Citadel Run

by David Robbins

  “Of course, in Hickok’s case,” Geronimo noted, “once he loses his guns he’s totally disarmed.”

  The troop transport had turned eastward some time before, and now the big truck reached State Highway 47 and bore to the left, bearing due south.

  “Say, Rice,” Blade thought to ask, “on our way in we came across a bunch of bodies. Was that your handiwork?”

  Rice laughed. “Yes. They were trying to escape. The colonel decided to make an object lesson out of them.”

  The truck was barreling along the road at over fifty miles an hour.

  Blade realized escape would be impossible even if the transport did hit a big hole or a rut. Anyone attempting to leap from the truck at this speed would likely wind up with a broken neck. No one in their right mind would try such a feat.

  Blade sighed, discouraged.

  They would have to wait for the proper circumstances to make their bid for freedom.

  The truck abruptly lurched wildly as the vehicle struck a buckled section of the highway. The men in the rear were tossed violently from side to side, jostling one another, as the troop transport became briefly airborne. The cab was elevated, the bed hanging at a sharp angle, for only an instant.

  But it was enough.

  Hickok, squatting on the floorboards, ironically retained a better balance than those sitting or standing. He dove forward, headfirst, sliding past the astounded soldiers, past the scattered pile of Warrior arms, grabbing his Pythons as he slid the length of the truck and over the open tailgate.

  The truck descended with a bone-wrenching impact, knocking most of the troopers off their feet.

  Blade tensed, about to make his break.

  Captain Rice, still standing, waved his M-16 in the direction of the two remaining Warriors. “Don’t either of you move!” he directed Blade and Geronimo.

  The truck was coming to a stop.

  “Hickok did it!” Geronimo said to Blade. “The son of a gun really did it!”

  “I just pray he landed okay,” Blade commented.

  The soldiers in the transport had all recovered.

  Colonel Jarvis appeared at the rear of the truck. “That damn driver wasn’t paying attention to his driving! Is everyone…” He stopped, aware they were missing someone. “Where the hell is Hickok?”

  “He escaped,” Captain Rice explained, “when we hit the bump.”

  Colonel Jarvis spun, scanning the highway behind them. “There’s no sign of him! Damn!” He turned and pointed at two of the troopers. “Go after him. Bring him back alive if possible, but don’t hesitate to kill him to protect yourselves. Go! Go! Go!” he exhorted them as they jumped to the tarmac and ran off.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Captain Rice said.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Colonel Jarvis snapped, watching the two soldiers. “The driver will be reprimanded when we return to headquarters.”

  “Should we tie them up, sir?” Rice inquired, nodding at Blade and Geronimo.

  “Yes,” Jarvis nodded. “You’d better. It wouldn’t look too good on our records if another one were to escape.”

  “I hope we haven’t ruined your day,” Blade said pleasantly.

  “Not at all,” Jarvis assured him. “It’s you who will have his day ruined very shortly.”

  “How’s that?” Blade asked as two troopers secured his arms behind his broad back.

  “When we reach our destination,” Colonel Jarvis declared.

  “The Citadel?” Blade fished for confirmation.

  Jarvis shook his head. “No, dear boy. Much, much closer than the Citadel.”

  “Can you give us a hint?” Geronimo interjected.

  Jarvis glanced at both of them. “Do either of you play golf?”

  Chapter Six

  The burial detail completed, Yama was relaxing on the front porch, leaning against one of the porch posts, when Adam emerged from the Mason house. Seth and Gail were inside, Seth preparing a sketch of the Citadel and Gail fussing in the kitchen.

  “Mr. Yama,” Adam said, “can I talk to you a minute?”

  “Didn’t I say to call me Yama?” Yama questioned him.

  “I’m sorry. My folks always say to be polite.” Adam sat down on the top step.

  “The place I’m from,” Yama told him, “we’re not allowed to call each other mister or miss.”

  “You’re not? Why not?” the boy inquired.

