Seattle Run

by David Robbins

  “What does it concern?” Rikki casually inquired.

  “I’m leaving in the morning for Seattle,” Blade detailed. “There are some people there in trouble.”

  “I will go,” Rikki stated.

  “How did you know I was going to ask you to go?” Blade questioned.

  “How do the plants know the wind will bring rain?” Rikki responded enigmatically.

  Blade smiled. “You and your Zen.”

  “Zen is not mine,” Rikki said softly. “Zen is… Zen.”

  “All paths lead to the Spirit,” Blade noted, quoting one of the Family Elders.

  Rikki nodded. “And how many paths lead to Seattle? How many are going with you?”

  “Three,” Blade replied.

  “May I ask which ones?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Blade answered. “This run to Seattle is strictly a volunteer affair. It’s not official Family business. You can decline if you want.”

  “I’ll go,” Rikki reiterated.

  “Are you sure you don’t want some time to think about it?” Blade inquired. “We could find ourselves in a real hot spot.”

  “Any hotter than St. Louis?” Rikki rejoined.

  Blade chuckled, thinking of their harrowing experiences in that city several years ago. “I doubt it. But you never can tell.”

  Rikki closed his eyes. “I will go. I’ll be ready to leave at daybreak.”

  “Meet me at the drawbridge,” Blade directed.

  “I’ll be there,” Rikki promised.

  “Bring whatever weapons you want,” Blade said. “But include an automatic rifle or a machine gun.”

  “I will visit the armory later,” Rikki assured the giant.

  “Thanks.” Blade started to leave, then paused. “Thanks for coming. I hope you won’t live to regret the decision.”

  “Life is composed of a series of decisions,” Rikki observed philosophically. “For better or for worse, we must adjust to the consequences.”

  “I’ll try to remember that if we run into trouble out there,” Blade said, “and someone or some… thing… is trying to rip my face off.”

  “In which case you should bear in mind my personal code of conduct,” Rikki mentioned, the corners of his mouth curling upward.

  “Your code of conduct?”

  “A code I strive to live by,” Rikki disclosed. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, unless they intend to separate your soul from your body.”

  “And then?” Blade asked.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi grinned. “I introduce them to my katana.”

  Blade stood next to a tree bordering the western edge of the firing range, his hands on his Bowies, watching the Warrior currently using the range, his features reflecting his frank admiration.

  The firing range was located in the extreme southeast corner of the compound, far from the cabins and the Blocks and those areas where the Family usually gathered. The children were dutifully instructed to keep away from the range unless accompanied by an adult. The Warriors utilized the cleared section on a regular basis to hone their skills, while the other Family members were required to participate in regularly scheduled firing lessons to familiarize themselves with firearms in case the Home was ever attacked.

  A row of rusted cans had been positioned on top of a large log at the eastern edge of the range. Fifteen cans topped the brown bark at two-foot intervals.

  Standing in a relaxed posture 20 yards from the log was one of the Family’s premier Warriors. In stature and physique he came close to matching Blade’s awesome build. He clothed his powerful body in a garment especially constructed by the Weavers to his specifications: a one-piece, seamless, dark-blue uniform with the ebony silhouette of a skull on the back. His eyes were a cool blue, his short hair and drooping mustache both a shade of striking silver.

  While most of the Warriors specialized in one weapon or another, this one was an expert with any and all. He could handle a handgun almost as skillfully as Hickok, although he could not always match the gunfighter’s unerring accuracy. When it came to the martial arts, he could hold his own with Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. And he could wield bladed weapons with a dexterity surpassed only by the Warrior whose name was synonymous with edged arms. He was rightfully recognized as the best all-around Warrior in the Family when it came to fighting ability.

  The silver-haired Warrior shifted his stance, cradling a Wilkinson Carbine with a 50-shot magazine in his brawny hands. In a shoulder holster under his left arm was a Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum; under his right arm was a Browning Hi-Power 9-millimeter Automatic Pistol. A curved scimitar was in a scabbard attached to a leather belt above his left hip; on his right hip was a 15-inch survival knife, a Razorback.

