremlin remarked.
Lynx sighed. “Well, let’s get to plantin’ these jerks.”
Gremlin scoured the earth for a likely spot. “Too bad we’re not Warriors, yes?” he commented absently, squatting.
Lynx’s ears perked up. “What? What did you say?”
Gremlin began scooping some soft dirt from a small grassy patch. “Too bad we’re not Warriors, yes? Then we could do like Blade and the others, no? Lynx have more excitement than he’d know what to do with, yes?”
Gremlin chuckled at the preposterous notion.
Lynx reacted as if he’d been zapped by a lightning bolt. He straightened, his eyes widening and gleaming from a dawning revelation.
His hands shook with excitement. “That’s it!”
“That’s what?” Ferret asked.
“That’s how we’ll do it!” Lynx, unable to restrain his enthusiasm, jumped up and down several times, cackling.
Ferret and Gremlin exchanged glances.
Lynx ran over to Gremlin and, before Gremlin quite knew what he was about, gave him a fleeting hug. “You did it!” he shouted in delight. “You’re brilliant!”
Gremlin was flabbergasted.
“What are you babbling about?” Ferret demanded.
“Don’t you see?” Lynx replied ecstatically.
“All I see,” Ferret said, “is you acting like an idiot.”
“You don’t get it?” Lynx gazed at both of them.
“Get what?” Ferret inquired.
Lynx shook his head, grinning. “Look. I’ll spell it out for you dummies!
Who’s responsible for the security of the Home?”
“The Warriors,” Ferret answered.
“And who’s pledged to protect the Family?” Lynx queried.
“The Warriors,” Ferret responded.
“Exactly! And who’s always gettin’ involved in a fight of some kind or another in the performance of their duties?”
Ferret pursed his lips and glanced at Gremlin. “Is he leading up to what I think he’s leading up to?”
Lynx smiled contentedly. “The solution is simple! If we want some excitement in our lives, some thrills to alleviate the boredom, then,”—he paused—“we become Warriors!”
Ferret snorted and shook his head.
Gremlin laughed.
Lynx was offended. “What’s the matter with you two? It’s a great idea!”
“The only way you’ll ever come up with a great idea,” Ferret said, “is if you have a brain transplant.”
“Very funny!” Lynx said stiffly.
“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” Ferret stated. “But think about your proposal.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Lynx asked.
“Everything. For starters, the Family already has enough Warriors.
Fifteen, isn’t it? Divided into five Triads of three Warriors apiece. They don’t need another Triad,” Ferret said.
“How do you know?” Lynx countered. “Plato might like the idea.”
“I’m not finished,” Ferret remarked. “Being a Warrior isn’t a post you take lightly. It’s a major responsibility. All of those people are relying on you to safeguard them from harm. Their lives are in your hands.” He paused. “It’s not a job you take for the fun of it.”
Gremlin snickered.
“Who said I’d take the job lightly?” Lynx demanded.
“Ferret is right,” Gremlin chimed in. “Being a Warrior is very important, yes? Without Warriors, the Family would not survive in this world, no?”
“So who said I’d take it lightly?” Lynx reiterated angrily.
“Forget it,” Ferret suggested.
“Who died and appointed you leader?” Lynx rejoined.
“Lynx forget it, yes?” Gremlin said, adding his opinion.
Lynx looked from one to the other. “I’m not givin’ up that easily. I’ll find a way to convince you.”
“I don’t take bribes,” Ferret quipped.
Lynx’s shoulders slumped dejectedly. “You know, it’s true what they say.”
“What do they say?” Ferret asked, walking over to assist Gremlin with the digging.
“Nobody really appreciates a genius,” Lynx commented seriously.
Ferret chuckled. “Show us a genius, and we’ll appreciate him.”
Gremlin stared at Lynx. “Genius help us dig, yes? Or maybe genius is too good for manual labor, no?”
Lynx vented his frustration by hissing. “Ingrates!” he muttered.
Ferret nudged Gremlin. “If he’s acting this crazy today, we’d best keep a close eye on him tonight.”
Gremlin’s forehead creased. “Why?”
“The moon will be out.”
Chapter Two
The Family was in an uproar by the time Blade returned to the compound.
Everyone was gathered near the drawbridge, anxiously watching the Warriors and the Elders go about their business. News of the deaths of Claudia and Jean had already spread and was the main topic of discussion, along with the implications of the Soviet attack.
Blade, his prisoner in front of him, came across the drawbridge. He spotted the man he needed, a stocky Indian dressed all in green, armed with a genuine tomahawk angled through his brown belt, and an Arminius .357 revolver in a shoulder holster under his right arm.
“Geronimo!” Blade called.