  “The man who founded my Home didn’t believe in a lot of phony politeness and servility. He wanted everyone to enjoy equal social status in our Family. Everyone is given a title according to the work they do, whether it be Warrior, like myself, or Tiller, for those who tend the soil, or Carpenter or Artist or Empath or whatever. And, like I said earlier, we get to pick the name we want to use for the rest of our lives when we turn sixteen. So everyone has one name and one title and that’s it. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” Adam said thoughtfully. “It sounds like the way you do it is fair to everybody.”

  “It works for us.”

  “It’s not that way here,” Adam said. “In the Civilized Zone everybody is always bossing everybody else around. You saw those mean soldiers. My dad says it’s even worse in the cities like the Citadel. He says that’s why we live on the ranch, so we don’t have to beg or…” Adam strived to recall the word his father had often used. “Or grovel.” He grinned.

  “Your family will never grovel at the place I’m taking you,” Yama promised him.

  “If we get there,” Adam stated.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I heard my mom and dad talking,” Adam elaborated. “They aren’t too sure well make it, especially my mom. She doesn’t think you’ll come back from the Citadel.”

  “I intend to return,” Yama pledged.

  “I hope so,” the boy said affectionately. “I don’t have a whole lot of friends, living way out here on the ranch and all.”

  “You’ll make a lot of new friends at my Home,” Yama informed him. “I think you’ll like it there very much.”

  “Can I ask you something?” Adam ventured tentatively.

  “What?”

  “About all those guns and stuff. What kind are they?”

  Yama held up his machine gun. “This is called a Wilkinson Carbine, converted to full automatic and adapted to hold a fifty-shot magazine.” He touched the pistol under his right arm. “This is a Browning Hi-Power 9-millimeter Automatic Pistol. The revolver under my other arm is a Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum.”

  “Wow!” Adam enthused, impressed. “You sure know an awful lot about guns. What’s that funny sword called?”

  “It’s called a scimitar,” Yama explained, “and my survival knife is called a Razorback.”

  “Someday I’m going to have guns and knives just like yours,” Adam vowed earnestly.

  “You should grow up to be like your father,” Yama said, frowning.

  “Become a tiller of the soil. Put constructive purpose into your life. Don’t fill it with death. Don’t become attracted to the darker side of human nature.”

  “Having a ranch is boring compared to what you do,” Adam declared.

  Before Yama could respond, the screen door swung open and Seth walked outside, a piece of paper clutched in his left hand. “Here,” he said.

  “I’m finished.”

  Yama took the paper and studied the crude sketch.

  “It will give you some idea of what’s in the Citadel,” Seth mentioned.

  “The city isn’t like what it used to be before the war. Cheyenne is much bigger now. The population swelled to over a million people after the Government forced evacuations from elsewhere in the country, mostly back east and up north. I think the Citadel is the third largest population center in the Civilized Zone. At least, that’s what they tell us. Denver is the largest, but then it’s the capital.”

  “Thank you,” Yama accepted the map. “It will expedite my business in Cheyenne immensely.” He didn
’t reveal he already had a detailed map of the Citadel, meticulously drawn by a recent addition to the Family, a creature once belonging to the Doktor’s Genetic Research Division.

  “I still wish we could talk you out of going,” Seth said.

  “I’ll be leaving soon,” Yama divulged.

  “So soon?”

  “I must,” Yama disclosed. “I want to enter the Citadel at night. The cover of darkness will augment my chances of success. If I leave soon, I should be there within four hours.”

  “When will you get back here?” Seth inquired anxiously. “The longer we stay here, the greater the danger to my family.”

  “I intend to spend only one night in the Citadel,” Yama revealed. “If all goes well, I should be here by tomorrow noon at the latest.”

  “We’ll be waiting,” Seth stated. “We don’t have any other choice.”

  “I can imagine how you must feel,” Yama said sympathizing. “You’re about to abandon the work of a lifetime, your home and relatives and friends. Don’t despair. Considering the alternative, you are doing what is best for your loved ones.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Seth said, his worry etched in his features.

