“You say they escaped?” Blade inquired hopefully.
“Yes and no,” Mel said.
“How do you mean?”
“They got away from Slither, but then they were caught again nearby,” Mel elaborated.
“Where are they now?”
“Terza is holding them at the library. I don’t know why. She probably has something special in store for your friend. Maybe she’ll feed him to Grotto,” Mel disclosed.
“What is this Grotto I keep hearing about?” Blade inquired.
Mel seemed to shiver. “Grotto is one of the things— you know, like Slither—those mutant things we’ve got all over the place.”
Blade pondered for a minute. “How far are we from the library?”
“Not far,” Mel said.
“How long would it take us to get there?” Blade asked.
“Not long.”
“Be specific,” Blade instructed her. “Fifteen minutes? A half an hour?
What?”
Mel appeared to be confused. “What’s a minute?” she questioned him.
Blade chuckled. He kept forgetting! People living outside the Home or the Civilized Zone existed, for the most part, in profound ignorance.
Public education was a thing of the past. Few books survived because most had been destroyed in the century since World War III, many used as kindling for fires during the frigid winters. Here and there, isolated pockets of humanity retained minimal knowledge of the cultural and scientific achievements extant at the outbreak of the war. “A minute is a measure of time,” Blade told her. “Don’t any of the Leather Knights own a watch?”
Mel shook her head. “Nope. Should we?”
“No,” Blade stated. “I guess not. It’s hard to imagine a watch lasting a hundred years.” A puzzling thought occurred to him. If most of the Leather Knights were as ignorant as Melissa, then how were they able to maintain their motorcycles? “About your bikes,” he said.
“What about them?”
“Where do you obtain them?” Blade queried. “Where do you get them from?”
“We get them from our head when we take the oath,” Mel answered.
“Your leader gives them to you when you take your oath of admittance?”
“That’s what I said,” Mel declared.
“But where does your leader get them from? Do you have your own mechanics?” Blade asked.
Mel nodded. “A lot of the Knights can fix their own bikes.”
“Where do they learn to do it? Where do they get the parts?” Blade inquired.
“As far as fixing the bikes goes,” Mel said, “we sort of pick it up from each other. The parts we get from the Technics.”
“The Technics?”
“Yeah. They live up north, in a city called…” She paused, trying to recall the name she wanted.
“Is it a big city?” Blade goaded her. “A small city? What?”
“I’ve never been there,” Melissa said. “But I heard it’s real big. I remember something about wind…”
“The Windy City? Chicago?” Blade ventured.
“That’s it! Chicago,” Mel confirmed.
“Who are these Technics?”
“I don’t know much about them,” Mel said. “Except that they control a lot of turf north of us and they’re very powerful.”
“Why do they supply you with parts for your cycles?” Blade asked.
“Because of the pact.”
“What pact?”
“There’s a pact between us Knights and the Technics. They’ve agreed to help us out with our bikes, and we help them by controlling this territory and making sure the Reds don’t get past us.”
“I had a run-in with the Reds,” Blade disclosed. “Who are they?”
“The Reds? They’re the Commies,” Mel said matter-of-factly.
“Communists? These Reds are Communists? Are they Russians?” Blade inquired in an excited tone.
“I don’t know nothing about no Russians,” Mel responded. “I only know we’ve been calling them Reds or Commies since I was a little girl. They’re our enemies. They spy on us a lot with those copters of theirs, and we take potshots at them whenever we get the chance. Mostly they stay on their side of the river and we stay on ours.”
“So the Communists control the land east of the Mississippi?” Blade probed.
“They control a lot of it, I hear,” Mel affirmed. “The Technics control some too. And there are other groups.” Her voice lowered. “The Dragons are the ones you want to avoid. I’ve been told stories about them you wouldn’t believe!” She trembled.
“Where are these Dragons located?”
“Way to the east of here,” Mel replied. “But south of the Reds.”
Blade contemplated her revelations. He’d never heard of the Dragons or the Technics before. But the Communists were another matter. The Family’s leaders had often wondered what happened to the Russians after the war. Why hadn’t the U.S.S.R. taken over the U.S.? After the devastating nuclear exchange, not to mention all of the chemical and conventional weapons employed during the war, the remnants of the U.S.
Government had evacuated the populace and reorganized their forces in the Midwest and Rocky Mountain region, locating the new capital at Denver, Colorado. They had braced for a Russian invasion, an eventuality which had never transpired. Except for vague rumors, the Russians had never materialized. The U.S. Government had devolved into a dictatorship known as the Civilized Zone, and only recently had the people of the Civilized Zone reclaimed their heritage and asserted their independence.
During the intervening century, as the years rolled on and the Russians never attacked, the people in the Civilized Zone had forgotten about their former adversaries. But if, as Melissa asserted, the Russians did control a section of the U.S., then the Civilized Zone and all of the other members of the Freedom Federation must be warned! The Family, the Cavalry in the Dakota territory, the Flathead Indians in Montana and the Moles in their subterranean city in northern Minnesota must all be alerted to the Soviet presence.
