Dakota Run

by David Robbins

  “Look!” Cynthia cried. “At the top of the mound!”

  Geronimo saw it, and his skin suddenly tingled, goosebumps all over his arms.

  Some… thing… was moving along the rim of the cone. Details were indistinct because of the great range involved, but whatever the creature was, it appeared large and oddly menacing.

  “L… L… Let’s get out of here!” Hamlin stuttered, his fright readily apparent.

  “Let’s go!” Kilrane barked, sweeping his left arm toward the southwest.

  Geronimo kept the big black close to the Palomino as they descended the hill and galloped across the plain, great clouds of red dust billowing behind them.

  What was that thing? Geronimo’s mind drifted as he rode, pondering the drastically altered nature of the environment and the ecology since the Big Blast. The so-called experts had failed to accurately predict the devastating consequences mega-doses of radiation and toxic chemicals would wreak on the organisms affected. Diligent research had proven radiation induced bizarre mutations. Combined with the unknown chemical elements, it was no wonder the land was crawling with deviate life forms. There were mutates everywhere. Deadly opaque green clouds proliferated; one such cloud had killed the Founder of the Home, Kurt Carpenter. And to top it off, the Family had fought other recurrent horrors, including rare cases of giantism restricted to insects or their close kin. Who knew what else lurked out there? As Plato had once noted, all it would take would be two similar mutations mating and the world could see the rise of a new species unheralded in its ferocity and adaptability. If this ever happened, it could well signal the death knell for the human race on planet earth.

  Geronimo’s attention was arrested by an enormous hole off to the right, measuring at least thirty feet in diameter.

  There was movement in the center of the hole.

  Geronimo tried to focus on the gaping cavity, finding the task difficult with the big black running all out. There seemed to be two stick-like affairs waving wildly in the middle of the aperture. They displayed a pale reddish color, the same as the big object seen on the mound.

  What in the world was it?

  Geronimo noticed Kilrane watching the sticks. “Do you see them?”

  Geronimo called.

  Kilrane nodded.

  “Any idea what they are?”

  Kilrane shook his head.

  Cynthia was also staring at the hole, her face markedly pale, her slim hands clinging to Kilrane’s broad shoulders.

  I wish he’d placed her up behind me, Geronimo mused, feeling slightly jealous. He found himself experiencing a strong attraction toward Cynthia and resented this forced intrusion on their budding relationship.

  A series of low hills rose ahead of the racing patrol. Kilrane led them up one side and down the other, the horses flying, the dust clouds rising behind their passage.

  Another hole formed directly in front of them.

  Kilrane turned the Palomino to the left, opting to circumvent the crater. The majority of the patrol cued on his lead.

  Except for two.

  This duo was at the rear of the column. The choking, blinding dust raised by the others obscured their vision, preventing them from realizing the main body of the patrol had veered to the left until it was too late.

  Geronimo heard screams and shouts and looked over his right shoulder in time to observe the two riders plunge over the lip of the crater and vanish from view.

  Kilrane missed seeing the duo drop into the hole, but he did hear the piercing shrieks of agony and terror that immediately followed. He brought the sweaty Palomino to an abrupt stop. “What was that?” he demanded, surveying the area.

  Geronimo pointed at the shadowy cavity. “Two of your men just fell in.”

  “What?” Kilrane goaded the Palomino toward the hole, the strapping stallion seemingly reluctant to comply. The horse tossed its head, its ears laid flat, and balked, forcing Kilrane to forcefully exhort his mount to achieve obedience.

  Geronimo, despite an overpowering premonition of impending danger, stayed with Kilrane. Hamlin, visibly scared, stayed a few feet behind them.

  The remainder of the patrol hung back, some of them experiencing difficulty controlling their plunging steeds.

  “Where the hell are they?” Kilrane asked, poised at the edge of the opening.

  Geronimo examined the crater, more mystified than ever. This hole, like the first, was approximately thirty feet in diameter at the top. The cavity tapered toward the center and ended with a dark hole, about ten feet in circumference, at the bottom of the pit. The sides of the crater were smooth, evincing a neatly excavated appearance.