  “You shouldn’t be in any great danger while I’m gone,” Yama opined.

  “They probably won’t send out another patrol to search for the one I terminated until tomorrow, possibly later if this patrol had others stops to make. I’ve hidden all of their weapons in your barn. Can you shoot?”

  “We all can,” Seth answered. “I have two hunting rifles and a revolver hidden under my bedroom floor. They’re illegal to own.”

  “Good. So the M-16’s will come in handy if you are attacked. But like I said,” Yama added hastily, hoping to alleviate Seth’s evident anxiety, “it’s very unlikely they’ll send anyone else out here for at least a day.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Yama slowly stood. “I’d better change. Will you watch over my own clothes while I’m gone?”

  “I’ll do it,” Adam eagerly volunteered.

  “Are you planning to take your own guns or one of the M-16’s?” Seth inquired.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’d be less likely to draw attention if you’re carrying an M-16.”

  “I know,” Yama acknowledged, “which is another reason I’m going in at night. My skills are at maximum effectiveness using versatile arsenals. I can hide my revolver and pistol under the uniform shirt, no problem. In the dark, my Wilkinson shouldn’t be too conspicuous if I carry it close to my leg.”

  “But what about your knife and sword?” Seth queried. “I’ve never seen a sword like yours before, and I’m sure no one in the Citadel has one like it.”

  “I’ll put the knife in my left boot,” Yama replied. “As for my scimitar, if I attach a leather strap to the hilt and loop the strap around my neck, close to the collar, I can suspend my sword down my back, under the shirt. No one will know I’m carrying it.”

  “Like my wife said,” Seth remarked, “you seem to have an answer for everything.”

  “I’m trained to be imaginative, to devise creative solutions to difficult problems,” Yama said. “Our teachers were always telling us to think fast, to think on our feet.”

  “You do it remarkably well,” Seth complimented him.

  Yama moved toward the barn. “I left the uniform I’ll need in the barn.

  I’ll change and be right back.”

  “Wait for me!” Adam called, and darted after the man in blue.

  “You promise to take good care of my clothes?” Yama asked as the boy caught up with him.

  “I’ll stick them under my mattress,” Adam said. “Nothing will get them there.”

  “Good. It took the Weavers a lot of time and effort to make my garment and I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”

  Adam attempted to match his stride to Yama’s. “You be real careful in the Citadel. If they catch you, they’ll kill you.”

  “I don’t intend to get caught,” Yama stated.

  “Just be careful,” Adam stressed.

  The Mason dogs ambled around the southern corner of the barn.

  “There’s Huck and Tom!” Adam exclaimed, elated. He knelt and the two dogs, one brown and the other black and both more beagle than anything else, ran up to him and playfully licked his face and hands.

  “Are you a Mark Twain fan?” Yama inquired.

  Adam glanced up. “I have two of his books in my room. My dad had them when he was my age. They’re hard to read sometimes but a lot of fun. Do you like to read?”

  “Very much. Everyone at the place I come from, at our Home, likes to read. It’s one of our favorite pastimes. We have hundreds of thousands of books in our Library, and you’ll be welcome to read them at your leisure.”

  “Nifty! I’d like that.” Adam stood.

  Yama continued toward the barn. “Just remember to treat the books gently. Many of the pages are slightly discolored and will rip or crumple very easily.”

  “I’ll remember,” Adam pledged.

  They entered the barn and walked over to one of the stalls. Earlier, Yama had draped the officer’s uniform over one side of the stall. He leaned the Wilkinson against the wall and stripped off the shoulder holsters for the Browning and the Smith and Wesson, placing the handguns on the floor.

  “Will I get to have guns like yours at this home of yours?” Adam asked.

  “When you’re much older, possibly,” Yama answered, grinning. He started to remove his standard dark-blue garment.

  “Brother!” Adam exclaimed in awe. “Where did you get all those muscles? You must be the strongest man alive!”

  Yama chuckled, his highly developed musculature rippling as he moved. “I have a friend named Blade who has more muscles than I do. Many more.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Adam said.