Melissa was waiting for Blade to speak.
“Has anyone ever gone into Red territory?” Blade asked.
“Years ago some tried,” Mel answered.
“What did they discover?”
“Nothing. They never came back,” she said.
Blade stared out the window, noting the light was fading. “I want you to take me to the library where my friend is being held.”
Mel started to rise.
“Not now!” Blade said. “After it’s dark we’ll leave.”
She resettled herself on the floor. “Fine by me. But you’d be doing yourself a favor if you took off. There’s no way you’re going to save him.”
“I’ve got to try.”
“Any last words you want me to say when we plant you?”
Chapter Seven
So what the blazes was he supposed to do? Count the stars?
Still smarting at being left behind to babysit the SEAL, Hickok was seated on the highway, his back resting against the undercarriage of the transport, a canteen on the ground near his left knee. His rifle, a Navy Arms Henry Carbine in 44-40 caliber, was propped against the vehicle to his right.
Talk about boring!
The night sky was rich with stars, a fantastic display of the mightiness of creation, splendid galaxies traversing their ordained course much like the prescribed circuits of electrons on the subatomic level of reality.
Hickok experienced a rare sense of awe as he admired the spectacular heavens. He recollected his schooling days at the Home, the survivalist compound in northwestern Minnesota constructed by Kurt Carpenter immediately prior to World War III. Carpenter’s close-knit descendants—
the Family, as they called themselves—were dedicated to insuring every child in the Home received a quality education. With the Family Elders as Teachers, the school developed self-reliant personalities with noble, moral character. Many times, Hickok remembered, he’d been
told there was a grand design to the scheme of things. The Elders wisely taught there was a distinct purpose to every element of creation. Now, as he gazed at the sea of stars and was impressed by the immensity of the cosmos, Hickok began to wonder what his purpose was in life. How did he fit into the scheme of things? The only special talent he possessed was in handling firearms, especially handguns. The others might label him as too cocky, but he positively believed that nobody, but nobody, could match him with a revolver. His expertise was inherent, a totally unconscious aptitude on his part. The Family Elders taught thankfulness for the gifts bestowed by the Maker. Was it possible, he asked himself, his gift was his ambidextrous ability with revolvers? Was it conceivable the Maker had placed him on this planet to be exactly what he was: one of the Family’s preeminent Warriors, devoted to safeguarding the Home and protecting his loved ones?
Was it likely?
Hickok shook his head, clearing his mind, bemused by his train of thought. He’d never really considered the issue much before, and now was hardly the time to start. The only reason he gave it any attention at all was because of the sermon given by the Family’s spiritual sage, Joshua, shortly before his departure to St. Louis. Why was it, Hickok wondered, folks like Josh always had to analyze everything to death? Why couldn’t they just accept things for what they were and leave it go at that?
The gunman chuckled. It was way over his head, that was for sure! Oh, he could recollect a few details from his Family science courses about the formation of galaxies and the formation of matter and stuff like that, but what good did it do him? All he ever wanted out of life was a cool breeze, his Colts in his hands, and his wife and son by his side.
What else mattered?
Hickok relaxed, listening to the sound of the insects and nocturnal critters emanating from the forest on both sides of the highway. There were crickets by the thousands, tree frogs, an occasional owl, and others.
Once, far off in the dark depths of the woods, arose the challenging roar of some large carnivore.
Maybe this waiting wasn’t so bad after all.
At least he’d catch up on his shut-eye.
The forest suddenly became quiet, absolutely silent, not a creature so much as fluttering its wings.
Hickok was instantly alert. He grabbed the Henry and rose, staring into the gloomy vegetation on his side of the highway.
The silence could only mean one thing.
Something was prowling through the woods, something deadly, something the other animals were deathly afraid of.
But what? A cougar? Was this neck of the woods part of their range?
How about a bear? Or worse? One of the ravenous, mutated horrors proliferating since the Big Blast? Or the deadliest killer of all?
Man.
Hickok crouched and moved to the edge of the road, his head cocked to one side.
An unnerving hush enveloped the forest.
Was something stalking him?
The gunman flattened, knowing the lower he was, the less of an outline he presented, the less of a target he was. At night, the surest way to detect someone or something in your vicinity was to drop to the ground and scan the near horizon for the fluid movement of a figure silhouetted by the backdrop of the sky.
Nothing.
Which meant whatever was out there was lurking in the trees.
So!
Sneaky bunch of varmints!
Hickok crawled toward the tree line, his knees and elbows propelling him forward. He reached the base of a mighty oak and stood, flattening against the tree.
So far, so good!
The next move was up to whatever was out there.
A branch snapped off to his left.
Something crackled to the right.
There was definitely more than one of them!
Hickok could feel the rough bark of the tree through his buckskin shirt.
A stub or a broken section of a branch was gouging his lower back.
Another twig crunched to the left.
No doubt about it! They were making too much noise to be critters. No self-respecting animal would be so klutzy sneaking up on a meal.
Had to be humans.