Geronimo shouldered his way through the throng. His brown eyes studied the Russian. “
Spartacus said you wanted us to stay here until you returned,” he commented.
“I’ll explain everything later,” Blade said. He scanned the compound.
“Did Hickok make it back with Sherry?”
“Just arrived a bit ago,” Geronomi replied. “Hickok wouldn’t let anyone touch her. He took her to the infimary.”
Blade indicated the Red soldier. “Take him there too. And don’t let Hickok kill him.”
“Will do.” Geronimo drew the Arminius. “Let’s go!” The crowd parted to permit their passage.
A diminutive man with Oriental features, dressed all in black and carrying a katana in its scabbard in his right hand, dashed up to Blade.
“Orders?” he asked.
Blade sheathed his Bowie, then pointed at the forest. “Take your Triad, Rikki, and retrieve the bodies of Jean and Claudia. They’re about ten to fifteen yards into the trees. You’ll also find a pair of dead Russians. Strip them and bury their bodies. Bring me their belongings.”
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi nodded. “We’re on our way,” he said, and raced off.
A tall man with his blond hair in a crew cut, wearing buckskin pants and a brown shirt, with a broadsword attached to his wide leather belt, jogged up to the head Warrior. “I kept them all back, just like you wanted,” he stated.
“You did a good job, Spartacus,” Blade said. “Now I want you to notify every Warrior we’re on alert status. I want Gamma, Omega, and Zulu Triads on the walls within five minutes. Got that?”
“Consider it done,” Spartacus responded, and left.
Blade started toward the concrete structure that housed the infirmary.
“Blade!” someone cried.
Blade turned.
It was the Family leader, Plato. His long gray hair and beard were stirred by the breeze as he approached. His wrinkled features conveyed his apprehension. He was dressed in faded jeans and a baggy blue shirt. “I need your report,” he stated. “The Elders will be meeting in emergency session as soon as you provide the essential details.”
“Come with me to the infirmary,” Blade suggested. “I’ll fill you in along the way.”
Plato fell in beside Blade, and they headed in the direction of the concrete blocks.
The Home was a model of utility and conservation. The eastern half was preserved in its natural state and used for agricultural purposes. A row of log cabins for the married couples and their children occupied the middle of the 30-acre compound, extending in a line from north to south. In the western portion of the Home, grouped in a triangular configuration, were six huge concrete blocks, each designated by a letter. The Family armory was A Block, located at the southern tip of the triangle. The founder, Kurt Carpenter, had personally supervised stocking the armory with every possible weapon and insured adequate ammunition, where needed, was stockpiled. One hundred yards to the northwest of A Block was B Block, the domicile for single Family members. Another hundred yards to the northwest of B Block was the infirmary, C Block, managed by the Family Healers. An equal distance to the east of the infirmary was D Block, the spacious workshop outfitted with thousands of tools and other equipment.
One hundred yards east of D Block was E Block, the gigantic Family library. Carpenter had crammed its shelves with hundreds of thousands of books, encompassing every imaginable subject. Finally, a hundred yards to the Southwest of E Block was the large building used by the Family Tillers, F Block.
“Enlighten me,” Plato said.
“I was on the west wall with Hickok and Spartacus,” Blade elaborated.
“I’d just sent Sherry out as an escort for two new Healers.”
“Yes,” Plato commented. “Jean and Claudia. They were conducting their herb identification test.”
“There was shooting,” Blade continued. “We ran down the stairs. I found Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin standing near the drawbridge, so I enlisted their help. Spartacus was left behind, to keep everyone back. We raced to the woods and found the bodies of two dead Russian soldiers, and,”—he paused, frowning—“the bodies of the two Healers.”
“What then?” Plato asked.
“I sent Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin on ahead. They can move a lot faster than we can. They caught up with three Russians, trying to cart Sherry off.
Two of the Russians were killed, but we do have an officer prisoner. That’s about it,” Blade succinctly concluded.
“And Sherry?”
“We’ll know in a minute,” Blade said.
They hurried toward C Block.
“What do you think Nathan will do if Sherry has been harmed?” Plato asked, referring to Hickok by the name his parents had bestowed upon him at birth. Each Family member, on their 16th birthday, was formally rechristened during a special Naming ceremony. Kurt Carpenter inaugurated the rite. The Founder had worried that subsequent generations might neglect their historical antecedents, might forget about the history of humankind and the factors leading up to World War Three.