  Blade kept his eyes on the Warrior, not the cans, knowing he would miss what was coming if he so much as blinked.

  The silver-haired Warrior suddenly went into action, leveling the Wilkinson and firing from the right hip. The Carbine chattered and four of the cans were sent flying.

  Unexpectedly, with the Wilkinson magazine nowhere near empty, the Warrior dropped the Carbine and drew his revolver and pistol, whipping the Smith and Wesson and the Browning clear in a cross draw. He emptied the revolver before cutting loose with the automatic, each shot on target, blowing the rest of the cans into the air with professional precision.

  When the blasted cans were scattered over the soil he straightened and slowly bolstered his handguns.

  Blade strolled toward the Warrior.

  The silver-haired man turned. “Hello, Blade.”

  “How’s it going, Yama?” Blade asked.

  Yama stopped and retrieved the Wilkinson. “I’m a bit sluggish today.”

  Blade glanced at the ruptured cans. “You could have fooled me,” he commented, smiling. “What were you practicing? Primary jamming?”

  “Yes,” Yama replied, carefully wiping the Carbine clean.

  Blade nodded. Primary jamming was a technique he’d devised to insure the Warriors could react on the spur of the moment if their primary weapon jammed, if their automatic rifle or machine gun malfunctioned while engaging the enemy. The Warriors had to be ready to resort to their secondary weapons, their handguns or whatever, automatically in a crisis.

  Yama looked at Blade. “I heard you’re leaving for Seattle tomorrow.”

  “Word travels fast,” Blade commented.

  “I also heard some of the Warriors are going with you,” Yama remarked.

  “I’m taking three,” Blade divulged.

  “Any chance of taking me?” Yama queried hopefully.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Blade said.

  “I’d like to go along,” Yama declared.

  “Any particular reason?” Blade asked.

  Yama motioned toward the log. “I haven’t seen any action in ages. I’m bored to tears.”

  “Is that your only reason?” Blade probed.

  “Do I need more?” Yama retorted. “I’m a Warrior, like you. My craft is terminating every threat to the Family. My trade is death. Why do you think I took the name of the Hindu King of Death as my own? And I can’t perfect my craft, I can’t hone my trade, unless I’m afforded an opportunity to use my skills. This trip to Seattle could give me the chance.”

  “We could face some stiff opposition,” Blade confirmed.

  “The stiffer, the better,” Yama asserted earnestly.

  “Be ready to go at dawn,” Blade directed. “Meet me at the drawbridge.”

  Yama nodded. “I’ll be ready. Who else is going?”

  “Rikki.”

  “Just the three of us then?” Yama questioned.

  “There will be one other,” Blade said.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Blade answered.

  “Any Warrior would be happy to go,” Yama commented. “It doesn’t matter who you ask.”

  Blade’s lips twitched. “I suppose,” he said casually.

  Yama smiled cont
entedly. “I’ll be at the drawbridge at dawn.”

  Blade turned to depart.

  “Blade,” Yama said.

  Blade glanced at the man in blue. “What?”

  “Thanks for taking me,” Yama stated sincerely. “I don’t get to leave the Home as often as you do, and I’m curious about what’s out there.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” Blade reminded his companion.

  “I’m not a cat,” Yama said, then patted the scimitar. “And my fangs are a lot deadlier than any feline’s.”

  “Keep your… fangs… handy,” Blade advised. “Seattle promises to be hazardous to your health.”

  “I’m prepared for whatever comes along,” Yama declared confidently.

  “Like you just said,” Blade mentioned. “You haven’t taken as many trips away from the Home as I have. You’ve been to Wyoming and you went to Denver once. There’s a lot you haven’t seen. There’s a lot you wouldn’t want to see. Monstrosities from your worst nightmares. Deviate mutants. Degenerates.” Blade shook his head. “This run to Seattle won’t be a picnic. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Yama’s blue eyes brightened.

  Blade walked up to the cabin door and knocked.