Or something similar.
A black form detached itself from the wall of vegetation not ten feet to Hickok’s left.
A second later, a second shape did likewise on the gunman’s right.
Upright.
Bipeds, as Plato would say.
Men. Or women.
Lugging lengthy sticks in their hands. Sticks… or guns.
Time for a surprise party!
Hickok raised the Henry and aimed at the figure to his left. The 44-40 boomed, and the shadow disappeared. He spun, sighting on the middle of the form to his right and pulling the trigger. The Henry’s stock slammed into his shoulder, and the silhouette screamed as it was brutally flung backward to the turf.
Two down!
Hickok dodged behind the sheltering oak, and not a moment too soon.
A machine gun opened up from the other side of the highway, its heavy slugs biting into the tree in the exact spot the gunman had vacated.
Someone out there was a darn good shot!
Hickok darted into the brush, avoiding trees and tangled bushes, treading carefully to avoid tripping on a rock or limb on the ground, heading deeper into the forest. The SEAL was locked up tight as the proverbial drum, and there was no way these dudes would be able to bust inside. So his best bet was to lead them on a merry chase, a chase away from the transport. Considering he was obviously outnumbered, it was the sensible thing to do. The murky forest would reduce their mobility and limit their effectiveness.
Someone was crashing through the undergrowth to his right.
Hickok fell to his knees, peering through the vegetation.
A bulky form was foolishly plowing through a thicket eight yards away.
What a cowchip!
Hickok aimed at the advancing figure and fired, the 44-40 thundering in his ears.
Cowchip screeched and dropped, uttering an awful gurgling sound as he thrashed on the ground.
Hickok kept going.
From the rear, from the direction of the SEAL, a man began barking orders.
Hickok stopped, perplexed. What language was the rascal using? It sure wasn’t English. Or Spanish. It was like no language he’d ever heard before.
The underbrush was alive with the passage of black figures seeking the Warrior.
So much for catching up on his shut-eye!
Hickok reached a rocky knoll and quickly climbed to the top. A ring of small boulders furnished excellent concealment and an ideal spot to defend himself.
Let them come!
They did. Four, five, six forms slowly moving toward the knoll.
How the blazes did they know where he was?
The figures stopped and abruptly vanished.
Hickok realized they had gone to ground or were hiding behind trees or other cover.
More orders were shouted in the strange tongue.
There was a rustling and a series of metallic clicks from the woods below the knoll.
Now what?
A shadow appeared for an instant from behind the trees, and there was a loud whooshing sound.
Hickok sighted the Henry, but the form receded behind the tree before he could fire.
There was a muffled thump followed by a strange hissing noise as something struck the top of the knoll five feet below the rim.
What the blazes was going on?
Wispy smoke tendrils began filling the night air, spiraling upward, assuming the proportions of a hovering gray cloud.
More distinct whooshing sounds came from the forest below the knoll, one after the other, nine in all.
More thumping noises ringed the knoll.
The mysterious gray cloud grew bigger and bigger, completely enshrouding the knoll.
Confounded by the odd sounds and wary of the clouds, Hickok eased over the boulders and crawled toward
the woods. The gray cloud descended to ground level. Caught by the smoky substance, the gunman almost gagged as he breathed in his first mouthful. An intense burning sensation erupted in his throat and chest and his eyes started watering.
He coughed and held his breath, rolling down the knoll, trying to get well out of the cloud before he would need to take another breath.
Was it a poison gas of some kind?
Hickok resisted an impulse to gag, his lungs heaving. He rolled into a boulder and was jarred by the impact. Unable to control himself, he accidentally inhaled.
It was as if he had swallowed a handful of red hot coals.
Hickok doubled over as his body was rocked with painful spasms, his breathing impaired, his breaths coming in great, ragged gasps. The burning sensation in his chest increased, becoming acute, nearly unbearable.
Poison gas! It had to be!
The Warrior staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the trees.
Fortunately, the lower he went the thinner the cloud became, until he reached the bottom of the knoll and clear, fresh air.
Hickok inhaled the cool, crisp air, endeavoring to pump the poison from his system.
Black figures were advancing toward him from the woods.
The lousy varmints! They couldn’t take him fair and square! They had to resort to their poison gas! They may have succeeded in killing him, but they had horse patties for brains if they expected him to lie down and die without so much as a whimper of protest! By the Spirit! He’d show them what it meant to tangle with a Warrior! Despite the reluctance of his limbs to comply with his mental commands, he managed to raise the Henry.
Someone was yelling in the unfamiliar language.
Hickok squeezed the trigger, his effort rewarded by the collapse of one of the approaching forms.
That’d show the curs!
His eyes moist from his copious tears, his arms feeling leaden and burdened by the heavy Henry, Hickok opted for a change in tactics.
If it was his time to buy the farm, he might as well go in style!
Hickok dropped the Henry and drew his Pythons, his arms sluggish, his draw a mere fraction of its normal speed. His feet shuffled forward, directly at his foes.
Capital Run Page 8