Carpenter had tried to insure his followers never lost touch with their roots. He had persuaded them to have their children search the history books, and when the young men and women turned 16, they were permitted to select the name of any historical figure they admired as their very own. This practice became known as the Naming, and it survived Carpenter’s death. The Family expanded on it, allowing the youths to take a name from any book in the library. Compliance was not mandatory, but most members adhered to the observance. A few retained the names given them by their parents. Even fewer created a new name of their own. In every case, the name chosen was supposed to reflect the personality of its holder. Thus, 16-year-old Nathan became Hickok. The strapping Michael picked an entirely new name, predicated on his preference for edged weapons, and became known as Blade. Lone Elk became Geronimo.
Clayton became Plato. And 16-year-old Chang, aspiring to achieve perfection as a martial artist and devoted to the ideal of conserving spiritual value and protecting the Family, became Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.
“I expect Hickok will declare war on the Soviets,” Blade predicted.
“At least they would be evenly matched,” Plato commented.
They reached the enormous concrete block and entered the front door.
Only five people occupied the building. Seated on a cot to the right of the entrance was the Russian officer. Geronimo stood three feet from the cot, his .357 trained on the officer’s head. Dozens of cots, aligned in two rows, filled the middle of the infirmary. Medical cabinets were dispersed at prudent intervals. On one of the cots in the center was Sherry. Beside her knelt Hickok. Standing on the far side of the cot was one of the Healers, a brown-haired woman dressed in white.
Blade walked over to Sherry’s cot. “How is she, Nightingale?” he asked the Healer.
“I can answer that for you,” Sherry unexpectedly responded, and sat up.
“I’m fine,” she told Blade.
Hickok held up a white cloth smelling of chloroform. “Geronimo found this in one of the bastard’s pockets. I reckon they wanted her alive and unhurt. Thank the Spirit!”
Sherry stared into Blade’s eyes. “I let everyone down. I’m sorry.”
Blade knew what she meant. “You were ambushed and outnumbered.
There was no way you could have prevented the deaths of Jean and Claudia.”
Sherry frowned, her profound inner turmoil evident. “Yes, there was,” she said slowly. “I sensed something was wrong. I should have acted differently.”
“Believe me,” Blade assured her. “No one will blame you for what happened.”
Sherry’s green eyes mirrored her emotional agony as she replied. “Yes, there is someone. Me.”
Hickok glanced up at Blade, his mouth downturned.
“I need to interrogate the Russian,” Blade said. “But I want to talk with you about this later. All right?” he queried Sherry.
Sherry nodded. “I’ll come see you,” she promised.
Blade smiled encouragingly, then turned, Plato still a
t his side.
“Sherry is adversely affected by her experience,” Plato commented when they were beyond hearing range.
“I know,” Blade agreed. “We’ve both seen the same symptoms many times before. If she doesn’t conquer her doubt, if she doesn’t realize she didn’t fail in her duty, she’ll be washed up as a Warrior.”
“Curious, isn’t it?” Plato thoughtfully remarked. “A Warrior can be in superb physical condition, can be supremely skilled with a variety of weapons and in hand-to-hand combat, and yet, if the Warriors lacks the proper mental attitude, all the conditioning and skill in the world are wasted.”
Blade nodded. They were nearing the Russian’s cot. The officer was glaring at them. This one wasn’t going to be easy to crack. Drastic measures were called for. “Has he given you any trouble?” Blade asked Geronimo as they reached the cot.
“He’s been a good little boy,” Geronimo answered. “From the way he’s been squirming, I think he needs to go potty.”
“Is that right?” Blade asked. “Would you like to relieve yourself?”
The officer nodded.
“Tough,” Blade snapped, and before anyone could gauge his intent, before Plato could hope to stop him, he lashed out with his right fist, catching the officer in the mouth and sending him head over heels from the cot.
“Blade!” Plato yelled.
Blade stepped over the cot and reached the officer while the Russian was still on his knees. He flicked his right foot up and out, connecting, slamming his instep into the Russian’s ribs, knocking the officer onto his hack.
“Blade! Stop!” Plato cried.
Blade’s left hand grabbed the gasping officer under the chin. He squeezed and lifted, his arm bulging, hauling the Russian from the cement floor and into the air.
Plato went to grip Blade’s arm, but Geronimo quickly stepped between them, shaking his head.
Blade drew his right Bowie and pressed the tip into the Russian’s genitals.
The officer squirmed and thrashed, wheezing, his eyes bulging.
“Now that I’ve managed to stimulate your interest,” Blade said, “I’m going to tell you how it is.” He paused, his gray eyes boring into the officer’s. “You killed two of my Family, you son of a bitch! I’d end your murderous career right now, but I need information. So here’s how it is. I’m going to ask you some questions. If you refuse to answer them, you’re dead. If you hesitate, you’re dead. If I suspect you’re lying, you’re dead. You can tough it out and die, or you can cooperate and live. If you follow me so far, nod.”
Liberty Run Page 3