  There was no sign of the two Legionnaires.

  “I don’t get it,” Hamlin said. “What’d they do? Fall in…” He paused, petrified.

  A pair of red-hued rods rose from the black depths of the pit and began swaying back and forth.

  “I don’t like this,” Kilrane hissed between clenched teeth. “I have a gut feeling we’d better make tracks, and pronto!”

  “Hold it!” Geronimo barked, keeping his eyes peeled on those red rods.

  Kilrane, about to turn the Palomino, quizzically gazed at Geronimo.

  “My weapons,” Geronimo stated.

  “Your what?” Hamlin snapped. “Who do you think you are? In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re our prisoner, fool!”

  Kilrane glanced at the ominous hole. The red rods had disappeared.

  “Give him his arms,” he ordered.

  “Do what?” Hamlin objected, peeved. “Since when do we allow prisoners to have their weapons?”

  “Since I just said so,” Kilrane countered, his tone low and threatening.

  “I don’t have time to argue, my friend. Give them to him now!”

  Hamlin, anger creasing his features, tossed the Marlin to Geronimo and handed him the Arminius and the tomahawk.

  “Thank you,” Geronimo said, feeling a surge of confidence. If they were attacked now, at least he’d have a chance to defend himself and protect Cynthia. He looked into Kilrane’s blue eyes. “I owe you one.”

  “I hope I live long enough to collect,” Kilrane muttered. He pressed his legs against the Palomino’s sides and rapidly brought the horse to a gallop.

  The men in Kilrane’s patrol closed in around him, packing together in a dense mass, their flagging morale bolstered by their proximity to their leader.

  Geronimo was watching Cynthia. Her ordeal was catching up with her.

  She was slumped against

  Kilrane, fatigued to the point of exhaustion.

  Another mile along and they encountered a third crater.

  Kilrane gave this one a wide berth, swinging his patrol to the left again, always bearing to the southwest.

  “You know,” Hamlin announced after they passed the third hole, “this ain’t so bad. Not too much longer and we’ll be rid of this damn place!”

  Geronimo, staring ahead, realized the small man had spoken too soon.

  “Look!” someone shouted. “Up ahead!”

  The entire patrol slowed, then halted, stunned by the sight in front of them.

  Not now! Geronimo wanted to scream. Not now!

  A quarter of a mile away, completely blocking their escape route, filling the sky and obscuring the ground with its raging intensity, was a titanic dust storm. It was turning the very air red with the tons of dust particles borne into the atmosphere.

  Kilrane shouted, bearing to the west, hoping they could outrace the storm.

  He was wrong.

  The Legion patrol managed to cover a thousand yards before the dust storm surged into them. The air promptly became almost unbreatheable, the hot wind searing their skin, the swirling dust stinging horse and rider alike. They were caught in the open, exposed and vulnerable, the nearest cover a good mile off.

  Geronimo could barely see Kilrane and Cynthia only yards in front of him. He held his left arm over his mouth and nose to prevent the dust from entering. His eyelid
s were burning from the dust, and his body felt like hundreds of tiny critters were trying to prick him to death.

  “Stay together!” Kilrane shouted. “We can’t afford to stop! Get a fix on my voice!”

  Easier said than done. Geronimo could discern several moving shapes nearby, but he had no idea where the rest of the patrol was. Maybe, he told himself, maybe the storm would end soon.

  Instead, its violence increased.

  Geronimo focused his entire attention on Kilrane and the Palomino, unwilling to lose sight of Cynthia, even for a moment. The whistle of the wind attained a shrill pitch.

  How much longer could this storm continue?

  The onslaught persisted, seemingly interminable, a natural temper tantrum of incalculable magnitude.

  Once, Geronimo felt the big black falter and recover, and he marveled at the animal’s endurance. The horse must be suffering greatly, but it never quit, it never surrendered to the elements.

  Could he do any less?

  Geronimo formulated a plan. Timing would be critical, but if successful he would be rid of the Legion patrol and Cynthia would be free of their clutches.