  There was a muffled commotion inside. A moment later the door was wrenched open by a stocky Indian dressed all in green, his shirt and pants both constructed from the remains of an old tent. His hair was black, his eyes brown. He smiled at the sight of the giant, his rugged features conveying his genuine affection. “Blade!”

  “Hello, Geronimo,” Blade said. “How are you?”

  Geronimo glanced over his left shoulder, then stepped outside, easing the door shut behind him. “I’m okay. But I wish I could say the same about my famijy.”

  Blade’s gray eyes narrowed. “Cynthia and Cochise? What’s wrong with them?”

  Geronimo frowned. “I guess you haven’t heard. They’re both sick. Very sick. I wanted to be there when you landed, but I was tied up.”

  “Is it serious?” Blade inquired.

  “The Healers have prescribed an appropriate herbal remedy,” Geronimo said. “But you know how it is with the sores.”

  The sores! Blade had seen the disease on a dozen occasions during his lifetime. Like the common cold and the flu, the sores struck without warning, debilitating the victim, rendering the unfortunate incapable of performing the most menial of tasks. A high fever was a typical symptom, as were the peculiar reddish, blistering sores which dotted the sufferer’s body. Rarely fatal, the sores were nonetheless not to be taken lightly. The Healers maintained the disease was another legacy of World War Three, linked to the lingering radiation prevalent in the ecological chain. Certain radioactive substances were known to stay radioactive for centuries, and minute particles had been dispersed over the landscape by the prevailing winds after the nuclear exchange. The Healers believed the sores were connected to the environmental poisoning, but the actual source of contagion had yet to be discovered. One fact was encouraging; the sores were not communicable.

  “They’ve been sick for three days,” Geronimo was saying. “The worst is over, but they won’t be back on their feet for another two or three days.”

  He sighed, his fatigue self-evident. “I’ve been waiting on them hand and foot. They can’t even go to the bathroom without help. I’ll be glad when they’ve recovered.”

  “You’d better get back inside,” Blade advised.

  Geronimo turned toward the door, then paused, staring at Blade. “Say.

  Did you stop for a special reason? Do you need something?”

  “No,” Blade replied. “I just wanted to see what you were up to. I’m leaving for Seattle tomorrow morning.”

  “You are? What’s in Seattle?”

  “Trouble,” Blade said.

  “Do you want me to go?” Geronimo queried.

  “You stay with your family,” Blade advised. “I won’t need you on this run. Give my regards to Cynthia and Cochise.”

  “Will do.” Geronimo opened the door, smiled at Blade, then entered.

  The cabin door swung closed.

  Blade gazed at the wooden door, deep in thought, before wheeling and striding away.

  Two down.

  One to go.

  He found them seated on the bank of the moat.

  The Founder had provided an additional defense for the Home using the Family’s water supply. A large stream entered the compound at the northwest corner, flowing through an aqueduct. Carpenter had supervised the construction of a trench along the inner base of the brick walls, then diverted the stream to serve as an interior moat. The two channels converged at the southeast corner and exited the Home via another aqueduct.

  Blade spotted the gunfighter on the north bank of the moat next to a Norway Maple.

  “—you get a little older, I’ll teach you how to fish,” Hickok was addressing his companion.

  “What’s that, Daddy?” the three-year-old at his side asked.

  “That’s where you stick a worm on a hook and toss it in the water,” Hickok explained.

  “Why, Daddy?”

  “So you can catch a fish, Ringo,” Hickok elaborated.

  Ringo, a pint-sized replica of his father dressed in a brown shirt and buckskin pants, stared at the moat for a moment. “Why, Daddy?”

  “So you can eat it,” Hickok said.

  Ringo glanced at his father, aghast. “I don’t want to eat a worm!”

  Hickok laughed. “Not the worm, buckaroo. The fish. You use a worm to catch a fish, then you eat the fish.”

  Ringo didn’t seem to like that idea much better. “But fish are nice. We don’t eat fish.”

  “You eat fish all the time,” Hickok declared.

  Ringo pointed at the blue water. “Not them fish.”

  Hickok studied his son. “Where do you think the fish you eat come from? They come from the moat. You like fish. You eat it all the time.”