  “You’ll see for yourself when you meet him,” Yama stated. “And you’ll meet another man named Samson. He has as many muscles as I do, possibly even a few more. So you see, I’m not the strongest man alive.”

  “One of the strongest, then,” Adam persisted, “and it’s a good thing too.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’ll need a lot of strength to stay alive in the Citadel.”

  Gail Mason’s voice interrupted their conversation. “Adam! Adam! I need you for a minute! Adam!”

  “You’d better go,” Yama urged the boy.

  Adam walked to the barn door. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, and ran off.

  Yama finished exchanging clothes. The officer’s uniform was a tight fit, but it would suffice. He began arming himself as he’d planned, reflecting on his mission. Plato needed a firsthand report on the Citadel, and that was exactly what he would receive. And, Yama mentally vowed, not the soldiers, not the genetically created creatures produced in the Doktor’s lab, not even the Doktor would prevent him from successfully completing his assignment. He might not be the strongest man alive, but he was a Warrior and the Warriors were noted for their tenacity.

  So look out, Citadel!

  He was on his way!

  Chapter Seven

  The troop transport arrived at their destination within five minutes of Hickok’s rather abrupt departure. Blade noted that the big truck slowly braked to a smooth stop; apparently, the driver was extremely reluctant to further arouse the colonel’s ire.

  “On your feet,” Captain Rice ordered.

  Blade and Geronimo moved to the rear of the truck and jumped to the ground.

  Twelve soldiers were lined up at attention behind the troop transport.

  Colonel Jarvis appeared. “I told you to expect a surprise.” He gestured to their left, grinning. “I trust you’re not disappointed?”

  The two Warriors turned, their expressions telling the whole story, unable to conceal their shock.

  It was a stockade, a tremendous stockade situated in the middle of a field, constructed of huge posts imbedded in th
e earth and strand after strand of barbed wire encircling the enclosure to a height of twenty feet.

  Positioned immediately outside the stockade, at points corresponding with due north, east, south, and west, were four tall sentry towers complete with mounted machine guns and spotlights powered by a generator placed on the bed of another troop transport. Soldiers were everywhere, dozens and dozens of them, some milling about, at ease, off duty, while others manned the guard towers or stood at attention beside the barbed wire.

  “Pinch me, Blade,” Geronimo said.

  “I see them too,” Blade affirmed.

  “Look at them all!” Geronimo commented, stunned.

  Blade was looking, his mind unwilling to lend any credence to the sight his eyes beheld. How many were there? Five hundred? Eight hundred? A thousand? The stockade was literally crammed with a packed sea of humanity.

  “Admit it,” Jarvis urged, pleased with himself. “You never expected this!”

  “Not in my worst nightmare,” Blade confessed. He detected prisoners attired in black and others with Mohawk haircuts, and he realized what had transpired before Jarvis began bragging.

  “Seven hundred and thirty-one,” Colonel Jarvis proudly disclosed. “All that’s left of the Horns, the Porns, and the Nomads.”

  “All that’s left?” Geronomo questioned, astonished. “But there were about twelve hundred of them, all told.”

  “Not any more,” Jarvis revealed. “The rest are dead. Oh, there may be a few still in hiding, but the majority of them now stand before you, my captives.”

  Blade discerned the obvious relish with which Jarvis said that last word.

  “You wiped out almost five hundred lives?” Geronimo queried, horrified.

  “It was simplicity itself,” Jarvis said. “These pitiful wretches possessed so few firearms I was able to subdue them with only one hundred men.”

  Blade stared at Jarvis. “I know about Samuel’s plans to reconquer the United States, but it was my understanding he’s going after the larger populations outside the Civilized Zone first. Isn’t that why his Army attacked the Flathead Indians in Montana? I know for a fact, and undoubtedly you do too, that there is a large free group in South Dakota called the Cavalry. So why are you here? Why did Samuel send you to the Twin Cities when there are larger free populations elsewhere?”