  It all depended on the dust storm.

  Eventually the storm would abate, and if he waited for the right moment, for the interval between the initial slackening of the storm and the time it stopped, he would have a few precious minutes when the visibility would improve enough to maneuver and the Legionnaires would be off-guard, not expecting any trouble.

  It had to be then.

  Geronimo waited impatiently, fingering the trigger on the Marlin. He recognized his own nervousness and willed his mind and body to relax.

  Oh Great Spirit, he prayed, guide your son and servant in this enterprise! Preserve your children that we may honor and worship you all the days of our lives in this world and in the mansions on high! We are children of peace thrust into times of conflict, and we would live your will in this as in all other matters!

  The storm slackened, the wind decreasing, the air slowly beginning to clear.

  Geronimo could see Kilrane and Cynthia off to his left, about five yards separating them from him.

  Now!

  Geronimo surged the black forward, the reins and his Marlin clasped in his right hand. He deliberately rode the black into the Palomino, staggering Kilrane’s mount, even as his left arm encircled Cynthia and yanked her off the Palomino. In another instant, he was clear of the Palomino and racing eastward.

  “Geronimo, stop!” Kilrane shouted behind him.

  Geronimo ignored the command, knowing the rest of the patrol would be unaware of the escape in progress, eager to take advantage of the element of surprise.

  “Stop!” Kilrane yelled again.

  Cynthia was clutching Geronimo with all her strength. “You’re losing him!” she cried.

  The dust storm, while continuing to diminish, was still stirring the dirt and posing a navigational problem, preventing Geronimo from seeing more than ten yards in front of the black.

  “Geronimo!” Kilrane called a final time, sounding distant.

  It was working!

  Geronimo risked a glance over his right shoulder, elated to discover none of the Legion patrol was in sight. If the black could pour on the speed for another mile, their getaway would be assured.

  Cynthia’s grip on him suddenly tightened, her nails digging into his shoulder. “Look out!” she screamed in frantic warning.

  Geronimo, alarmed, twisted forward, his senses thrown off kilter when the black abruptly catapulted downward, seeming to float for several seconds before smashing into an earthen wall. The brutal impact wrenched Cynthia from Geronimos grasp and tumbled him from the horse. He felt his body tossed head over heels before he landed with a painful, jarring collision on the ground.

  “Geronimo!” Cynthia shrieked somewhere nearby.

  Geronimo struggled to rise, trying to assess their situation and locate Cynthia in the gloom. What had happened? Where were they?

  There was a patch of light above his head, a wide circle about thirty yards in diameter.

  Circle?

  Thirty yards!

  Geronimo, shocked by the realization, deduced where they were even as a shuffling noise sounded to his rear. He tried to turn, to confront whatever was lurking in back of him, but he was too slow.

  A hard object struck the Warrior’s head with a resounding crack.

  Geronimo toppled to the ground, striving to maintain consciousness.

  Red dirt filled his slack mouth as he landed with a dull thud. His thoughts swirled, tenuous and distressing.

  From the proverbial frying pan into the fire!

  So sorry, Cynthia!

  Being captives of the Legion was a breeze compared to their present predicament. In all the confusion and excitement of their mad dash for freedom, he’d managed to commit the folly of all follies! Blunders, in matters of life and death, were inexcusable and invariably fatal. Simple mistakes could cost you your life. Things like failing to keep your guns loaded. Or hurrying a shot at an opponent. Or turning your back on an avowed enemy.

  Or plunging into a large hole in the Dead Zone.

  Geronimo strained to rise, aware of a clammy, trickling sensation near his left ear. Blood. He managed to reach his hands and knees before a suffocating wave of vertigo overwhelmed him and he collapsed in a heap.

  “Geronimo!” Cynthia screamed.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t hear her.

  Chapter Nine

  The inexperienced guard really should have shot first and cursed later.

  A burst from the Wilkinson tore through his forehead, blowing the rear of his cranium completely away.