  Ringo’s mouth dropped. “Not those fish, Daddy!”

  Hickok nodded. “Afraid so, little guy.” He scrutinized the moat and spied a small school of fish. “See those? We eat fish just like those.”

  “But that’s not nice!” Ringo declared.

  “We have to live,” Hickok said.

  Ringo glanced at his father. “Fish live too, Daddy.”

  “It’s nothin’ to get upset about,” Hickok said. “Lots of folks eat fish.”

  “Not me,” Ringo stated.

  “Oh?” Hickok faced his offspring. “I take it you’re not going to eat fish anymore?”

  “Nope,” Ringo maintained.

  “Suit yourself,” Hickok said, shrugging. “But you’ll have to cook your own skunk.”

  Ringo’s forehead creased in confusion. “Skunk?”

  “That critter we saw about three weeks ago,” Hickok mentioned. “The black and white one. Remember? It stunk like the dickens!”

  “I won’t eat skunk!” Ringo vowed.

  “You don’t have much choice,” Hickok said. “You need protein in your diet.”

  “What’s protein?” Ringo asked.

  “You know how your ma is always pushin’ you to eat your greens?”

  Hickok noted.

  “Yes.”

  “She wants you to eat your veggies because your body needs them to grow,” Hickok detailed. “The same holds true with protein. Your body needs protein, and fish is a prime source of protein. But if you won’t eat fish, we’ll make due with protein from something else.”

  Ringo’s eyes widened. “Skunk protein?”

  “Skunks have protein too,” Hickok said. “And you have to get your protein somewhere.”

  Ringo’s thin lips curled downward. “I don’t want skunk protein.”

  “Maybe you’d best stick with the fish,” Hickok suggested.

  Ringo looked at the moat. “I don’t know…”

  “You can always have skunk meat,” Hickok commented, suppressing an impulse to laugh.

  “I like fish better,
” Ringo said.

  “Fine. Then we’ll feed you fish instead of skunk,” Hickok stated.

  Ringo beamed. “Thank you, Daddy.”

  Blade grinned as he cleared his throat and approached them from their left.

  Hickok shifted, smiling. “Howdy, pard.”

  “Hi,” Blade said. He stopped and crouched in front of Ringo. “You sure are growing! How have you been, Ringo?”

  “Just fine,” Ringo responded.

  “Have Gabe and you been playing together?” Blade queried.

  “Yep,” Ringo answered. “Gabe is my friend.”

  “Gabe and you are friends, just like your daddy and I are friends,” Blade mentioned. “And you must always be loyal to your friends.”

  “I will, Uncle Blade,” Ringo promised, then added, “What’s loyal?”

  “Loyal means to always be true to someone,” Blade elaborated. “To be there when they need you. To give them the benefit of the doubt. To stand by them through thick and thin. Do you understand?”

  “Some,” Ringo said.

  “Which reminds me,” Blade said, gazing at the gunman. “I want you by my side in Seattle. Be ready to leave at dawn.”

  “I already told the missus I’d be taggin’ along,” Hickok remarked.

  “Rikki and Yama are going with us,” Blade divulged.

  “Four of us? This shindig should be fun,” Hickok said.

  “Fun? Fun isn’t the word I’d use,” Blade said, disagreeing.

  “Lighten up, pard,” Hickok recommended. “I’ll see to it you get back here in one piece.”

  Blade smirked. “Thanks.”

  Hickok gazed to the west. “Yes, sir. I’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ there. I told the guy who radioed for help that we’d bail him out. And I can’t wait to tangle with that mangy coyote Manta.”

  “From what you told me earlier, it’s obvious this Manta will be expecting us,” Blade cautioned.

  Hickok patted his Pythons. “So?”

  “So I don’t like walking into a trap,” Blade declared soberly.

  “Trap, schmap! We can handle anything the vermin throws at us,” Hickok predicted.

  “I wish I had your confidence,” Blade observed. “Don’t sweat it,” Hickok said. “It’ll be a piece of cake!”

  “Famous last words,” Blade quipped.