  Yama’s shots precipitated immediate mayhem on the hillock. He leaped to his feet and fired again, this time catching the second guard in the midsection and doubling him over, his abdomen ruptured and leaking blood like a sieve.

  One of the troopers, reacting in reflex, snapped a shot from his M-16 at the silver-haired intruder.

  Yama dove for cover behind the log.

  A soldier on the far side of the clearing was unslinging his M-16 when an arrow penetrated his head from behind, the three-bladed hunting point emerging from between his eyes. The trooper jerked spasmodically as he fell.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was already in motion, the scabbard lying behind the boulder, his katana upraised as he ran from hiding and made for the soldiers near the radio. One of the Watchers was grabbing for his automatic pistol as Rikki, thankful none of the troopers wore helmets, swept the razor-edged blade downward, burying the katana in the man’s forehead and splitting it open with the same ease a sharp knife might cut a melon.

  The remaining soldiers were galvanizing into action, several of them firing at the log Yama was behind. Others were shooting wildly at the trees to the north of the clearing, trying to nail the bowman.

  The second radio man had his pistol out and aimed.

  Rikki sidestepped as the gun boomed, his left side wracked with a burning sensation, knowing he’d been creased, but ignoring the pain as he savagely wrenched the katana sideways, the gleaming, bloody blade slicing through the second man’s wrist and severing his hand from his arm.

  The soldier wailed and held the crimson-covered stump aloft, gaping at it in abject horror.

  Rikki finished him with a tsuki thrust, the point of the katana lancing into the soldier’s throat.

  The last trooper near the radio was Lieutenant Putnam. Initially shocked by the carnage, he recovered as the swordsman faced him.

  Instead of drawing his automatic, or retrieving his M-16 on the grass near the radio, he leaped at the swordsman, his arms held wide.

  Rikki allowed Putnam to tackle him, releasing the katana as they tumbled to the ground. Putnam landed on top, pinning him.

  Putnam, outweighing the swordsman by at least forty pounds and towering over him by a good two feet, was confident he could subdue this little man and take him prisoner.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi grinned
as he brutally jammed his forehead into Putnam’s nose. He could feel the nasal cartilage break as fresh warm blood gushed over his face.

  Putnam squealed in agony and released the swordsman, attempting to roll to his feet.

  Rikki struck again, a hiji blow to Putnam’s jaw from the side.

  Lieutenant Putnam weaved as he rose to his knees, his mouth and jaw coated with his own blood.

  Rikki followed the elbow strike with the coup d’etat: a tega-tana-naka-uchi, a cross-body chop of the hand to the Lieutenant’s temple, downing Putnam instantly.

  The battle elsewhere was still raging.

  Rikki, still on his back, glanced up. He saw another trooper on the ground with an arrow imbedded in his chest. Seven downed and four to go. One was to his left, raking the trees with automatic fire while crouched behind a small boulder. Three more were to his right, advancing on the log, holding their fire and waiting for Yama to appear.

  Yama did.

  A blue form suddenly hurtled from the underbrush twenty feet from the log, the Wilkinson chattering. One of the Watchers was ripped from his crotch to his throat. The other two hit the dirt, firing as they did. The dust around Yama’s feet swirled upward as he leaped into a shallow depression.

  Rikki began to rise, to aid his fellow Warriors, when the trooper on his left turned, having spotted Yama out of the corner of his eye. The soldier had a clear shot and he hastily raised his M-16, forgetting, for the moment, the bowman in the trees.

  Unerring as ever, Teucer’s arrow took the Watcher in the neck. The trooper gurgled and gasped as he slid to the ground.

  Only two of the soldiers were still standing.

  One of them, throwing caution to the wind, recklessly charged Yama’s position, blasting at the depression with his M-16. He was ten feet from Yama when he expended the final rounds in his clip. Pausing, he urgently endeavored to reload.

  Yama was up and running at the trooper, gambling he could reach the Watcher before the soldier succeeded.

  Rikki jumped to his feet and reclaimed his katana, prepared to assist his fellow Warrior if necessary.